A list of heckles I receive every day walking to and from school:
“Ayyyyy mi amor! Mi Corazon!!!!! Mi vida!”
(Translation: Oh, my love. My heart. My life.)
“Voy a casarme contigo y vamos a los Estados!”
(Translation: I’m going to marry you and we are going to the United States.)
“Ayyyy mi muneca….”
(Translation: Oh, my doll.)
“Adios chelita preciosa hermosa (insert smooching sound here)!”
(Translation: Goodbye beautiful precious whitey MWAH.)
“Adios amorSOTA!”
(Translation: Goodbye my LOVE! Straight out of ‘Dumb and Dumber‘.)
“tssst…tssst…tssst….”
(an appalling hissing sound meant to be a romantic attention-grabber)
“Adios, gringo!”
(An enthusiastic exclamation from the mouth of a two-year-old neighbor of mine who must think I am a man.)
And my personal favorite:
“Callie, I love you forever!”
(straight from the mouth of a seven-year-old who isn’t even a student of mine)
These taunts follow me from the moment I leave my house at 7:30 AM until I return at 7 PM. I’ve heard all of the above come from the mouths of my students, their fathers, and quite possibly their grandfathers; from bus drivers, bus attendants, and the owner of the local corner store. Last Valentines Day as I walked home with three rolls of toilet paper and a half-dozen eggs I received quite a few “ay, mi amor!”s, much to my surprise. I can’t think of anything more romantic than buying toilet paper.
I could blame it on the male gender in general, but after talking to a few of my students and friends I’ve found a few other causes for this constant heckling.
1) Boys here learn it from their fathers who learned it from their fathers who learned it from…
(you get the point)
2) Men here are too intimidated to actually have a conversation with women, therefore they choose to inflict a barrage of romantic mumbo jumbo upon them.
3) Men think that the women here actually LIKE this kind of verbal abuse (I’ve assured my Nicaraguan male friends that this is most definitely NOT the case).
4) Alcohol… the town drunk here, a most friendly soul who talks to walls and bricks and dogs (non-discriminating between living and inanimate objects, which I respect) calls me “his love” while asking me to buy him a litro of Caballito (at $1 a bottle and with a picture of a horse on front, comparable to a cross between rubbing alcohol and moonshine)… seriously though, alcohol plays a big role in the fact that men are not comfortable socializing with women on an equal basis. They feel they must be drunk in order to talk to women, and then instead of talking to them as peers, end up insulting them.
5) A major pastime here in Cusmapa, watching telenovelas (cheesy locally produced soap operas) largely contributes to the type of romanticism displayed by the men. Many suitors of mine claimed to love me “at first sight” and claimed to have not thought about another woman since laying eyes on yours truly (including, believe it or not, those I know to have more than one girlfriend). I suppose if I received the majority of my ideas about romance from soap operas I’d have a pretty skewed view on what love actually is. As the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing: “THROW AWAY YOUR TELEVISION.”
A prime example of the “love at first sight” phenomenon occurred today as Lauren and I walked to la Casona (the gigantic Fabretto-owned house in town used for large groups of volunteers) to have dinner with a group of folks from the States who are currently visiting Cusmapa. Marlon (an acquaintance of ours) approached us on the street, flushed and bashful. We know Marlon through his cousin Osmara, one of my high school students. The only time we’ve hung out with him was a few weeks ago at my birthday dinner at Osmara’s house. He studied in the states for a year in a forestry program in Oregon, and loves to practice his English with Lauren and I.
Marlon asked why we didn’t end up having a Halloween fiesta, to which we claimed the reason of volunteer poverty. He wouldn’t look Lauren or I in the eye, which should have been my first clue that something was weird and wonderful in our interaction. He stammered out an:
“I have a dream…”
“Yes…” (Lauren and I both wonder…)
“I have a dream…” (Marlon looks embarrassedly at his shoes. Awkward pause.)
“Um. Like Martin Luther King Jr.?”
(I can really be mean. Like I‘ve said before, I‘m not a good English teacher… or person)
“No.” (The joke went over his head, but Lauren giggles…
I’m glad at least someone finds me funny.)
“I have a dream….”
(Lauren and I look at each other and lean together in a “oh no, oh my, oh goodness, this isn’t going where we think it is” moment of understanding.)
