Nicaraguan Health Care: Where Hospitals are Cemetaries

I've been trying to write about this experience for the past few months- and each time I sit and put my thoughts into it I find myself too irate to begin. The story must be told to all who will hear, and if you are reading this right now I thank you for your interest in something that rarely affects those in the first world, something that reminds us of the harsh reality of the incomprehensible lack of proper health care in the third world.

November 2008...

One of my best girlfriends here in Nicaragua, Mayerling, waltzes into the room with her own soundtrack which sounds something like a funky rhythmed snare drum. She is strikingly beautiful and her dirty humor and easy smile have filled many a night in our home with light and laughter. Today Mayerling knocks on our front door and enters the house a changed woman, the sexy swagger in her step now turned into a saddened shuffle.

“My grandma is dead.”

Mayerling’s eyes lower to the ground, her voice a flat line wavering with choked emotions.

Mayerling tells us that her grandma, who had been in perfect health at age 70, fell and broke a small bone in her hip the week before. The health center’s ambulance took her to the public hospital in Somoto where she was informed that she needed a surgery. Here healthcare is free up to a certain point, but when surgery is involved the family must contribute a certain amount. Mayerling’s family took out a $2,000 loan (the US equivalent of an entire year’s savings) and paid for the surgery, which included placing pins in her hipbone. The next day, the doctor forced her grandma to walk on her newly pinned hip and only let her rest when she began to cry in pain. The wound became so infected (IN THE HOSPITAL) that the doctor decided to re-open it, clean the pins, and put them back in. It was too late, as the infection spread to her blood and left her in a desperate life-or-death fight. Mayerling heard the doctor snidely remark to one of the nurses that he sometimes “operates on people for fun, not because they really need the operation”. Ethical.

Mayerling’s family decided they’d had enough and attempted to take her out of the hospital but the administration (backed by the doctor) refused the request and her health worsened by the hour. The doctor pulled Mayerling outside at one point and told her,

“Your grandma will not make it out of this hospital alive.”

To which Mayerling replied, “and if she doesn’t it is YOUR fault.”

He laughed. In her face.

The next morning found Mayerling’s grandma on her death bed, the infection having spread through her entire body. The family decided to move her to another hospital by force. The doctor was so angry he told them to never come back; he said if they ever tried to return to the hospital they would be removed by the police. Mayerling got her grandma on a bus headed to Esteli (the second biggest city in the country, which is about an hour by bus from Somoto).

She died in that public school bus.

She died because a doctor (who probably does not have any medical training beyond an “internship” of a year after college) faked that she needed surgery, infected her with dirty instruments, then left her to rot away unattended without an ounce of care or compassion.

Mayerling tells us now that her family wants to sue the hospital but knows that because the hospital is government-backed, there will be no way around the bureaucracy. She reports that this doctor has been denounced by multiple former patients on both radio and television, yet continues to hold his post as the head of the hospital in Somoto. They could file the paperwork, but how will they pay for a lawyer now after they just racked up a $2,000 loan? She shakes her head in disbelief, “my grandma was here one week ago. She was fine. They killed her in that hospital and I cannot do anything about it”.

In the United States, or in any developed country for that matter, this man would be put in jail without a second thought. He would be spending years there, thinking of how he wished he had not laughed in Mayerling’s face about the oncoming death of her grandma. Instead Mayerling’s grandma lies in a shallow wooden cross-marked grave in the pined cemetery in Cusmapa and the doctor resides king of his phony hospital.

The real problem stems from the following:

In Nicaragua the current government (so-called Sandinistas who have nothing to do with the actual ideals or actions of the popular revolution in the 80’s) backed by wannabe dictator current president Daniel Ortega use all of its government offices to back movement of the Sandinista (“el Frente”) party. The doctor publicly announces his diehard Sandinista beliefs all over the same radio waves thorough which his former patients denounce him. He will never lose his job because he is untouchable. He is untouchable simply because of his claimed political beliefs, it has nothing to do with the way he runs the hospital or if he kills his patients on a regular basis.

This is the so-called-Sandinistan way of making Nicaragua a BETTER place.

Ortega does not stop at exploiting public hospital administrators for his political benefit; he also uses nurses, teachers, public school administrators, police officers, and any other person who holds public office in order to make his party appear to be supported by the masses. During the current mayoral elections (in which the Sandinistas refused to let in international organizations to monitor voting procedures- leading many to believe in widespread fraud and corruption) Ortega MANDATES that all government employees protest and march in favor of his government. If an employee is unwilling to participate in Sandinista rallies, he or she loses either a large portion of his or her paycheck OR job.

My friend Kelly, a fellow Fabretto volunteer in Managua will lose her elementary school’s director next year. Soledad is a woman who’s built the school up from the ground. Spending any amount of time at the school it becomes obvious that Soledad is a true community leader. The teachers and students at this school are dedicated, happy, and learning. Yet, Soledad is not a Sandinista. She cannot remain in a leadership position under this government if there remains the potential of her denouncing the government’s actions in any manner. She will be replaced by a Sandinista party member regardless of the fact that she is a GREAT administrator and leader, regardless of the fact that she’s given her heart and soul to this school for the past 10 years. After the elections ended here in Cusmapa, the health center “let go” its’ director and a few nurses, leaving only those who participated in Sandinista rallies here in the village throughout the campaign season. They leave the 16-year-old nurse and the quacky doctor and fire competent nurses simply because of political ideals.

