Statistics of Note

I just found out that 3% of Nicaraguans currently go to university...
and 0.6% of Nicaraguans complete university.

In times when I question what Fabretto does here, I need to rememember statistics like this.
We may not be perfect, but the amount of students who've graduated from our program that are currently in college FAR surpasses these percentages.

We have so much work left to do...
But, for the moment, siento orguilloso.
I feel very, very proud of my community here in Cusmapa.

Chigüines (Little Ones)

Incredible
how being crushed
changes
to a melted
joyful
light
with one
six-year-old
smile.

Changes

I take people for granted. People I see day-to-day consistently, people who help me with countless things, people who are patient, dedicated, and passionate about life.

Magda is one of these people... my closest co-worker for the past year, my confidant, the rock in the music program, the hardest worker here at Fabretto, the one who brings people together, the eloquent one in staff meetings who brings us all back to what we're really focused on: kids.

Magda's leaving Fabretto.

She told me this morning, it's something she's been thinking about for years. She's stayed because she had no other option, and because of the kids. But these two reasons only work for so long, they do not sustain someone working in one place forever. If one constantly hears from the top-down that their actions are not producing the type of "results" expected, that their work isn't "enough", and has every ounce of work they're doing minimized... one is bound to leave.

Magda says BASTA (enough), and has chosen to take care of herself and Cindy finally, rather than focusing on others. She tells me the decision has killed her inside and that she can't sleep, that she hasn't been able to sleep for weeks thinking about our students.

I want to be angry at her, I do not want to understand.
I do not want this to be my reality right now.
I want her to stay. I am selfish, but I need her.

But how can I be angry when she has made this decision out of a respect for herself, when she is following what she believes she needs to do to take care of her family? I do understand the frustrations she must have faced in the past seven years working for Fabretto- things here are hopelessly unorganized and it's difficult sometimes to keep pushing on through the administrative mess we're faced with as teachers on the ground level.

Fabretto losing Magda is a tremendous blow. Not only to the music program, to the students, but to the organization as a whole. Magda is one of those people who can be counted on at any given moment to drop anything to lend a hand. She is one of the kindest people I have ever known. I know she will not be leaving Cusmapa, that we will still be friends, that she will still come to visit the Oratorio, that she will guide me whenever I need help.

All things go.
I just wish that all things didn't go at the same time...
because as it is now, I feel like everything is crashing down at once
and I am completely helpless in stopping the fall.

sounds

barking snorkling piglets cows loOOwing clopityclopityclop

gouchos and horses outside my bedroom window chicharas

RRRREEEEEEEE droning the sunset deafening TA TAH springing
TA TAH tin roof rains “adiOOOSSSS pues” with a pat on the head

“YIEEEEEE!!!” shrieks of neighborhood soccer playing

in the street wind rattling closed doors cacophonous drum beats
vibrating office doors the prrradum prrrradum

heartbeat of laughing earth teenage secrets
jembe drum marathons nintendoesque frog-song

peAwpeeeawwwPEW after torrential rains
toe-tingling thunder ocean waves in the moonlight

“adios callie!” ten times in a row from sarita
my 2-year-old neighbor mariachi serenades

boogie boarding yowlps mountaintop blues harmonica

gigglejamming “RAMA!RAMA!RAMA!” branch ducking

on top of the bus gggggrrrrOW! frankie fachento’s fachentoish growl

“sounds of silence” during power outages lit
by flashlights dona miriam mmmmaammashumladum hums

“ave maria” chico the robot “dElete.dElete.dElete the file.”

thanksgiving clanking of wine glasses belly laughter painted faces
WE ALL LIVE inayellowsubmarine singalongs in managuan taxis

jairo’s los angeles gangster accent clinkclink of the cordoba

throwing game on every street corner jinglejinglejingle “eskImoOOooo!”

of the ice cream man oliver’s obnoxious

“BUENAS” enthusiastic cesar’s “MUY BIEN, gracias a dios!”