“I can’t tell you.” (I shut off my giggles, and attempt to gain back his confidence by appearing serious and genuinely interested in the profound content of his dream.)
“Oh, come on. What was it?” (I’m such a good shrink.)
“It was about you.” (Marlon gestures at Lauren then looks back at his shoes and blushes and chuckles nervously.)
(Marlon mumbles something under his breath, losing his English speaking capabilities and resorting to an unintelligible Spanglish, which I myself am entirely guilty of speaking the vast majority of the time.)
“Um. Was it a long dream?” (Lauren, the gifted interviewer tries to pry some more information from our suffering friend and looks at me, eyebrows raised in utter disbelief in the ridiculousness of her life. She tries desperately to make the conversation a bit more bearable.)
“I can’t tell you.” (Oh sweet lord, out with it already buddy.)
(Marlon looks at me, then pulls Lauren aside for secrecy… obviously the dream’s contents are meant for her ears only).
I walk out of earshot and look at the sky, smiling. Good lord, I never know what to expect when I wake up every single morning in this country. All I hear from their conversation is Lauren’s awkward laughter as she asks:
“Haha but it was just a dream, RIGHT?” (oh Lord, how she hopes it was)
Then I hear, “…you can come over later… JUST FRIENDS…” and more nervous laughter. I know exactly where that conversation went. Lauren and I hold our giggles as best as we possibly can as she fills me in on “the dream” that Marlon experienced. Apparently in dream-land, Marlon is in love with Lauren. Shocking. And now he wonders if he can come hang out at our house “as friends”. Poor blundering guy.
I gotta hand it to Marlon, he’s the creative romantic type.
At least he didn’t use the
“I’m going to marry you and we’ll go to the United States” line straight off the bat.
martes, 6 de noviembre de 2007
lunes, 5 de noviembre de 2007
The Not-So-Magic Schoolbus
I consider myself a fairly tolerant person, yet when it comes to bus rides here in Nicaragua I find myself beginning to lose patience with a few essential bus ride factors:
1) the music being rocked over sound systems which belong in Honda Civics with spoilers, not on ancient school buses
2) the absolute lack of safety (though I had some illusion of it until this past weekend)
3) subjection to spontaneous Evangelical sermons
The last four times Lauren and I traveled back and forth between Somoto and Cusmapa we’ve been in the same bus, as there’s only three which ramble back and forth up and down the mountain. Eddy, the wide-mustached driver, seems hell bent (though he may not be conscious of it) on providing the most awful, repetitive music possible to accompany this scenic route. Imagine looking across the misty forests and mountains of Nicaragua and Honduras and being subjected to tunes such as: Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, a CD which I refer to as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack”, or my newest favorites which I call “Spoken Word Evangelical Style” and “Woman Howling in Spanish about her Failed Romantic Endeavors”. Every once in a while Eddy plays a gem like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” or some ranchero (Mexican drinking music). However, the vast majority of the time I find myself groaning as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack” repeats itself for the fourth time. What makes the music selection particularly destructive to my mental health is THE VOLUME LEVEL OF THE TUNES REFLECTS EDDY’S ASSUMPTION THAT EVERY SINGLE OF HIS BUS PATRONS MUST BE DEAF.
It’s not only the bus music selection that sets Nicaragua apart from other countries in this world. Tell a Nicaraguan you’re from the United States and you are bound to be faced with a few remarkable questions:
1) “OH! You must love the music of Michael Bolton!”
2) “Ooooh. Bryan Adams. Don’t you love romantic music?!”
3) “Have you ever heard the song ‘Hotel California’ ?”
If you haven’t heard “Hotel California” lately, you’re bound to hear it within the first two hours you’re in the country. If like myself, you don’t even know what songs Michael Bolton actually sings, you will know soon enough. If Bryan Adams songs bring back thoughts of the mid-eighties, they will now bring thoughts of Nicaraguan friends who enjoy singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs at 6 AM. My favorite part of the random awful selection of US music listened to here in Nicaragua has to be what’s lost in the translation between English and Spanish. Although in English most romantic music refers to human relationships, the Spanish versions most often showcase Jesus as the song’s major theme.