To top it all off, after the Sandinistas won the elections (whether fraudulent or not, it’s been decided and they now hold 86% of the mayoral seats in the country) Ortega mandated that all of the government employees AND their families in Managua (the capital city of 2.5 million) rally in 4 of the city’s central rotundas (where the main roads meet). I passed a few of the rotundas in a taxi last Thursday and was, for the first time in my two years in Nicaragua, completely frightened for the future of this country. I witnessed people waving black and red flags in a brainwashed fervor and masked teenagers holding fire throwers and lead pipes and bricks. Apparently (according to the Nuevo Diario, Nicaragua’s only remaining news source that does not support Ortega) the government is paying ex-gang members to incite chaos and to track and terrorize journalists who oppose Ortega. People are dying and wounded every day in this conflict.

And the conflict is not being raged by the losing party “los liberales”, the party that was ravaged by corruption and falsification throughout the whole electoral process. The Sandinista party incites the chaos, backed with their motto of “united Nicaragua will triumph,” singing “what we want are jobs and peace”. In the echoes of the song of peace Ortega supporters throw bricks at civilians and shout “death to the liberals!”

I am baffled.

And at times speechless.

Especially when people inform me of things like my friend Brenda told me earlier today, that Ortega is now talking of the evils of the internet. He apparently wants to block internet access because it feeds people “false information” about his government. He will intend closing down all the television channels except Canal 4, the Sandinista propaganda channel. Ortega’s blatant hatred of foreigners (especially Americans) may become public policy, blocking many of the aid programs upon which so many Nicaraguans rely for survival. The private hospital where Kelly’s friend Aleyda works is an NGO run by a Dutch couple who are already talking about the possibility of leaving the country next year and closing the hospital.

What I do not understand is how many people in this country cannot seem to make a connection between Ortega and former long-time dictator Somoza (whose lethal 60-year rule caused the revolution in the 80’s which led to the Contra War). Ortega fits into the precise definition of a dictator (autocratic control with use of absolute and oppressive rule) and his current government becomes more and more of a dictatorship every single day (a form of government in which absolute power is concentrated in a dictator or small clique- in this case his hypnotized power crazy supporters).

How long will it take the Nicaraguan people to see beyond the billboards claiming “upwards the poor of the world” to the reality of a president who cruises the streets of Managua in a Mercedes Benz SUV flashing a V-for-victory sign as he pulls out the democratic rug from underneath this country?

These Days...

These days…

Are filled with sunshine and relaxation, of afternoon hikes through pine bedded forests, of early bedtimes, of making cookies and cakes with neighbors, spending holidays enjoying the company of my Nicaraguan families, camping in forests and canyons, getting alone-time for the first time in a year, and getting to know both the dark and gold sides of being in a true relationship.

These months…

Are filled with teaching teaching teaching, learning learning learning, of reading mounds of books in the morning sunlight under my orange tree, trips around the country with my dear friend Kate and my brother Cory, heart pounding African drum festivals, beaches and lagoons and monkeys and boating and boogie boarding and adventuring, of fa-la-la Christmas choir concerts, and beach trips with Cusmapan kiddos who’d never seen the ocean, of holding monkeys and ocelots, and watching America finally make a hopeful political choice.

I have not written much these days, I am too busy with life. I go to bed every night thinking of how quickly days pass, at times wishing I could put a halt on this hourglass when I see the grains of sand slipping away before my eyes. I am happy, relatively healthy (though I’ve had a cold for the past two months), and deeply fulfilled by the simplicity of my existence here.

An Election Plea from the World Community

I write to you from the top of a mountain in northern Nicaragua where I currently live and teach music and critical thinking. I've been here nearly two years, and have seen first-hand the effects of American foreign policy in Central America. We warred with Nicaragua in the 80's and left its' people and economy crippled. Many of my students remember the Contra War because they have older brothers or sisters who lived through it or fathers who were lost forever guerrilla fighting in the mountains. One would imagine Nicaraguans to hold bitter vengeful thoughts of Americans, but that's not the case. My students do ask me daily about the war in Iraq, and one asked me yesterday afternoon "Are we at war with Venezuela?".

My students are not ignorant. This question came from a general perception we've lived up to as far as the rest of the world is concerned. We are a warring people; we meddle in the lives of others without permission. I know this to be far from true, but how can I claim it isn't so when a Spanish friend asks "How the f$*% did you elect Bush a SECOND time?! Wasn't he bad enough the first time?!" and I shake my head. It frustrates me how much our country, my country, embarrasses me. I can no longer watch Bush’s puppet act (no TV news… no loss) but imagine our wide global community having a shared laugh or two over the imbecile we’ve chosen to rule our empire for the last eight years.

When I first found out who the contenders are for the current election I laughed contentedly and thought to myself "no contest!". Now, as the time grows nearer, I am not so sure. I feel a growing wariness about the way things are shaping up, probably due to the dread I feel thinking about Bush's round one and two in office. The idea of his legacy being carried further and further into the future is almost too much to handle.