marlon’s doodling cantitos pedro’s fist-pumping-

air-guitar-marathons

to deep purple breeze in the orange blossoms

waterfall roars roosters self important cock-A- dOOdle-OOOO-h-ing

neighborhood radios rattling boMbaDOMbom

boMbaDOMbom reggaeton bass

hipswishing cumbia cracklecracklecrackle wood

burning in adobe stoves sizzlesizzleYUM fresh tortilla dough

and popopopop roasting coffee beans bouncing marimba
mallets offbeat clap (pause) (pause) clap of little ones

popopop mustard seeds in hot oil dangledongledangledongle

church bells on a lazy sunday morning WHOOOONNNNK
WHOOONNNNNKKKKK bus horns tell time better than watches

swishswishswish splashsplash laundry on cement washboards

“yo quiesiera que todo el mundo fuera feliz como yo soy

en mi pueblo” ranchera guitaron BOWBom. BOWBombombom

BOWBom. BOWBom. BOWBom.
BOWBombombom. flamencoguitarlickselectricpassionsteelstring

shuffleshuffle footsteps on the graveled streets scrufflescruffle

YOWLPARRRRRARAR scrufflescruffleYIIIIIYI! dog fights at midnight

“daledaledale!!!” “suavesuavesuave!!!” bus lingo TOC TOC (giggle)

TOC TOC TOC visiting chiguines at the front door d

on coundo’s silent wheezy joyous laughter chelemancho’s joyous

“bueeeeNNNAAAAASSSsssss!” orangeshakingbranches thumpthumpthump

as they hit the ground TSSST TSSST MUCHACHA

down the gauntlet of mainstreet OYE! shweeeeettweet weeeeeeet

yow! whistle language “soooothe me I want some sugarinmy bowllllll”

fin.

Reflections on Ortega

(Photo from The New York Times)

“Arriba, los Pobres del Mundo!”
(Upwards, the poor of the world!)

School-bus-yellow letters backed by fuchsia proclaim as a solemn President Daniel Ortega raises a fist to the skies in apparent solidarity with his Nicaraguan people. These billboards scatter throughout the country, featuring Ortega as a casually clad everyday Joe in a pair of khaki slacks and a white polo; his receding peppered hairline and signature caterpillar moustache marking him as the politician at the people’s level.

I do not claim to be knowledgeable about the political situation here in Nicaragua. I speak from the level of the people, the campesinos in the countryside (the voiceless) and the taxi drivers of Managua (who I find to be some of the most politically opinionated and vocal individuals in the country). I speak from my personal experiences here throughout the past 13 months, from what I notice that holds everyday people prisoners to poverty and what the government seems to be doing and not doing about it.

What say the Taxistas of Nicaragua?

I love striking up political discussions with taxi drivers. Though we do not have taxis here in Cusmapa (it would be ridiculous if we did, as walking from one end of town to the other takes less than 10 minutes), every time I travel in bigger cities (mainly Esteli and Managua) I chat up every single driver I possibly can about their political opinions. Ninety-five percent of taxi drivers (in my unofficial count) I have ever talked to about Ortega are violently opposed to the man, angry that he’s in office, and would probably kick him in the teeth if they ever encountered him in a dark Managuan alley. I’m sure their main beef with Ortega has something to do with the spikes in gas prices this past year (we’re now up to more than $4 per gallon country-wide), but there’s also a real feeling of desperation I sense while talking to these men. In the current taxi market prices, I travel from one side of Managua to the other, a 40 minute ride for $2 US.

Ortega was re-elected in 2006 with 38% of the vote (he also served as the first true “democratically” elected president of Nicaragua with the FSLN party- the Sandinista National Liberation Front- in 1984). To learn more about this election, visit http://www.thenation.com/doc/20061120/ortega. Most of Ortega’s support comes from the Northern part of the country, the area where the Contra war was fought, the area with the least education and the most poverty.

In a 2007 CID-Gallup survey published in the Managua daily newspaper La Prensa, “Ortega's approval level had dropped significantly, 26% of Nicaraguans having a positive image of his handling of the job, 36% a negative impression, and the remaining a neutral impression. The poll also indicated that 54% were still optimistic about Ortega and the government, in particular the health and education policies. Additionally, 57% of Nicaraguans believed the country is on the "wrong track", and only 31% believed that the country is on the "right track". Sounds pretty similar to the political situation we have in the United States, minus the optimism in the healthcare and education sector. If anyone told me they were optimistic about the Bush Administration’s health and education policies I think I would be forced to rudely laugh directly in that person’s face.