As if listening to Jesus theme songs and “Evangelical Spoken Word” isn’t grand enough, approximately 1/3 of the bus rides also include an unsolicited Evangelical sermon. The first time I experienced this event, I sat wide-eyed and awed (you know those times you feel like life’s so ridiculous that you MUST be in a movie) as the preacher sent fire and brimstone across the vinyl bus seats, praising Senor Dios almighty before he came around to each patron, hand outstretched to collect cordobas. Though I’d like for nothing more than contributing to the construction of another “Dios Poderoso Iglesia de Jerusalem” or “DioZ es el Senor” (literally spelled with a backward S, seen on the front of a Baptist church here in Cusmapa), I normally choose to abstain from the bus pastor’s collection.
My favorite display of public Evangelism occurred nearly four months ago at the bus station in Managua (which apparently is an extremely dangerous place, though after this experience I have my doubts) as Ingrid and I headed home after a weekend in Managua. We curiously watched a pot-bellied middle aged man set up a karaoke machine, wiping beads of sweat off his brow with a washcloth and adjusting the volume so it would be just right (aka: enough to reach the ears of every person within a two block radius). After indulging the audience with a few warm-up elevator music hits, the pastor grabbed his Bible and started praying (now that I think about it, he sounded a lot like the “Evangelical Spoken Word” CD Eddy likes to play so much). Ingrid and I marveled at the exhibit, and the man took a long gulp of water before clearing his throat and beginning to SING. To get some idea of his vocal chord capabilities, you must imagine Josh Groban with the voice of a 60-year-old smoker. Not pretty. Entirely hilarious. Whoever does the Public Relations for the Evangelical churches in Nicaragua certainly iced the cake by flaunting this multi-talented pastor at one of the busiest travel hubs in the country.
I digress. Lauren, Mike and I set off for Esteli in the early morning last Saturday, after a lengthy Friday evening of shenanigans and billiards. The Esteli trip served three purposes:
1) We are unable to cash our paychecks in Somoto (the bank there we refer to as a FAKE bank because they do not take travelers checks OR cash any type of check from a different bank chain) so we must make the nine-hour round trip bus ride to stand in line for two hours to get our monthly stipend. (aka: I will NEVER complain about going to the bank in the States again.)
2) Lauren and I have decided to do our grocery shopping at the nearest store not owned by Wal-Mart, which happens to be a locally owned supermarket called “Las Segovias” in Esteli. It’s also the only place in the Northern part of Nicaragua which sells both wine and coconut milk.
* and they served us free beer on my birthday, which boosts the store’s rating to *****.
3) La Casita, our favorite restaurant in Nicaragua, which sells whole wheat bread, muesli, banana marmalade, and Swiss and brie cheese is located in Esteli. To keep up morale, I find I must indulge in one of their sandwiches and a banana milkshake at least once per month.
The stretch of Pan American Highway between Somoto and Esteli looks similar to the two-lane mountain madness at the top of the Fourth of July mountain pass between Idaho and Montana. While living in Spokane during college, I made this trip dozens of times in my trusty ‘93 Subaru Legacy (which hugs the curves much more successfully than the trusty rusty school buses here ever could) and endured quite a few near-death experiences (mainly due to blizzards, breakdowns of Reghan’s “Budgets” mini-van, and crazed semi-truck drivers). Winding two-lane mountain roads and school buses don’t mix. You get the picture.
This particular bus driver (as we were on an Express bus) drove like a “bat out of hell” (as my mom would say) and I felt more than a little queasy as his Indy 500 attempts at tight corners tilted the bus precariously. Lauren and I sat together near the front while Mike brought up the rear of the bus (this being the first time I’d ever experienced bus-attendant-enforced seat numbers). On a particularly dodgy twist, we passed a semi-truck and just as Lauren and I gave each other a “good god we might die today” look…
“WHAM!” people screaming and the bus lurched as the semi-truck grazed the back 15 feet of the bus. For a good 30 seconds, I thought our driver was going to keep on truckin’ down the highway with a hole ripped through the back of the bus. He finally pulled over and I saw Mike stand up brushing broken glass off himself. He’d been one row in front of the shattered windows. We piled off the bus, my heart pounding emergently. There were no serious injuries, only a shaken group of 20-some people who’d literally seen their lives flash before their eyes. The semi-truck we’d hit kept driving! Scary thought. Lauren, Mike, and I regained our composure and shook our heads in disbelief. The bus attendant began to sweep out the broken glass with the head of a broken broom and some of our fellow bus-mates hitchhiked with passing lorries. Five minutes after we stopped, folks loaded back on the bus and we looked at each other warily before making our way back to our seats. (Yes, we got BACK ON the wrecked bus). Ten minutes later we were still waiting and the man standing in front of Lauren and I reported that the driver had called the police, and we wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time. The three of us got back off the bus, tracked down the attendant to get 20 of our 30 cordobas refunded, and caught the next bus passing on its way to Esteli.