I simply cannot believe that there are people, intelligent people, who do not see through the dog and pony act of McCain and Palin. Are women who supported Hillary Clinton (a brilliant, moderate, eloquent, experienced politico) ACTUALLY considering giving their democratic vote to Palin (the rifle-bearing, book banning, radically Christian, politically inexperienced hockey mom) because we “feel she understands us”? Where do we get the remotest idea that this woman represents the American woman? Everything I’ve read about Palin consistently leads me to the conclusion that she’s being used as a pawn, a pretty one at that, to sway the evangelical and female voters of our country.

I'm not sure how to say this, because I want to scream it to the world:
"WE NEED CHANGE!!!!!"

If there's one person who can sit down and look at the facts of the last eight years without thinking, "our country has really gone down the drain", I urge that person to send a rebuttal with points covering: defense spending, health care, education, the economy, and general well-being of the American people.

For the sake of our world community, let’s open our eyes. What do we want out of our lives? Do we want to be forever behind walls, dominated by fear of the “other” attacking our “way of life”? There are ways to live beyond fear. Empathy, diplomacy, moderate policies based on fact rather than speculation, and true leadership will lead us to this place. Sticking to our rusting guns will not.

A plea from your fellow world citizens:

VOTE OBAMA!!

I’m traveling 16 hours round-trip to the Nicaraguan/American embassy and spending 20% of my monthly volunteer stipend to do it. You can too.

Coloring Between the Lines: A Raging Commentary on the Nicaraguan Education System

Education in the “developing world” frustrates beyond belief.

Imagine sending a child to public school only half-day to a school that does not have an outhouse, or books, or a science lab, or encouragement towards your child’s creative capabilities. Picture the disadvantages to women in this education system in which boys are constantly encouraged to be participative leaders and women are kept humble and quiet (*side-note: just like the Virgin Mary).

In Nicaragua, the government cannot (or chooses not, either way you look at it) afford for children to attend school full-time. Therefore, kids here go to school in shifts. Grades 1-3 and 7-8 have class from 7:30 AM till 12 PM and grades 4-6 and 9-11 attend school from 1 PM until 5:30 PM. This means that a child receiving an education here gets less than half of the class-time as a child going to public school in the United States. Beyond that, teachers are given a 10-12 page guide outlining their teaching themes for the ENTIRE school year and then thrown to the wolves (and by wolves I mean teenagers). This outline (I have personally only seen the guide for the teacher of 10^th and 11^th grade history) has suggestions like this:

Week 1 Lesson Plan:

1) World War I

a. Causes

b. Effects

c. Long-term consequences

Anyone who has ever taught or thought about teaching can look at this outline and see a major fault in the fact that, if given to a teacher in a place in which doing research is nearly impossible… the teacher is likely to use one or two sources and make up the rest, missing many important facts, or brush over the whole theme with a few sentences like “yes the Holocaust was important because a lot of people died and Hitler is now in Hell”.

Case in point: when Lauren and I taught about Hitler and Gandhi in a leadership section of our Critical Thinking class, I’d estimate that 80% of our students had never heard of EITHER of them. GHANDI. HITLER. These are high schoolers we are talking about. We’re currently working on simple math word problems and I am consistently shocked to find that many kids who will graduate high school within the next two years do not know how to do SIMPLE math (addition/subtraction/multiplication/division). The logical reasoning simply does not exist.

I will tell you why.

Picture learning everything you’ve ever been taught in school through the following method:

1) Teacher uses meager outline to create lesson plan.

2) Students do not have a book, and are lucky to have a guide for the class.

3) Teacher writes his/her ideas and notes on the board.

4) Student copies these ideas and notes.

5) Student studies these ideas and notes.

6) Student regurgitates these ideas and notes for a test/quiz.

And what happens next…

7) Student entirely forgets what they’ve learned.

8) Student does not learn to formulate their own ideas, to come to conclusions based on what they’ve learned or read… their ideas are the teacher’s ideas and their conclusions are the teacher’s conclusions.

Can you imagine graduating from high school with the type of semi-illiteracy that leaves you unable to spell simple words? I’ve seen teachers here write in Spanish substituting “b” for “v” and leaving the “h” and “s” off of multiple words. Some of these teachers graduated from COLLEGE and can still not spell. It’s culturally considered so unimportant that I often see students spell their name differently every single time they write it (that may or may not be due to the fact that the name which appears on their birth certificate is not spelled correctly either).

Here’s where the lack of creativity comes in. Children are encouraged to be “just like” all the other students – no skies painted green here. Rather than art class, they are given cartoon Bugs Bunny or Winnie the Pooh drawings and told to color between the lines. When Lauren tried to create a giant paper mache fish last year and let the kids paint it, the project turned quickly into the teachers painting one side and students painting the other- one of the teachers commenting “let’s see who does it better” then not allowing a student to paint on the “teacher” side. I may be wrong, but isn’t the whole point of education ‘trial-and-error’?! If kids are never allowed to formulate their own thoughts, images, or beliefs about the world… they will stay silent and stagnant forever.

