magda and i have been collecting all the documents the kiddos need to get their passports and visas throughout the past month or so (ever since we found out that the DC trip was actually happening). this whole process definitely has made me realize how lucky i am to have been born in the US because for us to travel ANYWHERE in the world really doesn't take more than a passport... here to GET a passport itself costs about $100 US (of course the kids can't afford this, fabretto is paying for that) and beyond a passport, to go anywhere outside of the country you need to apply for a travelers visa. just to have an APPOINTMENT with the american embassy in managua costs $100. put those two costs together with the amount of traveling, paperwork, etc. and it basically costs an average family's YEARLY INCOME to get a passport and a visa to go to the US (not even including the actual travel to the US itself). ridiculous, meaning that i'd guess about 3% of the people here get to travel outside the country in their lives.
at first i'd been under the impresson that if we were able to collect these papers (original documents, birth certificates of both parents and kids which becomes a bit difficult when some parents were born about 10 hours away by bus and there's no such thing as a telephone signal or fed-ex here) we'd be well on our way to reciving passports. i found out that we needed to deal with a lawyer... and it's all been downhill since then. apparently these kids need a "special letter" in order to get their passports in the first place, even though one of each kids' parents will be accompanying us to the migracion office. this wouldn't be such a big deal but 1) fabretto's lawyer is located in MANAGUA and 2) for whatever reason a LOT of the kids were blessed with ENTIRELY different names than both of their parents... meaning the lawyer needs MONTHS to fix the problems on their birth certificates (though for some reason she's able to fix some of them in a few days... something which i do not understand in the least). so i brought all the paperwork we've collected thus far to managua last friday in hopes of meeting with the lawyer and getting stuff sorted out... hoping to return to cusmapa on sunday. HA!!!! what a ridiculous hope that was. i ended up finding out that 6 of the 20 kids that didn't have passports just simply COULDN'T go on the trip.... that there was nothing i could do, if only i had a freaking TYPEWRITER and could fix the type-o's on their birth certificates, those one or two mistaken letters that are ruining this opportunity. i also found out that for about 4 of the kids who had problems, the lawyer could fix things... but needed me to return to cusmapa, go to the civil registration office, fix the birth certificates, and bring them back to managua. something i am both willing and capable of doing. i finally ended up getting back to cusmapa WEDNESDAY after a lot of waiting around, worrying...
thursday i spent all day in the civil registration office. walking into this 10 X 15 foot room the first thing i noticed were the 3 bookshelves on the wall which appeared to hold ALL the important documents in Cusmapa's history. dated, numbered, PAPER information... though Lenin (the assistant) had a computer to use... everything else was CATALOGUED. of COURSE Panchita (the mom of one of the girls who's going on the trip, and the ONLY person in Cusmapa who's capable of finding things in that mountainous mound of paperwork) was conveniently in Managua for the week. Lenin and I had to find 60-some documents, the first 15 or so of which he looked up and just shrugged his shoulders like "OH WELL" when he couldn't find them, and told me they must have been "repositioned" (whatever the heck that's supposed to mean). about 40 documents into the search i was beginning to get really frustrated because we were NOT having any kind of luck, and it was rapidly approaching 5 PM. at that very moment of exasperation the POWER WENT OUT. one of those moments where tears jumped to my eyes but i found myself laughing anyways. he couldn't type out any of the documents without his computer, so we ended up looking up the rest of the documents and marking them in the books with pieces of paper so that we could find them the next day. Lenin also informed me at this point that he couldn't do the new birth certificates, that i'd have to wait for Panchita to get back (NEXT monday or tuesday) for her to help me. i walked back to the school to try to find magda, and we looked through our collection of parent identification cards to find those she needed to take to Las Savannas the next day to track down their birth certificates, but it kept getting darker and darker and we were left with no ability to see names on the cards. just then, a huge clap of thunder and it started a DOWNPOUR of rain. at this point, there were no tears... more just laughter as i NEEDED to bring my computer home to work on organizing our info for a parent meeting the next day. so i stuck my backpack in a plastic bag and said a quick prayer of "why am i stupidly bringing out this electronic equipment into a nicaraguan rainstorm?!" and decided to take my chances. luckily the rain let up after a few minutes, so my computer was just fine.
i got back to my house to find that there were about 15 people staying the night, and since we hadn't had water the whole week things were in a disasterous state of filth. dishes everywhere, people everywhere. my friend arturo watched me make a peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich and told me i looked "worried" then said, "we have NO LIGHT and i've heard it's not coming back until Sunday!" in a jolly tone and i just shook my head. I NEED LIGHT. the boys were all jovially eating dinner and sharing beers, but i just wasn't in the mood. so i locked myself up in my room and started writing a letter by candlelight to one of my buddies, trying to calm my worries down a bit and to let go of things that i was so OBVIOUSLY unable to control. about half-way into my letter the lights flickered and CAME BACK ON! i was giddy happy, and ran into the living room parading around and whooping, which the guys got a huge laugh out of.