The irony of the situation was that the day before, Lauren asked if I carried my travelers insurance information with me in the case of a bus accident. Truthfully, I’ve never thought about how important it could be to have my medical information on me, but now I am absolutely convinced. I think Mike might take to renting cars rather than relying on public transportation (though I suggested the purchase of oxen and a cart, which would be much more cost effective than car rentals). Any minor sense of safety I felt traveling on the public bus system has been completely shot after that experience, especially seeing the nonchalant reactions of the Nicaraguan’s I’ve told about the wreck. Their flat-line response to hearing about the accident points to one simple fact: there are absolutely no magical crash-free school buses in this country…
Oh, the things we risk and endure just to get a brie and hummus sandwich, a can of coconut milk, and to avoid shopping at Wal-Mart owned Pali.
1) the music being rocked over sound systems which belong in Honda Civics with spoilers, not on ancient school buses
2) the absolute lack of safety (though I had some illusion of it until this past weekend)
3) subjection to spontaneous Evangelical sermons
The last four times Lauren and I traveled back and forth between Somoto and Cusmapa we’ve been in the same bus, as there’s only three which ramble back and forth up and down the mountain. Eddy, the wide-mustached driver, seems hell bent (though he may not be conscious of it) on providing the most awful, repetitive music possible to accompany this scenic route. Imagine looking across the misty forests and mountains of Nicaragua and Honduras and being subjected to tunes such as: Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, a CD which I refer to as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack”, or my newest favorites which I call “Spoken Word Evangelical Style” and “Woman Howling in Spanish about her Failed Romantic Endeavors”. Every once in a while Eddy plays a gem like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” or some ranchero (Mexican drinking music). However, the vast majority of the time I find myself groaning as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack” repeats itself for the fourth time. What makes the music selection particularly destructive to my mental health is THE VOLUME LEVEL OF THE TUNES REFLECTS EDDY’S ASSUMPTION THAT EVERY SINGLE OF HIS BUS PATRONS MUST BE DEAF.
It’s not only the bus music selection that sets Nicaragua apart from other countries in this world. Tell a Nicaraguan you’re from the United States and you are bound to be faced with a few remarkable questions:
1) “OH! You must love the music of Michael Bolton!”
2) “Ooooh. Bryan Adams. Don’t you love romantic music?!”
3) “Have you ever heard the song ‘Hotel California’ ?”
If you haven’t heard “Hotel California” lately, you’re bound to hear it within the first two hours you’re in the country. If like myself, you don’t even know what songs Michael Bolton actually sings, you will know soon enough. If Bryan Adams songs bring back thoughts of the mid-eighties, they will now bring thoughts of Nicaraguan friends who enjoy singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs at 6 AM. My favorite part of the random awful selection of US music listened to here in Nicaragua has to be what’s lost in the translation between English and Spanish. Although in English most romantic music refers to human relationships, the Spanish versions most often showcase Jesus as the song’s major theme.
As if listening to Jesus theme songs and “Evangelical Spoken Word” isn’t grand enough, approximately 1/3 of the bus rides also include an unsolicited Evangelical sermon. The first time I experienced this event, I sat wide-eyed and awed (you know those times you feel like life’s so ridiculous that you MUST be in a movie) as the preacher sent fire and brimstone across the vinyl bus seats, praising Senor Dios almighty before he came around to each patron, hand outstretched to collect cordobas. Though I’d like for nothing more than contributing to the construction of another “Dios Poderoso Iglesia de Jerusalem” or “DioZ es el Senor” (literally spelled with a backward S, seen on the front of a Baptist church here in Cusmapa), I normally choose to abstain from the bus pastor’s collection.