More than that, this school in reality only functions three or possibly four days per week because at least once per week there exists a holiday (and therefore days off for teachers) such as:

Day of the Starving yet Un-Spayed Dog who Bites Neighbors but Who Cares Because He has his Rabies Vaccination

Day of the Construction Worker who only Works Drunk on Sundays Beginning at 8 PM

Day of the Cheesy Argentinean Soap Opera Watched by 5 out of 6 Million Nicaraguans Country-Wide Regardless of Age

Day of Loud Reggaeton Played at 6 AM by Neighbors Every Day of the Year

Day of Machismo (aka: Men Rule the World Since the Beginning of Time and Forevermore Day)

Obviously these holidays do not TRULY exist, but you get the idea. Although the official embassy website only posts 11 national holidays per year, I tell you without exaggeration that the NATION of SAN JOSE DE CUSMAPA celebrates more than 70 holidays per year. That’s about 20% of all existing days. If the holiday happens to fall on a weekend, we would never dream of celebrating it on a weekend, we celebrate it either the Friday or Monday that falls closest to the day of fiesta-ing. Therefore every 1/5 school days which could potentially aid children towards their future development is wasted as a “dia feriada” (free day!!).

And, last but not least, the most infuriating thing about Nicaraguan education is…

Drum roll please….

Machismo.

Yes, the macho culture here spills into all corners of society, leaving no teenage girl un-turned. Last month I had a look at our enrollment here at Fabretto and the difference between the amount of girls in 7^th and 8^th grade and the amount of girls in 9^th thru 11^th grade disturbed me greatly. Younger girls and boys post nearly equal enrollment numbers, but after 8^th grade something… though I know not what… happens at this age which causes girls to drop out of school like flies. Maybe it has something to do with the following examples:

1) Cece’s first day in English class, the teacher calls her up to the board and asks her to read a paragraph out loud while the boys in the class (seated on the same side of the room) repeat her after every sentence. The girls in the class are entirely excluded from this activity.

2) Our friend Mayerling’s experience with evangelical parents who pulled her out of school after 9^th grade because they were “convinced that if she stayed in high school she would get pregnant” (yes, that’s very logical). Mayerling wanted to return to school so badly that at age 14 she saved up her own money, working her way until she had enough to buy a school uniform and notebooks to return to school. Her mother, though supportive of Mayerling, never said a WORD to her father about the situation. Now Mayerling, at age 23, still has not finished high school and is stuck living with her crazy conservative parents in a household in which she’s not allowed to wear pants, earrings, has to go to church every night against her will, cannot go to parties or dances, and cannot have male visitors, even if they are just friends.

I think it’s perfectly possible for children to learn a wealth of knowledge about the world without access to books, a science lab, and even outhouses. I even think children can learn a lot in just five hours per day of class, with a teacher who cannot spell (when it comes down to it, that’s not THE most important thing). But a culture and country (government and catholic/evangelical supported) in which half of the population is STIFLED to the point of silence and un-education will never succeed.

And I will never respect a teacher who does not encourage children to color the sky whatever color they darn well choose to.

How do I feel nostalgic and heartsick for a place I haven't left yet?

When children's voices lifted in quiet song on a windy Sunday afternoon choke tears in my throat, and swarms of dragonflies floating through branches in my orange tree leave me longing and breathless?

Mid-afternoon sun-filtered through holes in a tiled roof, in the arms of someone I'm slowly tearing myself away from yet constantly pulled toward lances through me leaving profound holes in my heart.

A pink-dressed student rushes towards me for a twirling hug shrieking "mi Callie!", her smile writes arpeggios filled with graceful treble notes.

How can I remain open to life here while braced for heartbroken goodbyes?

Low Tide

Take a moment to think of all the times throughout your day you turn the faucet and are guaranteed clean fresh water. Water availability does not concern the blessed of humanity living in developed countries. On the other hand, in struggling countries such as Nicaragua, water constantly trickles across the thin line between life and death.

Facundo, who takes care of our house (yes, we have a “security guard” in a town of 1,500) lives in the small nearby community of el Imirez. At age 40 Facundo’s grin rings toothless and his two-room house shelters 12 people (four adults, eight children). His youngest, Larry, made the hour-hike-three-hour-bus ride to Somoto to the nearest hospital twice last year due to stomach parasites you and I in America will never worry about. The issue goes beyond lack of early childhood nutrition (which certainly exists in places like Imirez where people subsist on ground corn tortillas and rice donated by USAID projects) to much deeper and more serious issues. Lack of preventative health care and the non-existence of clean drinking water lead children like Larry down a malnourished road where survival, simple survival, matters most.

For Christmas last year, Lauren and I bought Facundo’s family a $14 water filter from a Nicaraguan run Potters for Peace business. The filter, sized to hold about four gallons of water in a clay barrel, will last their family for more than five years. Facundo’s family can now collect water from the community well and run it through the filter, secure that parasites will not seep through the filter’s silver alloy shell. He tells Lauren and I with a wide smile that the family’s water filter is the pride of their small village, that neighbors come by for a glass of clean water or just to marvel at the “miracle machine”. While this type of solution works short-term, it does not solve the long-term issue at hand.

Luckily Facundo’s family lives in a community with a well. Others are not so fortunate. In Aguas Calientes (where Osvaldo’s grandmother lives), about 3 hours further down the mountain, habitants must carry their family’s water supply in plastic barrels from the local river. More than backbreaking work, my heart breaks each time I see a small barefoot child weighed down lugging a fifty-pound container of water back to her family’s one-room adobe home, instead of playing or attending kindergarten… knowing full well that the water may make her family sick.