Ortega’s policies are based on “moderate democratic socialism” and strongly influenced by his Roman Catholic beliefs. In 2006, though Ortega was not President, as an influential member of the parliament he pushed the Nicaraguan government to ban ALL abortions in the country, regardless of medical emergency or issues with sexual or inter-familiar violence (for more information, see Human Rights Watch: http://hrw.org/english/docs/2007/10/01/nicara16987.htm or the BBC’s report on Nicaraguan’s Ban on Abortion http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6161396.stm). Ortega’s administration doles out 6-year prison terms for any persons aiding in providing emergency abortions- as in the famous 2003 case of a 9-year-old Managuan girl who was raped and impregnated by her stepfather (for more information on Rosita’s case, see http://www.lifesite.net/ldn/2007/nov/07111904.html). For me personally, this is the kicker. Though the anti-abortion law was approved on many societal levels (as demographics according to a 1995 census label 89.6% of Nicaraguans as Christians and this number continues to grow with Evangelicalism ever on the rise), I will never understand how forcing a raped child to have a baby could be considered “right to life”.

Ortega’s main diplomatic ties include Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, Evo Morales of Bolivia, and Iran’s Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Thus, the Bush administration linking Ortega to socialism, fanatical leftism, and (GASP) … TERRORISM. Let’s just keep it simple at saying the US and Ortega are not good ol’ boy Yale buddies. In fact, before the 2006 Presidential election, Georgy’s little brother Jeb (fondly refered to as “Jab”) took out a full-page spread to bash Ortega, threatening Nicaraguans with what would happen if he were to be elected. A choice sample of Jab’s accusations: “Daniel Ortega is an enemy of everything the United States represents. Further, he is a friend of our enemies. Ortega has a relationship of more than 30 years with states and individuals who shelter and condone international terroism.” Ironically enough, after Ortega’s victory, Bush phoned him in congratulations. You’ve gotta love diplomacy. In a July 2007 speech, Ortega retaliated, refering to George Bush as “the world’s main tyrant” and challenging his policies which promote war-mongering while in reality taking away money that could be used as aid for promoting health and positive growth in developing countries. Apparently Bush and Ortega have reconciled their differences in one single phone call, (http://www.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUSN0827392320070108) agreeing to work together on the Central America Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) and the development of “free market democracies” through the U.S. Millenium Challenge Account. I’m sure if Bush backs these policies, they’re ultimately beneficial to the poorest of the poor here in the countryside (insert painful sarcastic eyebrow raise here).

What say the Campesinos of Cusmapa?

Truthfully, not much. People here in the countryside are too focused on the day-to-day survival of their famlies to engage themselves in nation or worldwide politics. The furthest Cusmapan political opinion goes is the flying of the Sandanista flag and houses painted with colors of whichever party the family supports.

The news our pueblo recieves on the two television channels mainly involves reporters shoving microphones in the faces of people who have just been though a near-death experience, asking them how they feel and what happened. I suppose it’s this type of disconnect between what’s important in their country and the world and what’s locally sensational drives news worldwide, not just here in Nicaragua. We do not receive newspapers here, I’d even dare to say that 80% of people in Cusmapa have never SEEN a newspaper. Even if they had, the newspapers in Nicaragua have a bit of world news but mainly showcase features like a woman slowly undressing herself one article of clothing at a time to give you the weekly weather forecast. Brilliant engagement of the population, says I.

Here’s what I’ve seen at the campo (countryside) level of changes in the past year since Ortega’s election…
1) Families in the poorest communities are currently each being given one pig and one bull cow.
2) Electricity outages last year were from 7 AM until 3 PM until the celebratory month of December, when magically the blackouts ended.
3) Water shortages still permeate the countryside- last year during the dry season we went two weeks without water and people reacted like it was a NORMALITY.