friday i spent the morning searching through more books, and unable to find at least 15 out of the 60 documents we need for the kids visas, i returned to school to plan our parent meeting. i got there and wasn't expecting to see magda but apparently she'd gone all the way to Las Sabannas only to find that the woman who did the registration papers there was WORKING IN SOMOTO till monday. typical.
i spent a few hours putting together some info on the documents we still needed, and sorting out why the 6 kids who couldn't go so i could talk to their parents, then jorje and i hiked up to the public school to find the director to ask if our permission for the kids to miss school had been approved. SOMETHING FINALLY WENT OUR WAY! the director was there, and very kind, and wanted me to know that not only was it OK for the kids to be missing school, but he thought it was a wonderful opportunity for them, and wanted me to tell the kids that their tests would be rescheduled to before our trip so they didn't have to worry about anything while they were gone. the parent meeting was supposed to start at 3 PM, and at 3:15 there were approximately 3 parents there, so I waited for another few to show up, and since magda wasn't there I just started right in. i'm pretty sure there were a lot of blank faces in the crowd and many of them didn't seem to understand what i was talking about (i don't blame them! i barely understood myself!). after the meeting (which most of the parents ended up showing up to at about 3:45) i had each of them come talk to me about the paperwork their kid still needed, and how we could go about getting it. some of the parents just told me flat out that it would be "impossible" to get their original birth certificates, and i told them that if this was the case their kid could not go on the trip. what a predicament. there were also a handful of the choir kids there who came to talk to me about problems with their papers and i hated not being able to really explain to them why they couldn't go, why some kids' problems were getting fixed and theirs weren't. a few of them seemed really bummed out, and others reacted with a "i didn't want to go anyway" type of attitude. i felt devistated, really sad, and helpless- i wish there was something i could do. i kept telling them that i wished i was a lawyer so i could do something more about it, but that i couldn't. two of my favorite girls in the choir, belen and aleyda came and talked to me individually and it ended with them having to leave because we could both sense that the other was about to burst into tears. it was awful. especially because aleyda's one of the cousins of the family i hang out with all the time, and her brother died last year- and he'd been in the choir and had gone to the states in 2004 when they travelled to chicago and colorado... YUK. i knew this was going to happen, but it didn't make things any easier.
i've also been feeling sick for the last week or so (i think my intestines are finally realizing all the yucky parasites they've fought and are giving in a little bit). but i woke up saturday morning and felt like absolute hell. i had told a group of nurses who were visiting Cusmapa for the weekend and didn't speak any Spanish that i'd show them around, so i put my best healthy face forward but the whole day i felt like i was going to pass out. i probably drank about a gallon of water, and took some pepto bismol, and just felt worse and worse. this morning i woke up in a cold sweat at 7 AM and tossed and turned for a few hours, ate some bananas (felt like i had to eat something, but it was not a good idea) then went to bed until 3 PM (something i haven't done since i've been here... but i just felt exhausted and feverish). i started taking some prescription meds my mom sent with me but i am still feeling terrible, and just thinking it's SO typical that my body would choose this moment in time to break down.
cindy and magda are headed to managua tomorrow for cindy's surgery and will probably be gone till wednesday, and i need to get this paperwork done with Panchita as soon as she gets back (i'm hoping she'll be there when I visit this evening- though she was also in managua for a surgery on her little boy who i think has some sort of cerebral palsy) and then head to managua myself... BEFORE tuesday if at all possible. my body is failing me, something which does not happen often. i'm so bad at being sick, because i've been so lucky and healthy for most of my life... i'm just praying that these meds kick in soon cause there's no way i could make it to managua in my current state.
things have got to go up from here, eh?!