In Cusmapa, water’s non-availability writes an entirely different story. The majority of households here own a 5-foot-wide by 4-foot-deep “pila” or cement storage tank for water. The city gives water once per week; it trickles through rusty faucets to fill these meager holding containers. If the week’s water supply runs dry, the house’s inhabitants must survive without water until further notice. The pila’s faucet provides the house’s only plumbing. Families use pila water for bathing, washing dishes, washing clothes, washing the floor, drinking, and cooking. Though I’ve heard rumor that water received from the town of Cusmapa is technically filtered and safe for drinking, it comes from the closest river at the bottom of the mountain. I’ve splashed around in that river and consciously not dunked my head. Yet thousands of people in the area DRINK water pumped directly up the mountain from that river. Not for want, but for absolute necessity.

I began writing this with a nag in the back of my mind, whining about our own house’s lack of water for the past 18 days (though Cece and I have only been back in Cusmapa for 10 days)… but thinking about it more thoroughly I realize that at no point during this time have we been TRULY without water. We have access to drinking water, water for the dump-flush method of toilet flushing, and water for cleaning dishes. It’s a minor inconvenience to someone like me, who lives in Nicaragua with the support and resources provided by a larger organization. I do not fend for myself here by any means. I am not forced to send my 11-year-old sister out every morning at dawn to stagger up the mountain loaded down with barrels of river water.

Every day I live here I learn more about conservation and the importance of not taking what we consider to be basic life essentials for granted.

Next time you brush your teeth, gulp down a glass of cold tap water without a thought of the repercussions, flush a toilet, or take a hot shower, think of the action on a deeper level. Consider how blessed you are to live in a place with access to these resources, do not take them for granted. Take what actions you can to ensure that others do not live to survive, rather live to thrive.

Airports

I sit with Doña Helena and her cheery 5-year-old daughter from Managua to Atlanta. Helena, a native Nicaraguan tells me of her 20 years of life as an immigrant in Tennessee and her Mexican husband who works construction. She’s stressed about his current lack of work, and speaks of the US economy in its downward spiral towards crisis. Helena explains the division between Hispanics and whites in her town, choosing her words carefully. Her daughter, a native US citizen, only speaks a few words of English. The bubbly little one informs me that she can fly airplanes, and gives me a sly corner-of-the-mouth grin as she points to groups of people in the advertisements of Sky Magazine. “These aren’t my friends” she states, referring to an ad of white bikini-clad models sitting on a floating dock. I'd venture that "irony" is not on her short list of English vocabulary words.

Focused in tunnel vision in a brisk clip along a moving walkway, travelers move in herds through the Atlanta airport. I walk for twenty minutes, sauntering down the corridor and they pass me like water over a boulder. I don’t make eye contact with a single person. The sterile fluorescent lit air feels fabricated and stifling. A stars-and-stripes banner welcomes me to the glory of the United States of America and I am shooed through customs without a second glance.

My second flight finds me with Ron, a 50-some-year-old electrical engineer who talks of the six years he spent during his twenties teaching English in Thailand, Taiwan, China, and Japan. He believes in the importance of young people getting out in the world and the understanding of other cultures. I am warmed by his encouragement.

Everyone here whines about gas prices and debates continuously about the upcoming election.

I want a turkey sandwich but can’t stomach paying $7 for a few slabs of bread.

I will see my mom and Cece in four hours!!

Los Chunches: The Debut

Hannah wrote a fantastic blog highlighting the glorious events of a recent weekend we spent in Esteli. Read it if you are interested in the following: the debut of our Nicaraguan jam band, or drinking beer in grocery stores.
Here's the link:
http://www.thetulipsshouldbebehindbars.blogspot.com/

Enjoy!

Want Ad

Wanted:
Music Teacher for 123 Adorable Nicaraguan Children.

Requirements:
Kind (though some general teacher sternness pays off)
Flexible (of body-yoga, mind-learning el Espanol, and spirit)
Fairly Musically Apt (ie: ability to sing or play an instrument)
Conneseur of Rice and Beans
A Lover of Travel and Unexpected Adventures
Willing to Travel by Chicken Bus
A Navigator of Torrential Rainstorms and Puddles
Patient, Patient, Patient
Good at Playing Doctor to Little Kid Cuts and Scrapes
Willing to Reason with Teenagers
Able to Laugh in the Face of Very Frustrating Situations
Ignorer of Men on the Street Making Romantic Comments
Accepting of Hair Gel, Bare Feet, and Soy Products
Able to Entertain Self throughout Lengthy Periods of Power Outages

Ability to Move Hips in Latin Dance Style a Plus.

Other Pluses:
Not Concerned about Filthy Feet or Showering Every Day
Acceptance of Large Beetles
Craving of Rum and Cheap Pilsner by the Liter Bottle
Enjoyment of Cheesy Late 80's and Early 90's Music (ie: Bryan Adams and Michael Bolton)
Willingness to Sleep Inside a Mosquito Net
Ability to Haggle with Taxistas

Currently accepting new Music Director in San Jose de Cusmapa, Nicaragua.
Please respond ASAP.
Your new roommate will be a crafty artist and excellent chef.
Adventures shall abound!

Now who has the cojones to respond to this Want Ad?
I figure better posting it here than in a Penny Saver.

Arriba las Mujeres del Mundo!

Tonight we shall celebrate the free women of the world.

After a talk with Xiomara about the injustice suffered by our single female co-workers in the organizing and executing of school celebrations for Mothers/Fathers/Children's days, we decided to take matters in to our own hands.