These are the three main things that come to mind when I consider Ortega’s influence here on the pueblo level. I’m happy to have electricity again, it makes for less excuses when it comes to the work-day, and less headaches trying to teach keyboarding lessons. The water issue affects all levels of society- people are unable to grow vegetables or fruit, unable to drink sufficient amounts of clean water to sustain health, and are cooking and cleaning and bathing with parasite-infested water on a daily basis. This ultimately leads to much sickness and contributes to the prison of poverty. My question remains: what kind of sustainable development is he providing by giving famlies a MALE cow (which cannot even be used for providing milk) and ONE PIG (fattened up and eaten during less than one week’s time)? I believe these gestures placate the people into believing that Ortega’s working for lasting changes for the poor. They’ll vote for him in future elections because of the week of pork they received. I’m doubtful of his motives, to say the least.

So, while I do not agree with Jab Bush about Ortega’s status as a “terrorist”, I am reluctant to promote him as bringing upward the poor of the world. He’s yet to prove to the people on a local level that he cares enough about health and education to make lasting changes that truly benefit the PEOPLE of Nicaragua.

Weekends in Cusmapa

The couple pics get creepier and creepier.

Don't look so happy Burt!

What's with this Flat Stanley business? Bet he likes cross-dressing too.


While there is certainly no “normal” to any weekend I spend here, there are quiet and lovely moments during long weekends spent in this pueblo. Saturday mornings I wake up early with the roosters and Lauren clinking coffee mugs in the kitchen. In this way I rise most days, with first thoughts of a cup of steamy gasoline- the black gold which starts every day. Normally Lauren and I sit quietly enjoying the morning tranquility, watching steam rise off the patio bricks as sun filters through the orange tree branches into our kitchen windows. This Saturday we have a slew of guests- Stephanie, Mike, and Kate are all here visiting for the weekend. During the week Lauren does a vast majority of the cooking because 1) she’s GREAT at it, 2) she likes it, and 3) well…. I suppose that about covers the reasons. Point being, Saturday mornings I am unofficially in charge of brunch. Most of the time I make a big batch of banana pancakes but lately I’ve taken to zucchini bread (with freshly chopped nutmeg and loads of almonds and raisins).

Wandering in and out between the breakfast table and the patio, I stretch as if I were a cat in my past life, breathing in deeply and soaking up the golden morning’s light. I like to bring a book out to the hammock, pretend to read for a few minutes, and take naps off and on while pondering the clouds. When we have visitors, late morning often involves a stroll around town to buy dinner supplies- tomatoes, onions, garlic, flour, eggs… and whatever kind of beverage sounds right for the occasion. This Saturday’s dinner menu (because Mike is fabulous) includes rosemary foccacia bread and calzones with a mountain of fillings- olives, pineapple, fresh basil and spinach (from our garden), beer-fried onions, cuajada (fresh cheese), queso seco (literally: “dried cheese” which is basically cuajada that’s been aged), zucchini, summer sausage (thanks to mom’s Christmas gifts), and some wicked marinara sauce courtesy of Kate Fanale (our very own beard-painting maestro). Lazy Saturdays often also mean a game of Scrabble which includes much lollygagging and usually some snacks.

This late-morning Saturday I help Chelemancho (the gardener, “Cusmapanian of the Month” himself) plant garlic, melon, zucchini, cucumbers, snap peas, and green beans. He’s so pleased with how our garden’s coming along- we’re about to harvest a round of spinach and lettuce and also have carrots, red onions, tomatoes, bok choi, celery and eggplant sprouting like mad. I love getting my hands muddy! The smell of earth, our dark musty mother, and dirt under my fingernails… things I cherish. I walk out the front door every day and think “my god, the plants have grown overnight!” Plants really are miracles. A community garden could do so much good in a place like Cusmapa if it had the right structure and support. Chelemancho shows me pictures in a photocopied gardening book to inform me that it’s perfectly normal to put a bit of liquor on your plants and in the soil in order to deter pests. We chuckle gleefully about all the drunken ants and beetles we’re going to have in the garden. Marcos, one of our students, helps me plant the garlic cloves one by one, telling me all sorts of information such as: melons like growing in sand. I’m not sure if that’s true or not but either way I’ve become fairly good at nodding my head and “ooooh”-ing in a way which generally convinces people that I believe what they’re telling me. It’s a talent I’ve picked up in this last 13 months of only picking up 5-70% of what people say to me. I make presumptions about what they’re saying, so I assume they’re allowed to make presumptions about what I’m thinking.