My favorite display of public Evangelism occurred nearly four months ago at the bus station in Managua (which apparently is an extremely dangerous place, though after this experience I have my doubts) as Ingrid and I headed home after a weekend in Managua. We curiously watched a pot-bellied middle aged man set up a karaoke machine, wiping beads of sweat off his brow with a washcloth and adjusting the volume so it would be just right (aka: enough to reach the ears of every person within a two block radius). After indulging the audience with a few warm-up elevator music hits, the pastor grabbed his Bible and started praying (now that I think about it, he sounded a lot like the “Evangelical Spoken Word” CD Eddy likes to play so much). Ingrid and I marveled at the exhibit, and the man took a long gulp of water before clearing his throat and beginning to SING. To get some idea of his vocal chord capabilities, you must imagine Josh Groban with the voice of a 60-year-old smoker. Not pretty. Entirely hilarious. Whoever does the Public Relations for the Evangelical churches in Nicaragua certainly iced the cake by flaunting this multi-talented pastor at one of the busiest travel hubs in the country.
I digress. Lauren, Mike and I set off for Esteli in the early morning last Saturday, after a lengthy Friday evening of shenanigans and billiards. The Esteli trip served three purposes:
1) We are unable to cash our paychecks in Somoto (the bank there we refer to as a FAKE bank because they do not take travelers checks OR cash any type of check from a different bank chain) so we must make the nine-hour round trip bus ride to stand in line for two hours to get our monthly stipend. (aka: I will NEVER complain about going to the bank in the States again.)
2) Lauren and I have decided to do our grocery shopping at the nearest store not owned by Wal-Mart, which happens to be a locally owned supermarket called “Las Segovias” in Esteli. It’s also the only place in the Northern part of Nicaragua which sells both wine and coconut milk.
* and they served us free beer on my birthday, which boosts the store’s rating to *****.
3) La Casita, our favorite restaurant in Nicaragua, which sells whole wheat bread, muesli, banana marmalade, and Swiss and brie cheese is located in Esteli. To keep up morale, I find I must indulge in one of their sandwiches and a banana milkshake at least once per month.
The stretch of Pan American Highway between Somoto and Esteli looks similar to the two-lane mountain madness at the top of the Fourth of July mountain pass between Idaho and Montana. While living in Spokane during college, I made this trip dozens of times in my trusty ‘93 Subaru Legacy (which hugs the curves much more successfully than the trusty rusty school buses here ever could) and endured quite a few near-death experiences (mainly due to blizzards, breakdowns of Reghan’s “Budgets” mini-van, and crazed semi-truck drivers). Winding two-lane mountain roads and school buses don’t mix. You get the picture.
This particular bus driver (as we were on an Express bus) drove like a “bat out of hell” (as my mom would say) and I felt more than a little queasy as his Indy 500 attempts at tight corners tilted the bus precariously. Lauren and I sat together near the front while Mike brought up the rear of the bus (this being the first time I’d ever experienced bus-attendant-enforced seat numbers). On a particularly dodgy twist, we passed a semi-truck and just as Lauren and I gave each other a “good god we might die today” look…
“WHAM!” people screaming and the bus lurched as the semi-truck grazed the back 15 feet of the bus. For a good 30 seconds, I thought our driver was going to keep on truckin’ down the highway with a hole ripped through the back of the bus. He finally pulled over and I saw Mike stand up brushing broken glass off himself. He’d been one row in front of the shattered windows. We piled off the bus, my heart pounding emergently. There were no serious injuries, only a shaken group of 20-some people who’d literally seen their lives flash before their eyes. The semi-truck we’d hit kept driving! Scary thought. Lauren, Mike, and I regained our composure and shook our heads in disbelief. The bus attendant began to sweep out the broken glass with the head of a broken broom and some of our fellow bus-mates hitchhiked with passing lorries. Five minutes after we stopped, folks loaded back on the bus and we looked at each other warily before making our way back to our seats. (Yes, we got BACK ON the wrecked bus). Ten minutes later we were still waiting and the man standing in front of Lauren and I reported that the driver had called the police, and we wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time. The three of us got back off the bus, tracked down the attendant to get 20 of our 30 cordobas refunded, and caught the next bus passing on its way to Esteli.