Esteemed guests include:
Lauren, myself, Kate, Mike (our token male of the group, who will most likely be forced to wear my feather boa and possibly a fake mustache), Mayerling (the most bodacious and vivacious of our Nica female friends), Brenda (who is married, but at age 25 still doesn't have kids, which qualifies her as a free woman), and Xiomara (who's about as free as they get, and strikingly resembles an Egyptian princess).

We celebrate women our age who, especially in a country like Nicaragua, defy all norms.
Women whose power and strength streams from every pore.
Women who I admire deeply for their independence and perseverance.
Women who are just plain awesome.

After a week of torrential rains (a lightning bolt hit so close to our house on Wednesday that it blew a fuse in our living room light) the time has come to "disfrutar" the weekend.

More (and pictures, to be sure) to come Lunes.

Dreams

I am SO excited for my July visit to Montana...
but can tell I am subconsciously nervous about things
because I keep having dreams about
Jeb
and
George JR.
of the Bush family.

Frightening thought, right?

In brighter news I am also dreaming of lattice-topped apple pie.

Gramma and Ozzy!

Osvaldo's Gramma!

Osvaldo and I rode horseback eight hours last weekend to meet his nearly 100-year-old grandma, who lives in a tiny community called Aguas Calientes (hot waters).

We leave at 5:30 AM after my queasy attempt at drinking a cup of coffee, packing the horses, and strapping on spurs (as he puts them on, I think “holy god, I am insane… what the hell am I doing right now?). I nearly launch myself off the horse 25 times in the first ten minutes, feet slipping out of the holster trying to trot along to keep up with my (apparent, who knew?) cowboy boyfriend. I slowly gain confidence as my body found the horse’s rhythm, and our gaits begin to match rather than jolt. One of Camello (my horse- a donkey/horse cross named: Camel)’s llantas (horseshoes) falls off within the first hour, so we made our one stop on the way there to pry off and pound back on the broken piece. Camel could not be a more perfect name for this donkey/horse- he’s good natured, but lazy as all get out (Oz calls him a crybaby). Every time I stop paying attention for more than 20 seconds he stops dead in his tracks and takes a good kick to the side to keep trucking down the road.

I have no idea distance-wise of how far Aguas Calientes is from Cusmapa, but it’s a good amount further than Angel 3 (maybe even twice as far, it’s apparently 5 ½ hours walking just to get there, and took us 4 on a horse). The road up to El Cariso (a small community we pass through about 2 ½ hours into the trip) is by and far passable by truck, but the last 1 ½ hours was pretty much down a boulder-laden creek bed. Along the road, we go by three large groups of people working on bettering the road, children and adults and ancianos (old folks) of all ages, in all sorts of garb, hacking away with shovels and sticks and whatever other tool available in order to try to make their community accessible (I would imagine) to ambulances and food supplies (which Fabretto sends out weekly). My horse trips more than a few times, and as I peer over some steep drop-offs I realize that all standing between me and a freefall down the mountainside was: Camel, some burning fields, and a thin strand of barbed wire. Miraculously enough an AMBULANCE (a 4 x 4 type) rambled past us as we descended from El Cariso. I cannot begin to speculate on how long it takes an ambulance to get to Aguas Calientes and back out again, the amount of jolting endured during the trip, or even how long it takes to answer an emergency call there…

In reality, the trip does not take as long as I had initially imagined (by the reactions of my friends here- whose doubts as to my physical ability to make the round-trip up and down the mountain in one day caused me a bit of pre-trip anxiety). The morning ride through lifting fog and birds greeting the day leaves both Osvaldo and I silent and pensive. We sight many birds- one called the Guardabarranco, which is the national bird of Nicaragua, has translucent sea foam feathers and a forked tail nearly two feet long which ends with circular shaped feathers. It’s the most beautiful bird I have ever seen. It’s planting time in the rural farming land here, meaning that slash and burn practices are in full effect, filling the valley with a layer of smoky haze. This does not stop the birds’ song from greeting the new day.

Upon arrival, Osvaldo’s gramma is bathing herself in an open air bucket shower, without regard or worry of the presence of any other person. Though small and ancient, she moves with determination and quiet assuredness that the world is good. She walks out of the bathing area in a white slip, using a cane to help her see, and stops in front of my (giant) shadow to simply ask me if I was “paseando” (just “passing by”) before going inside to change. I talk to one of the uncles about the farming life, about his kids’ education and how much Fabretto gives to the people in his community. He is a small man (much smaller than Osvaldo, who’s about 2 inches shorter than I am), thinly mustached (as most of the men in Nicaragua who attempt facial hair are), and his sandal-adorned feet are callused with years of farm work and rock-strewn mountain paths. His bright-eyed enthusiasm nears the point of ecstatic when talking about his son, Jader, who started high school this year and the new opportunities Jader has for learning (with Fabretto’s rural outreach high school program, SAT).

Osvaldo summons me inside and I enter his gramma’s room in the back of the house, which holds a low cot, a single open-air window, and a small wooden chair. She holds a wide-toothed comb in one hand, and wears her best bright pink floral print ‘70’s style polyester dress. I kneel in front of her cataract-clouded eyes and she envelops my hands with hers, crooning a “mucho gusto” (nice to meet you). When she asks me where I come from and I answer “Los Estados Unidos” (US), her face lights up delightedly and she exclaims “OY! Es MUUUY lejos!” (Oh! That’s VERY far!) then giggles for the next few minutes about the prospect of somebody traveling THAT far just to meet her.