Some little ones come over to draw for a bit… we have 5-7 groups of kids who come over on a regular basis, especially when we’re around for the weekend. This Saturday Jobeling and her five siblings visit for a few hours and marvel over an illustrated guide to the animal kingdom (probably the best book we have in the kid books sector) while coloring and giggling. The main groups of visiting kids are look something like this:

1) Anyelka (13), Jubelkis (12), Tonio (8), Jader (6), and el Pipe (Luis) (3)
2) Aleyda (14) & Marlon (9)
3) Marcos (14) & Christian (12)
4) Jobeling et al. (I know few of their names but mostly they’re things like: Hamilton (pronounced am-IL-ton) and Hanjel (I think they meant Angel)

I must digress into a lovely story about Jobeling’s family… which illustrates a grand sentiment I feel on a daily basis here: that of being a circus side-show. As a good friend of mine, Katie Meyer once wrote “sometimes I feel like I’m a discovery channel show”, and there is no better way to describe the feeling one gets being a gringo living in Cusmapa. The first time Jobeling and her siblings came to the house, Lauren caught them trying to climb our fence to get maracouyas from one of the trees and invited them in to the yard to search for whatever fruit they could find. The next time they came over was while my mom and Cece (sis) were visiting, when we’d had an absolute revolving door of kids in and out the entire day. Lauren and I were sitting outside reading and knitting and the kids came and just sat together in a bunch and silently open-mouth stared. We tried over and over to get a response but to no avail, so finally we started joking around with them a bit. The conversation between Lauren and I went something like this:

L: “Do you think they know we’re witches?”
C: “Hmmmm. I don’t know. But witches do love eating small children for lunch.”
L: “MMMMM. Yes, you’re right. Children are very delicious to eat.”
C: “Yes, especially the little ones. I’m hungry.”

It sounds bad (and looks bad I suppose, when written in this context) but we were laughing the whole time and I assumed the kids realized we were joking. I left the patio for a moment to get a drink of water and came back to see poor Jobeling crouched in the corner, back to the wall, bawling. Turns out Pedro (our dreadlocked dread-inducing friend- every child here thinks his hair is made of snakes) came home and caught on to the joke, and tried to get in on the giggles, but instead told Jobeling it was “lunch-time” while she was backing up into a corner in which she could not escape. Thank god for Lauren, who pulled herself together enough to calm the kiddo down because Pedro and I were laughing and laughing (as was Jobeling’s little brother). I suppose I learned my lesson about being sarcastic here… especially when I’m already a national geographic spectacle who does not go to church.
So Jobeling finally overcame her fear of the white witches and brought her brothers and sisters over to the house for an afternoon of drawing. When they leave, we hike up to the “mirador”, my favorite place in town to watch the sunset over the mountains of Honduras. This Saturday we see all the way to the ocean, there are some estuaries which curve in and out of the shoreline and the sun sets directly behind them, reflecting brilliant light. I love the sunsets here, when the “chicharas” sing the dusk with a monotone buzz I feel droning through every bone in my body. They say the sun sinks faster in Nicaragua. Rushing toward the horizon, it caresses the mountains with its last scarlet rays.

We visit Anyelka’s family’s house with the whole gringo parade to bring them a photo album full of pictures I’ve taken this past year of the kids. It’s wonderful to watch them all pour over the photos, with Luis emphatically exclaiming “YO!” and any other name of a person he recognized. We’re trading Blanca Clementina (mom) clothes washing for some wood we purchased to help repair their roof before the rainy season (it was collapsing), so we chat with her and Nicholas (dad), and leave the house with four of the boys noisily leading the way. Here comes the DANCE PARTY segment of the weekend, induced of course, by Marlon. Marlon’s one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen, he has entirely original interpretive Napoleon Dynamite-esque moves. Eight of us whirl around the living room to folk music from the Atlantic coast, the four of us “old ladies” wheezing and jigging and the little boys giggling and moving madly. We kick the boys out at 8 PM, the general curfew for kids to be out of the house; and though many protests and puppy-eyes are given, rules are rules!