lunes, 14 de mayo de 2007
camera man
a few weekends ago i took a trip to quilali (a little mountain-valley town in central nica) with 20 of my middle school choir girls, 15 of the older choir kids, and about 7 random Cusmapanians. we started off from Cusmapa at about 10 AM (a good hour and a half behind schedule) and i had the distinct honor of sitting in the front seat of one of the two trucks we took on the journey with two ten-year-olds on my lap for the entire 6 hours. yes, we had two trucks for 42-odd people. quilali's this little middle-of-nowhere town with about 15,000 people in it, which means it's much more modern than Cusmapa and feels like a metropolis. we were scheudled to sing at a Catholic mass at 6 PM so we had a few hours to hang out, eat some lunch, and explore before church. the Catholic church was HUGE (compared to the one i'm used to up here) and was all decked out in pink ribbons and flowers for a quincenera birthday celebration (the girls in Nicaragua have a huge "coming of age" party for their 15th birthday which is basically her parents sending her out into the dating world, putting her on the market- it's a bigger celebration than weddings here). the celebrated girl st up front of the church in her Glenda the Good Witch dress, and our chior was crammed up into the second level music pit with no airflow up a rickety spiral staircase with a broken railing (not a super-pleasant situation). i was fascinated by the event's camer man who seemed to be hyped on some sort of amphetamines, he was rushing around the church panning over the audience in a completely ridiculous and skitterish manner. i'm sure the film was a blur of faces. he was also taping the choir and i kept thinking about how funny it was that some random girl will have me, a wierd gringa, on her quincenera video. little did i know...
so after the mass we walked out of the church to join a procession, led by the Good Witch in all of her glory, down about 6 blocks to the family home. Don Trino's guitar provided a lovely and appropriate soundtrack for the moment, and i held hands with jubelki and dignah and whistled happily at the stars while trying to get them to spin in circles with me. everyone else seemed awfully somber for what i imagined to be a joyous event in this girl's life, but i was really chipper about the whole thing (probably more chipper about getting out of that hellhole of a sauna music pit than anything). still, the camera man came out of nowhere ever onec in a while- paparazzi style, and i was in a jovial mood thinking about his film footage and just loving the moment. when we arrived at the family home/reception there was an awkward "do we go in?" moment (and by moment i mean about 5 minutes). of course all of the little girls wanted to go to the party, and i could tell that the older kids and i were feeling... well... very awkward. the mother/hostess said she wanted a picture of us and motioned for our group to sit at the tables in the front of the room (um... no thanks) so we sort of booked it with half of the girls (the other half had already sat down). we got back to the Padre's house (where we'd stored all of our bags and stuff) and found it LOCKED. (typical)
the lady who was in charge of our group there was hell-bent on getting us all to the party (though she was trying to be nonchalant about it, her motives were completely transparent). i found myself in the back of a truck with her and a bunch of the little girls (pleading "WHY?!" the whole time) as the older girls chose to stay curbside and wait for our return. at that point i just wanted to eat and go to bed, and i could see exactly where this evening was headed. another awkward moment at the party... when we got to the reception ALL of the girls started to pile out (though i had been assured that we were just making the trip back there in order to get the key) and i looked at Beranay (one of the older choir girls) like "are you KIDDING ME?!". so, with a heavy sigh, i resigned to my destiny. of course i ended up seated at the table in the very front of the room (obviously where i was fated to have been seated in the first place) and could not stop laughing. it was such a hilarity to me that none of us knew this girl, we totally crashed the party, and the 4 little ones I was seated with picked at their food (which looked a heck of a lot like beef with mayonayse sauce) and giggled with me.
AND, the camera man came back into my life. true hilarity ensues.
round one: he slowly creeps by, pans across the table, does a triple take long lingering shot of me that the kids notice and laugh at.
round two:
He: "Hi. MY NAME'S EDMOND. DO YOU SPEAK INKLISH?" (no i do not just have my caps key on for the heck of it, he was sort of yelling in my face in monotone, camera still rolling in his right hand)
Me: "Yes. I'm from the United States." (in Spanish)
He: "Oh yes. You speak Spanish?" (I nod) "I have question. I study in Mexico. What... what you think about women?"
Me: "Women? Like women, in general?"
He: "You know, women here, somen in Mexico. They good?"
Me: "No. I think things are getting better for women, but I don't think they're good."
He: "Oh." (as in one of those "OH's" I so often use when I don't have a clue what somebody actually said to me). "I mean abortion."
Me: "What do I think about ABORTION?!"
(remember, the camera is still rolling and we are yelling at each other, he at me for no reason- me at him for clarity's sake)
He: "Yes. Abortion. Many women in Mexico have abortion."
Me: "Yes. And it's illegal here. Do you think it should be illegal?"
(abortion was just legalized in Mexico City, much to the disgust of the Catholic Church - and was just made illegal in Nicaragua last November, even in situations where the woman will die if she doesn't have the abortion)
He: "Yes. I mean... Yes. And you?"
Me: "Well, what if a woman will die if she doesn't have an abortion?"
He: WHAT?! MUCH SLOWER PLEASE.
Me: "WHAT IF A WOMAN WILL DIE IF SHE DOES NOT HAVE AN ABORTION?"