I sit alone with her and we chat for a good 40 minutes, through many stories of the history of the Muñoz family, Osvaldo’s father’s 8 brothers and sisters, where she’s lived and traveled (never farther than Managua), about moving the family from the house there in Aguas Calientes to Cusmapa during the war in the ‘80’s because there was too much fighting on the frontera (the Honduran/Nicaraguan border is very close) and they were forced to leave the house empty, abandoned to the armed forces. We have a long conversation about how she’s progressively become more and more blind. At the beginning, she’d gone with her son to a doctor in hopes of fixing her vision, but found that he could not do anything to help. She tells me that losing her ability to see is the worst thing she could possibly imagine, as a 3-year-old grandson snuggles up on her lap, she runs her fingers across his hair and looks into his face, smiling, as if she can see his every molecule. She looks at me so intently at times that I forget about her blindness.

She’s had a few surgeries in the past decade which have kept her alive, but now has decided to stay in her little corner of the world, no matter what may come. Her favorite thing in the world, now that she’s decided to stay put, she muses, is “sitting outside to feel the breeze in my old bones”. In short, she is beautiful. She reminds me of Osvaldo in her easy-going, calm, patient, careful, direct, sincere manner. Her eyes glitter with the bliss and ache of nearly a century of life. I carefully eat every word she utters with a golden spoon and sip the details of every wrinkle and gesture and toothless smile like an elixir of blessings.

Osvaldo and I want to swim in the famed “Rio Negro” (Black River) so we take his nephews, Jader and Walder, down a path to splash around in a few pools amidst many a boulder. It’s a miracle that there’s water there at the tail end of dry season. We enjoy an incredible (though hazy) view of Cusmapa in the background. I watch Osvaldo play with his nephews, his smile wide and his eyes kind and playful. He leaves me to nap on a huge boulder while he bathes the horses, the warm rock soothes my muscles and the sun spins me into a lucid dream state where I imagine of the great elations and tribulations of living this close to the earth and so far from the running madness of the outer world.

Back up the hill to gramma’s house we meet another uncle and more cousins, and are served a duck and yucca soup (!) with lime and fresh tortillas to ready us for the trip back. Gramma tells me that she hopes I come back to visit, and as she and Osvaldo say goodbye, she cries silent tears and waves a time-warped hand, sending us off with a quiet “buen viaje” (good trip).

The first part of the trip back (up to El Cariso) was HOT and a bit miserable (I also think poor Camello nearly has five heart attacks) but after the road levels out and the clouds returned we trot along without worry or hurry. We hold hands and hum to each other and talk about all sorts of things (mainly the magnificence and luck of our small happiness together). We stop at a small stream to stretch then watch the sun set as we ascend the final mountain from El Angel to Cusmapa.

This is my perfect day.

I think I'm turning Chineeese I really think so...

Some funny tidbits of the last few weeks- identity-wise:

In a bus from Somoto to Cusmapa I set next to a 50-year-old-ish man who opened his eyes to ask me:

“You live in Cusmapa, right?”

to which I answered:

“Yes.” He then continued to inquire about my identity:

“And you are Chinese?”

I nearly spit out a gulp of water on his face, and incredulously replied:

“Um. No. I am from America. I am american.”

He pondered on that for a moment before stating with great conviction:

“Ahhhh. But whenever you walk by my house, I say to the children… ‘There goes the Chinese lady.’”

At this point I (as I do a lot here) looked around the bus to see if anyone else was paying attention… really, was this guy TELLING me that I am Chinese? Really?

Of course nobody else was there to share in my shock and awe at the situation.

I turned back to my fellow Cusmapanian and said, voice wavering with laughter:

“My family is from Ireland and Germany, not from China. I am american.”

And he nodded his head in agreement, before responding:

“Yes, but your ancestors are from China.”

Now that I cannot argue.

Lesson one of my identity, thanks to a Cusmapan who probably looks at my round smiley face and assumes I am from an entirely different planet.

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One of Lauren and my students, Rimen, has an incredible attitude.

He came to chat with me one day (after missing his piano lesson, then getting angry at ME for not being able to teach him on his own time). Lauren was out of the country visiting her family. He asked,

“Is it true that Lauren is older than you?”

I replied, “Yes, she’s about a year older than I am.”

He looked mighty confused.

“But if she’s older, than why are you fatter?”

(Thanks?)

Ah, yes, Rimen… you are the reason I teach critical thinking.

A + B does not ALWAYS = C.

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One afternoon I was chatting with a few of my little chiguines (of about 7-years-old) and they were asking all sorts of questions about my family:

They: “Is it true that your dad is dead?”

Me: “Um. No. My dad is alive.”

They: “Oh. Then what’s his name?”

Me: “Daniel”

They: “Your DAD is DANIEL ORTEGA?” (the president of Nicaragua).

Me: (laughing hysterically) “Yes, of course, my dad is Daniel Ortega.”

They: (mouths open wide in shock)

Me: Broma! Broma! (I am JOKING!)

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Things I have learned about myself this month:

Older people are fatter than younger people.

My father is the president of a Central American country.

I am Chinese.

Stay tuned to find out what the Nicaraguan people teach me next month about my identity.