Saturday night normally means fiesta time in Casa de los Mangos, especially when there’s visitors involved. Calzones are a party in my book, and though our oven runs out of gas and the dough is a bit under-cooked, they are delicious. We enjoye a bit of Toña, our favorite national beer (of the two available, which actually taste the same and are made by the same company) and sit around the dining room table chatting until Kate breaks the ice by painting on her best “Inigo Montoya” (of the Princess Bride) moustache and soul patch and sashaying into the room (much to the delight and surprise of our Nica friends). Soon we are all mustached and wrapped in gypsy scarves… a sort of Arab pirate themed troop of characters. When Steph oompa-loompas into the room with the most realistic goatee I have EVER seen I immediately drop to the floor and hold myself for a good minute to try to stop my bladder from the ultimate pants-peeing laughter. Osvaldo ends up as a spice-trader/karate-kid/zen master with a lovely curly moustache. Kate kindly makes me a little bit more feminine than last weekend (I was told my last weekend’s goatee made me look a bit too much like my little brother); I parade around for the night with a thin but chic moustache. Lauren gets the happy bushy intellectual eyebrows and a soul-patch that is the envy of any tattoo artist. Mike, the last and reluctant victim of the face painting parade, ends up looking like a dashing young Burt Reynolds. In fact I think he should grow out a thick moustache, the look suits him so. This face painting goes on for a few hours, over which I nearly pee my pants 5 times as and my mouth and stomach ache with broad smiles and belly laughter.

Sunday morning brings copious amounts of fruit salad- cantaloupe, watermelon, bananas, and pineapple- to be exact. Since our gas tank for the stove still reads E we have no coffee to lift my morning. As on many Sunday mornings, I end nap on the patio for nearly three hours after breakfast, soaking up the warmth of the sun-soaked bricks. Osvaldo whispers in my ear to wake me at 2 PM to go for a hike. We pass the school, where Magda’s giving a Sunday afternoon guitar lesson to Jeffery, the brilliant boy who makes any teacher’s work worthwhile. Soccer league games and adolescent boys fill the stadium. The older men watch and chew the fat on the sideline, their horses roped to a chain-link fence. Osvaldo takes me to Mano del Diablo, a beautiful cliff rock formation overlooking the valley below our mountaintop. We sit for a moment to marvel the view before taking a path over a barbed wire fence to explore some more giant boulders and crumbling cliff walls, winding scraggly trees reaching toward skies. We share exceptional moments discovering the twists and turns of the non-existent path, finally ending up at the local laguna. We decide to make a cup of coffee at Osvaldo’s house and I chat with his mother about the weather as we listen to Silvio Rodriguez and watch their chickens cluck their way across the packed-mud of the yard. Osvaldo jokes about the family’s “guard” dog “la Chelita” (the whitey) who was purchased for security but licks and loves anything walking. Osvaldo’s mom is absolutely shocked to learn that I take my coffee “amargo” (bitter: without a half-cup of sugar), and asks me if I think it will rain. Though it has not rained in months (since November), I feel the pressure of the sky- I do not know at this moment, but I sense the longing for rain in the Earth, that energy that passes between sky and earth in the moments before an exhalation of nature’s tears.

Osvaldo’s promised a visiting friend that he’ll play some folkloric guitar music, and since the guitar I have at the house has no chords (and I can’t find the three sets I bought in Managua last week) we end up walking around for an hour searching for a guitar to borrow- finally finding one a mere block from my house. I sit and marvel as his fingers work their way across the chords and let my eyes wander to the tips where electricity becomes melody and melody becomes passion. Finally Benjamin (a whole other story, an ex-Peace Corps volunteer who flat out gives me the creeps) leaves and Osvaldo and I gaze at the stars, whispering into the misty darkness until the first droplets fall. He leaves, for the up-teenth time and I catch a fistful of tears in my throat thinking about how he’s become a joyous part of my life...

Luckily I have Steph and Lauren to distract me. We eat dark chocolate and play cards until the wee hours of the morning, then lay in bed and yell at each other through the walls about the current stank which permeates our bedrooms. It’s a bit of a rotten fish smell, and we think it may be rats dying in the wall from some poison Facoundo sneakily placed there last week. He’s always hiding things in the rafters- I’ve found a slingshot, a bike chain, some large nails, a sandwich bag of beans, a boot, and the sole of a shoe, among other things stuck away to hide above normal sight-level.