He: "Oh. It's OK."
(at this point he walks off to do another go-round the room and I am in tears thinking "my GOD is that how I sound when I speak Spanish?")
round three:
He: "I have other question. You know cowboy movies?"
Me: (lying) "Yes, I do."
He: "Clint Eastwood, you know him?"
Me: "Yes, I do."
He: "Good. I have question. You know that bad war?"
Me: "The Iraq war? Yeah, It's BAD."
He: "NO NO NO NO, the war... in the century... with the North?"
Me: (incredulous) "Um. You mean the Civil War?" (am I really having a discussion about the Civil War on video camera at a random girl's quincenera party in the middle of Nicaragua?)
He: "Yes. That one. Why was it?"
Me: "Why did we have a civil war?"
He: (nods)
Me: "Well... the South wanted slavery and the north didn't."
He: "Slavery?"
Me: "Yes, slavery." (he nods in understanding though I can tell he's never heard the word before, and I have no idea how to explain that concept in Spanish... here's what I could get across with my current level of Espanol: ' slavery... cuando una persona es propia de un otra persona, y necessita travajar por la otra persona por gratis' ... direct translation ' slavery... when one person is property of another person and must work for the other person for free'. i knew how ridiculous the concept was in the first place so didn't even try to explain it to him)
He: "My question. Who won the war? In the Clint movie the war was not won?"
Me: "Who won the Civil war?" (which I realize is a pretty valid question)
He: "Yes, who won?"
Me: "Well, do we have slaves in the states?"
He: (long thinking pause) "I do not know."
Me: "No, no we don't. The North won."
He: "Oh, the NORTH?! Thank you. And that president?"
Me: "Lincolin?"
He: "Yes, Lincolin was a... a man."
Me: (giving him a break by finishing his thought) "Lincolin was a GOOD MAN."
and, finally, round four:
He: "You are a student?"
Me: "No, I am a teacher. I am their choir teacher." (point to the giggling kids sitting around me)
He: "Oh, a teacher."
Me: "Yes."
He: (with great conviction) "I can tell YOU LOVE JESUS."
Me: (WHAT?! ... a smile with tears in my eyes holding it in...)
He: "Yes, I can tell you love Jesus Christ because you work with kids."
Me: (oh God just please please please hold in this oncoming burst of laughter Callie)
He: "And it's in your eyes. And you know, psychologists say: the eyes are the window to soul."
Me: "Yes, yes that's true." (holding my composure by a thread)
He: "Yes, yes you love Jesus. I'm a painter."
Me: "Oh, you are?"He: "Yes, I paint things that are important to me. I have a painting of an eagle with four chickens. And the mother chicken died for her babies. She was a sacrifice like Jesus."
Me: "That sounds beautiful." (fueling the fire, feeling like a bastard for doing it, but I couldn't help myself)
He: "Yes, yes. I'm a painter. I have 4 paintings."
Me: "FOUR PAINTINGS?!"He: "Yes, four."
(at this point, the power went out... chaos ensued... candles were lit and he still tried to carry on a conversation for a mintue though our group was trying to make an invisible exit out the side door)
He: "Nice to know you!"
Me: "You too." (you have NO idea).
i think the greatest part is that literally the whole of our conversing was taped and that simple awkwardness of being at a formal dinner i wasn't invited to (it would basically be the equvalent of going to a wedding in a small town where you didn't know anyone, the whole town was invited, and you just showed up only to sit at the front table and monopolize the photographer). he was glorious, and made me absolutely gleeful and also made me realize how really ridiculous i must sound about 95% of the time i speak spanish. i just hope i don't yell at people in monotone very often, it's definately not something i intentionally do... but i suppose you never know!