Reflexiones on Being Profe. Callie

Sometimes the flavor of frustration

coppery and quick to strike, pumps

through every nerve ending with venomous intent

a spasm of anger recoils my smile

to pursed lips screaming for an undisturbed

moment of breath.

Like a toddler who can taste feelings

before knowing how to categorize them;

I am thrown for loops by teenage laughter

snide ironic comments that can only be

bent by the hasty mouths of 16-year-olds.

There are a finite number of times I can utter a stern

“silencio”

before I feel my head expanding and contracting

with intended patience

mauled into a clenched jaw

and disappearing smile wrinkles…

My sparkle funneled, a channel of molten negativity

I sense my energy in these moments

suckling parasites, thriving in darkness

hatching plans for how to breed

battling for power over my well-being.

Other times

I taste pure golden sunshine

and gulp the mischievous spark of youth

like it still belongs to me

and I want to congratulate

these little bastards

for challenging me to my wits end

I see the battle waged

between teacher and student

as a parody, a commentary of irony

my karmic fate.

Inner smiles and sly winks abound

and joy radiates from my grounded core

energy flows freely in these moments

when a single word or note gives me goose bumps

and smiles make my soul fly.

Pensamiento Critico

I'd like to share the following reflexion I just received in the notebook of one of my "critical thinking" students, Elvia, in response to the following question:

Que significa medioambiente? Cuales son las cosas y lugares mas importantes en la vida y porque? (What does "medioambiente" (translated as nature and culture mixed) mean? What are the things and places that are most important in life and why?)

Medioambiente para mi es el medio donde todos podemos recrearnos. Es un lugar donde
(medioambiente for me is the medium where we can do recreation. It's a place where

sentimos un ambiente de paz, de tranquilidad, donde podemos reflexionar y concentrarnos sin
we feel an air of peace, tranquility, where we can reflect and concentrate without

que nadia nos moleste. Es el lugar donde mas sentimos seguros, es algo natural, es toda la
anyone bothering us. It's the place where we feel the most safe, it's something ntaural, it's all the

naturaleza que nos tenemos. Es algo que no podemos fabricar con nuestras manos pero si
nature that we have. It's something that we cannot make with our hands, but yes

podemos cuidar y proteger podemos ayudar aunmentarlo.
we can take care of and protect and help to make it better.

Las cosas y lugares mas importantes en mi vida es todo lo natural, es lo puro y todos los lugares
the things and places that are most important in my life is everything natural, pure, and all places

que ayudan a la gente y no destruyen a las personas.
which help people and don't destroy people.

Pretty profound for a 15-year-old, huh?
My students constantly blow me away and give me goosebumps and proud teacher teary eyes.

April Showers Bring.... Jules and Justin!

I am ECSTATIC.

My cousin Julie, one of my biggest supporters throughout the last 15 months I have spent here in Nica, arrives on FRIDAY with the ever so marvelous Justin :) They're coming almost exclusively to see what life's like here in Cusmapa, to meet my friends and family and students here, to know my loved ones and to bear witness to the hardship and joys people in my pueblo live every day. I am so blessed to have these two in my life, and cannot wait to watch the sunset and drink tea and manifesto and learn and love and live with them until May!

I had an incredible journey through Costa Rica for nearly two weeks with Kayla, Marcy, Jessica, and Harley (all Missoula buddies of mine)- we frolicked the beaches on the Pacific side and the rainforests in the Carribean. Activities included- beach tours by microbus (aka: party-bus), boogie boarding at sundown, watching baby sloths clamber in branches right at head-level, hooting and howling at monkeys at sunrise, ribbiting at tree frogs, marveling at flowers of all shapes sizes and colors, pirating a snorkel trip (poor other tourists didn't know what was coming), reggae sing-alongs with taxi drivers, blowing fireballs, meeting a wide array of some of the craziest and kindest people I've ever met traveling (Manfred the Austrian scuba diver/dead fish collector/short-shorts wearing drunkard being the main event), looooong busrides over mountain passes through driving rainstorms at night, watching smoke rise from the mouth of an active volcano, lots of Flor de Caña (Nicaragua's specialty rum), bike rides through the rainforest interrupted by pizza and beer pit-stops along the way, galloping down the beach on my misbehaved horse, Rubio, eating LOBSTERS, salsa dancing with waiters, hanging with the rhastas... the memories go on and on and on. Needless to say I am suddenly afflicted with both a dire need to get the heck out of dodge and see more of the world and it's many marvels yet with one side of my heart stuck here in a place where one word from one student or one "Adioooos Pues" from a teetering old man on the street makes my heart melt.

Life continues to overflow with such goodness, that I am often left breathless.

ARRRRR Matey!

So... after a two-week beginning of the school year in which I fell into bed every night "deader than a doornail" (as my mom would put it) I am taking an already-needed vacation.

The kids have tests in the public school, so no class here at the oratorio... and I refuse to sit around for two weeks and do nothing. Therefore, I will frolick the beaches of Costa Rica with Kayla, Harley, and Marcy (three zoo-town folks) and enjoy nearly two FULL weeks of sunshine and giddiness!

Schooooool's.... out... for... the rest of March!
I'll try to update y'all on what the school year looks like, my classes and the awesome women's knitting and tea group Lauren and I have started in the house... but for now, I leave that behind as I set sail for the playa.

Adioooooos, Pues.

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.