I dream of powdery snow (though I do not miss winter) and wake with a rumbling unhappy stomach (something which happens consistently to me every couple of weeks for 24 hours), and gaze outside at the rising mist, ready to embrace a new day. Welcome to my weekend-time: kids running in and out in general chaos, music and laughter, face painting, gardening, sunshine soaking, a bit of feasting and fiesta-ing, talking about the weather, sunsets, family visits, hiking and exploring, cloud pondering, whispers, and above all else, la vida tranquila de Cusmapa.

Dia del Amor y Amistad

I would never, ever, in a million trillion years have been able to predict the happenings of this Valentines Day... which happened to be Pedro's (my Spanish roomate) last night in Nica. The night started out innocently enough, with Tona beers at our hotel in Managua, sitting around the pool and enjoying the evening breeze. Osvaldo joined us, and we soon decided to head out on the town for some dinner (as Pedro and I traveled from Cusmapa that morning and hadn't eaten anything since 6 AM). Our boss, Kevin, told us of a restaurant called the Routa Maya which sounded like a great place in theory, but the moment we arrived, we realized we were mistaken.

Upon arrival at any place where there's a live concert and people are:
1) Approximately 20-30 years older than I am
2) Sitting down
3) Dressed fancily
I generally tend to get out of dodge as quickly as I possibly can.

Osvaldo, Pedro, and I agreed that the 200 cordoba asking price was not enough to see the infamous romantical singer staged at the Routa Maya and we instead headed to El Plato de Oro... also known as the mysterious Chinese restaurant in the middle of Managua.

We ordered more beers and some WANTONS which Osvaldo had never tried... upon arrival of the appetizer the song "Wanton-a-mera" was air-guitared, bongo played on the table, and included lovely Ranchera-esque vocals. The wantons were sketchy, some sort of unidentifiable meat... but man I was HUNGRY and they were CRUNCHY. Yum.

Our waiter seemed entirely confused by the whole situation (IE: the working in a restaurant situation) and didn't speak to us the entire evening... I am not sure whether the issue was his lack of Spanish or my slurred Spanish or Pedro's dreadlocks or the air-band we had going in the back corner. Either way, when he brought us out plates of chow mein and chop suey... it took us a few moments to realize that we'd been served the SAME DISH. Yes. With the exact same taste, exact same ingredients. I called our waiter-friend over to the table and asked... "No es lo mismo?" (It's not the same thing?!?!) and he replied "No, uno tiene camarones, y el otro... no." (No, one has shrimp and the other doesn't"). Oh, thank you for your observation, good sir... but I think I was refering to the difference between chop suey and chow mein. He did not seem to get the drift.

Needless to say, we finished off our strange slippery Chinese cuisine, and after a few photos with the giant painted urn display we scooted our way out the door.

Pedro decided he HAD to buy some cigarettes, so we went back into the Routa Maya. The woman singing was seated like a matriarch and her red robes flowed across the stage. Pedro ran off and left Osvaldo and I in the lobby, and she started singing "OJALA" which is probably one of my top 5 favorite songs ever. Osvaldo and I proceeded to sing the entire thing at the top of our lungs (I am sure to the delight of the fancy audience), then Pedro returned from his mission and we danced a bit with the door attendant and went to...

Yet another fancy bar. Who takes me to these places in Managua anyways? Last time I went out there with Karlita on her birthday she ended up on stage at a sushi disco where everyone was speaking English and she was taken by a Chinese man with a glass of red wine to do a strange birthday dance which included kimono wearing and her bending over to have him pretend to spank her. Very, very strange. This time, we ended up at La Familia Goodoy. Carlos Mejia Goodoy is a famous Nicaraguan singer, mainly does folkloric and revolutionary music. The concert was 160 cordobas to enter, but we sweet talked the girl guarding the door into letting us in the back area. We bought a couple of beers there, then went outside to "have a cigarette" conveniently where the music could be seen. It was AWESOME! We were right behind all the seated old folks, nodding to sleep in their chairs. I proceeded to dance by myself (silly boys wouldn't dance with me) for the next hour, loving every moment of it.