The irony of the situation was that the day before, Lauren asked if I carried my travelers insurance information with me in the case of a bus accident. Truthfully, I’ve never thought about how important it could be to have my medical information on me, but now I am absolutely convinced. I think Mike might take to renting cars rather than relying on public transportation (though I suggested the purchase of oxen and a cart, which would be much more cost effective than car rentals). Any minor sense of safety I felt traveling on the public bus system has been completely shot after that experience, especially seeing the nonchalant reactions of the Nicaraguan’s I’ve told about the wreck. Their flat-line response to hearing about the accident points to one simple fact: there are absolutely no magical crash-free school buses in this country…
Oh, the things we risk and endure just to get a brie and hummus sandwich, a can of coconut milk, and to avoid shopping at Wal-Mart owned Pali.
sábado, 3 de noviembre de 2007
126 Hours of Rain
Anyelka (of the Jungle Death March, a student of mine and adventure companion) comes to my house this morning offering fresh tortillas, still warm off the adobe oven. We sit at the dining room table and chat for some time, mainly commenting on the weather. You see, today is Saturday and it’s been raining non-stop since Tuesday morning. There’s been a few half-hour breaks here and there but currently we’re going on more than a hundred straight hours of rain. That’s more rain than I’m used to seeing in a whole year, or even five years!
Anyelka tells me that in El Cariso, a community close to Cusmapa, 50 people have been evacuated from their flooded homes and that two houses have already collapsed here in town.
A few days before, we sat at the same table as Jubelkis (Anyelka’s sister) nonchalantly mentioned that one of her cousins died last weekend in the drainage ditch right outside my house. Apparently he’d been in town early morning to buy some cheese and other supplies, walked across one of the wooden plank bridges (which my friend Mike refers to as “rickety planks”), slipped, fell head-first into the concrete riverbed, and was unconscious for a few minutes gulping down rainwater before someone found him and took him to the health center. He died on the spot, a mixture of the concussion and drowning in 6 inches of rainwater. I wonder if anyone at the scene knew CPR? Because of this accident (which has been coming for some time, as the ditch is not covered and is located on a main street where children play unsupervised all the time) people are scared and avoid walking over it
Anyelka earnestly states that her mother’s been with her aunt in El Cariso all week, praying and holding vigil over the boy. The family lost two cousins in the past year. Last April, Manuel, an 18-year-old (who used to be in the same high school choir I currently teach) started coughing up blood and died within 24 hours. Death in Nicaragua- not a foreign event awaiting to take people at age 70 peacefully in their sleep. Death waits around every corner. In a shot given at the health center with an overdose of medication, which killed Anyelka’s oldest sister three years ago, in fungal infections which require pills too expensive for a family to buy, in the inability to provide basic first aid to someone with a minor injury.
Anyelka and I continue discussing the weather, and she informs me that another hurricane is on the way. “Haven’t you been watching the news?” she exclaims, wondering at the insanity of the fact that I don’t spend any of my time watching the three television channels we get here in town. She’s adamant and seems to have her facts straight, becoming the fourth or fifth person in the past day to tell me that there’s never been a rain like this here in Cusmapa (since Hurricane Mitch, which put the pueblo out of contact with civilization for nearly 2 ½ months). I call Lauren (my new roomate) into the room and tell her the big news. I figure that whether or not Anyelka’s news right, we should be prepared for the worst. So we strap on our soaking wet shoes, damp rain jackets, wool socks, pop open our broken umbrellas, and head out into the rain.
“What should we buy?” Lauren asks, her eyes grazing each shelf of our corner pulperia store. The 10 X 15 foot room, stuffed to the gills with essential items such as hair gel, gumballs, Coca Cola, Gustitos (a Cheeto/Dorito mix), sardines, and shortening grows silent in pregnant anticipation. What do the crazy gringas want now? I shrug, wondering if sardines take first prize as the only non-perishable item to be found in Cusmapa.
Four sticks of margarine, two bags of rice, a dozen eggs, a pound of potatoes, a pound of cheese, and some sweet bread later, we pay the store’s owner 114 cordobas (about six dollars) and wade our way carefully downhill (currently downstream) stepping over moss-covered rocks and dodging the current river of rainwater pouring down what once was our street. We pack our pantry (ie: old non-functioning refrigerator) with our hurricane supplies and set to making banana pancakes (because in the face of a storm, what else are you going to do?).
After breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, we turn on our TV (for the first time) to see what Channel 10 (the 24-hour news station) reports about the storm. Twenty minutes into the news-watching all we’ve learned consists of the fact that Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro are buddy-buddy (big surprise there) and that George Bush has asked the legislature for “TLC” for Central American countries (lord knows what TLC means in Spanish, but we got a big kick out of that one as I‘m sure it does NOT refer to “tender loving care“). We also happen upon a program about fire-dancers, a Frankenstein-looking botox-enhanced mullet-sporting man singing about Jesus Cristo… and in the meantime realize that our roof has a massive leak. Nothing about the hurricane, so we turn off the scary electric box and figure we’ll just weather whatever comes our way.
I read in my Moon guidebook of Nicaragua some months ago about rains “being an excuse” for just about anything but never believed it until now. Public school’s been cancelled since last Tuesday and currently classes are suspended until further notice. We worked at Fabretto all last week but no students came, and to get to and from work was a quest each time. Thursday afternoon, after the strongest of rains hit town, Lauren and I ventured back to the house and ALL the streets in town were flooded riverbeds; we dodged raging waters left and right. Growing up in Montana, I was granted one “ice” day of winter freedom- we never had a single snow day in my 12 years of school! Imagine my thoughts regarding rain days….
A ridiculous concept, right? Wrong.
This kind of weather makes foot travel nearly impossible for many of my students who walk more than an hour to get to school each day. Most of them do not own a rain jacket (though it‘s rainy season six months of the year here) or any other waterproof clothing. My students who did show up last week at school wore sandals and cotton shorts and dresses and shivered constantly. Kids wander around the streets barefoot and wearing little or no clothing; while I’m dressed in the same garb I‘d sport for a day of downhill skiing. Our garden’s been ravaged. Half a banana tree fallen, all the sunflowers satiated and keeling over, roots exposed. I stood in the doorway this morning and watched two chickens unsuccessfully search for a dry place to preen.
I’m struck by how relatively unaffected I’ve been by the storm. Other than dreams of sunshine and lectures I’ve prepared in my mind targeted at global warming nay-sayers, I’m comfortable in my fleece pants with a cup of tea in a draft-free (relatively drip-free) house, guarding all the instruments from the music program (I currently have 9 guitars, a set of bongoes, a jembe drum, and 4 congo drums drying out in my bedroom- as our music classroom’s broken windows let in moisture), and banking on my backup margarine and rice supply to sustain me through whatever tempest comes my way.
And for those in my community who are losing so much more to these rains… crops, homes, family members… I hope, I wish, for blue skies…
Anyelka tells me that in El Cariso, a community close to Cusmapa, 50 people have been evacuated from their flooded homes and that two houses have already collapsed here in town.
A few days before, we sat at the same table as Jubelkis (Anyelka’s sister) nonchalantly mentioned that one of her cousins died last weekend in the drainage ditch right outside my house. Apparently he’d been in town early morning to buy some cheese and other supplies, walked across one of the wooden plank bridges (which my friend Mike refers to as “rickety planks”), slipped, fell head-first into the concrete riverbed, and was unconscious for a few minutes gulping down rainwater before someone found him and took him to the health center. He died on the spot, a mixture of the concussion and drowning in 6 inches of rainwater. I wonder if anyone at the scene knew CPR? Because of this accident (which has been coming for some time, as the ditch is not covered and is located on a main street where children play unsupervised all the time) people are scared and avoid walking over it
Anyelka earnestly states that her mother’s been with her aunt in El Cariso all week, praying and holding vigil over the boy. The family lost two cousins in the past year. Last April, Manuel, an 18-year-old (who used to be in the same high school choir I currently teach) started coughing up blood and died within 24 hours. Death in Nicaragua- not a foreign event awaiting to take people at age 70 peacefully in their sleep. Death waits around every corner. In a shot given at the health center with an overdose of medication, which killed Anyelka’s oldest sister three years ago, in fungal infections which require pills too expensive for a family to buy, in the inability to provide basic first aid to someone with a minor injury.