We went back to the hotel after the concert and sat around the pool listening to Pedro's ROCK music and sipping some of the fancy rum we don't treat ourselves to very often. The hotel clerk came to ask us to turn the music down and Pedro replied: "what, you don't like the song? I can change the song?!" then proceeded to change the song and turn up the volume. I don't think we made friends with the poor chap, but he was a good sport.

And thus leaves Pedro, who hopefully will be returning soon to indulge in more adventures in fine Nicaraguan cuisine, who engages me in dance parties of all kinds, and who I have hug-a-thons with at 5 in the morning while eating ham sandwiches. Dia de la amistad indeed!

Cusmapanian of the Month: Febrero 2008

“buENNNNNAAAsssss!” Maximo, the happiest man in Cusmapa choruses as he briskly walks past our front door into the budding garden. Lauren and I giggle because every time he greets us, he sounds like a car whizzing past “vvvvvrrrOOOOOOOmmm!”

Maximo, known as “Chelemancho” or “el Chele” by his fellow Cusmapans, is the 40-some-year-old thick-mustached school gardener, and has Lauren and my vote for “Cusmapan of the Month”, our new feature series here on blog-land.

Chelemancho’s area of expertise, horticultura (gardening), is showcased day-after-day here at the school. He teaches students (and us gringas) about a variety of plants and their medicinal properties, and practical uses as well. According to Chelemancho, if a small cactus is placed in front of your computer screen, it will absorb the powerful and dangerous UV rays emitted from the computer, protecting you from certain doom. Chelemancho also believes that if Lauren and I drink the tea made from flowers of a plant he’s cultivated in our garden, we will be “flying airplanes for three days”. He sprinkles laundry detergent and chili water throughout our vegetable patch to deter pests and parasites. The dirt excavated from our yard to build a compost pile is currently “frozen” though it has been unearthed for over 3 months (and the temperature here never gets below 50 degrees). Chele claims that the earth must sit in the sun for six months or one year before being used for gardening purposes. He also presented us with some type of sketchy fruit wine which apparently has the power to solve all of our intestinal issues. AND he politely informed me the other day that once our beets and tomatoes come in, if we eat a plethora, we can consume all the oil our hearts desire and it will have no negative effect on our bodies.

Chelemancho lives on the edge of Cusmapa, in a large cabin-like structure (owned by a gringo ex-Peace Corps volunteer who got married to one of our co-workers then ditched town, but not before buying a significant amount of property) which overlooks the valley and communities below, offering the best sunset lookout in town. Chele’s “screened” porch includes a variety of entry points for hungry mosquitoes, a single hammock for napping purposes, a handful of halved Coke containers with sprouting flowers, and in baby-blue paint the word MANCHO stomps across one wall. He tells stories of the olden times in Cusmapa, where during the rainy season our half of town was cut off from the rest because there was no bridge. For a few months of every year, he used to live off the land and read gardening books in languages he does not speak.

Chele has recently taken to sporting a navy-blue and white checkered blazer, complete with shoulder pads. We believe the blazer may have previously been owned by an obese NASCAR official. It gives Chele this robotic gangster look that’s simply marvelous.

What we love most about Chelemancho is his constant state of glee. He is, perhaps, the jolliest man we have ever met. Even when describing the hardships of life, Chele meets the world with a grin, eyes crinkled at the sides, moustache corners tickling his rosy cheeks. Yesterday, he arrived at our house completely sweaty and out of breath, wheezing: “I’ve been riding my bike so much lately that now whenever I walk I am exhausted!” and with a chortle, trotted off to water our plants.

Lauren decided to collect leaves from our banana tree to dry them for book-making purposes. Chele, busy as usual planting eggplant and strawberries, sprung from his gardeners stoop when his watch alarm beeped at 5 PM on the dot, exclaiming, “Y ahora, estoy alegre para estar un dia mas viejito!” (translation: “and NOW, I am happy to be one day older!”).

Entonces, Chelemancho wins the award for “Cusmapanian of the Month: Febrero 2008” for his unlimited knowledge of the plant world, unrivaled sense of style, the best and fullest moustache we have seen in years, and for his revolutionary philosophy on aging. Now we are off to drink flower petal tea and “fly airplanes” or maybe find a few cacti to absorb the death rays being transmitted by our laptops.

Hats off to you, Chele. May your 5 PM alarm continue to beep-beep for decades to come.