Anyelka and I continue discussing the weather, and she informs me that another hurricane is on the way. “Haven’t you been watching the news?” she exclaims, wondering at the insanity of the fact that I don’t spend any of my time watching the three television channels we get here in town. She’s adamant and seems to have her facts straight, becoming the fourth or fifth person in the past day to tell me that there’s never been a rain like this here in Cusmapa (since Hurricane Mitch, which put the pueblo out of contact with civilization for nearly 2 ½ months). I call Lauren (my new roomate) into the room and tell her the big news. I figure that whether or not Anyelka’s news right, we should be prepared for the worst. So we strap on our soaking wet shoes, damp rain jackets, wool socks, pop open our broken umbrellas, and head out into the rain.
“What should we buy?” Lauren asks, her eyes grazing each shelf of our corner pulperia store. The 10 X 15 foot room, stuffed to the gills with essential items such as hair gel, gumballs, Coca Cola, Gustitos (a Cheeto/Dorito mix), sardines, and shortening grows silent in pregnant anticipation. What do the crazy gringas want now? I shrug, wondering if sardines take first prize as the only non-perishable item to be found in Cusmapa.
Four sticks of margarine, two bags of rice, a dozen eggs, a pound of potatoes, a pound of cheese, and some sweet bread later, we pay the store’s owner 114 cordobas (about six dollars) and wade our way carefully downhill (currently downstream) stepping over moss-covered rocks and dodging the current river of rainwater pouring down what once was our street. We pack our pantry (ie: old non-functioning refrigerator) with our hurricane supplies and set to making banana pancakes (because in the face of a storm, what else are you going to do?).
After breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, we turn on our TV (for the first time) to see what Channel 10 (the 24-hour news station) reports about the storm. Twenty minutes into the news-watching all we’ve learned consists of the fact that Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro are buddy-buddy (big surprise there) and that George Bush has asked the legislature for “TLC” for Central American countries (lord knows what TLC means in Spanish, but we got a big kick out of that one as I‘m sure it does NOT refer to “tender loving care“). We also happen upon a program about fire-dancers, a Frankenstein-looking botox-enhanced mullet-sporting man singing about Jesus Cristo… and in the meantime realize that our roof has a massive leak. Nothing about the hurricane, so we turn off the scary electric box and figure we’ll just weather whatever comes our way.
I read in my Moon guidebook of Nicaragua some months ago about rains “being an excuse” for just about anything but never believed it until now. Public school’s been cancelled since last Tuesday and currently classes are suspended until further notice. We worked at Fabretto all last week but no students came, and to get to and from work was a quest each time. Thursday afternoon, after the strongest of rains hit town, Lauren and I ventured back to the house and ALL the streets in town were flooded riverbeds; we dodged raging waters left and right. Growing up in Montana, I was granted one “ice” day of winter freedom- we never had a single snow day in my 12 years of school! Imagine my thoughts regarding rain days….
A ridiculous concept, right? Wrong.
This kind of weather makes foot travel nearly impossible for many of my students who walk more than an hour to get to school each day. Most of them do not own a rain jacket (though it‘s rainy season six months of the year here) or any other waterproof clothing. My students who did show up last week at school wore sandals and cotton shorts and dresses and shivered constantly. Kids wander around the streets barefoot and wearing little or no clothing; while I’m dressed in the same garb I‘d sport for a day of downhill skiing. Our garden’s been ravaged. Half a banana tree fallen, all the sunflowers satiated and keeling over, roots exposed. I stood in the doorway this morning and watched two chickens unsuccessfully search for a dry place to preen.
I’m struck by how relatively unaffected I’ve been by the storm. Other than dreams of sunshine and lectures I’ve prepared in my mind targeted at global warming nay-sayers, I’m comfortable in my fleece pants with a cup of tea in a draft-free (relatively drip-free) house, guarding all the instruments from the music program (I currently have 9 guitars, a set of bongoes, a jembe drum, and 4 congo drums drying out in my bedroom- as our music classroom’s broken windows let in moisture), and banking on my backup margarine and rice supply to sustain me through whatever tempest comes my way.
And for those in my community who are losing so much more to these rains… crops, homes, family members… I hope, I wish, for blue skies…
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