so after the mass we walked out of the church to join a procession, led by the Good Witch in all of her glory, down about 6 blocks to the family home. Don Trino's guitar provided a lovely and appropriate soundtrack for the moment, and i held hands with jubelki and dignah and whistled happily at the stars while trying to get them to spin in circles with me. everyone else seemed awfully somber for what i imagined to be a joyous event in this girl's life, but i was really chipper about the whole thing (probably more chipper about getting out of that hellhole of a sauna music pit than anything). still, the camera man came out of nowhere ever onec in a while- paparazzi style, and i was in a jovial mood thinking about his film footage and just loving the moment. when we arrived at the family home/reception there was an awkward "do we go in?" moment (and by moment i mean about 5 minutes). of course all of the little girls wanted to go to the party, and i could tell that the older kids and i were feeling... well... very awkward. the mother/hostess said she wanted a picture of us and motioned for our group to sit at the tables in the front of the room (um... no thanks) so we sort of booked it with half of the girls (the other half had already sat down). we got back to the Padre's house (where we'd stored all of our bags and stuff) and found it LOCKED. (typical)
the lady who was in charge of our group there was hell-bent on getting us all to the party (though she was trying to be nonchalant about it, her motives were completely transparent). i found myself in the back of a truck with her and a bunch of the little girls (pleading "WHY?!" the whole time) as the older girls chose to stay curbside and wait for our return. at that point i just wanted to eat and go to bed, and i could see exactly where this evening was headed. another awkward moment at the party... when we got to the reception ALL of the girls started to pile out (though i had been assured that we were just making the trip back there in order to get the key) and i looked at Beranay (one of the older choir girls) like "are you KIDDING ME?!". so, with a heavy sigh, i resigned to my destiny. of course i ended up seated at the table in the very front of the room (obviously where i was fated to have been seated in the first place) and could not stop laughing. it was such a hilarity to me that none of us knew this girl, we totally crashed the party, and the 4 little ones I was seated with picked at their food (which looked a heck of a lot like beef with mayonayse sauce) and giggled with me.
AND, the camera man came back into my life. true hilarity ensues.
round one: he slowly creeps by, pans across the table, does a triple take long lingering shot of me that the kids notice and laugh at.
round two:
He: "Hi. MY NAME'S EDMOND. DO YOU SPEAK INKLISH?" (no i do not just have my caps key on for the heck of it, he was sort of yelling in my face in monotone, camera still rolling in his right hand)
Me: "Yes. I'm from the United States." (in Spanish)
He: "Oh yes. You speak Spanish?" (I nod) "I have question. I study in Mexico. What... what you think about women?"
Me: "Women? Like women, in general?"
He: "You know, women here, somen in Mexico. They good?"
Me: "No. I think things are getting better for women, but I don't think they're good."
He: "Oh." (as in one of those "OH's" I so often use when I don't have a clue what somebody actually said to me). "I mean abortion."
Me: "What do I think about ABORTION?!"
(remember, the camera is still rolling and we are yelling at each other, he at me for no reason- me at him for clarity's sake)
He: "Yes. Abortion. Many women in Mexico have abortion."
Me: "Yes. And it's illegal here. Do you think it should be illegal?"
(abortion was just legalized in Mexico City, much to the disgust of the Catholic Church - and was just made illegal in Nicaragua last November, even in situations where the woman will die if she doesn't have the abortion)
He: "Yes. I mean... Yes. And you?"
Me: "Well, what if a woman will die if she doesn't have an abortion?"
He: WHAT?! MUCH SLOWER PLEASE.
Me: "WHAT IF A WOMAN WILL DIE IF SHE DOES NOT HAVE AN ABORTION?"
He: "Oh. It's OK."
(at this point he walks off to do another go-round the room and I am in tears thinking "my GOD is that how I sound when I speak Spanish?")
round three:
He: "I have other question. You know cowboy movies?"
Me: (lying) "Yes, I do."
He: "Clint Eastwood, you know him?"
Me: "Yes, I do."
He: "Good. I have question. You know that bad war?"
Me: "The Iraq war? Yeah, It's BAD."
He: "NO NO NO NO, the war... in the century... with the North?"
Me: (incredulous) "Um. You mean the Civil War?" (am I really having a discussion about the Civil War on video camera at a random girl's quincenera party in the middle of Nicaragua?)
He: "Yes. That one. Why was it?"
Me: "Why did we have a civil war?"
He: (nods)
Me: "Well... the South wanted slavery and the north didn't."
He: "Slavery?"
Me: "Yes, slavery." (he nods in understanding though I can tell he's never heard the word before, and I have no idea how to explain that concept in Spanish... here's what I could get across with my current level of Espanol: ' slavery... cuando una persona es propia de un otra persona, y necessita travajar por la otra persona por gratis' ... direct translation ' slavery... when one person is property of another person and must work for the other person for free'. i knew how ridiculous the concept was in the first place so didn't even try to explain it to him)
He: "My question. Who won the war? In the Clint movie the war was not won?"
Me: "Who won the Civil war?" (which I realize is a pretty valid question)
He: "Yes, who won?"
Me: "Well, do we have slaves in the states?"
He: (long thinking pause) "I do not know."
Me: "No, no we don't. The North won."
He: "Oh, the NORTH?! Thank you. And that president?"
Me: "Lincolin?"
He: "Yes, Lincolin was a... a man."
Me: (giving him a break by finishing his thought) "Lincolin was a GOOD MAN."
and, finally, round four:
He: "You are a student?"
Me: "No, I am a teacher. I am their choir teacher." (point to the giggling kids sitting around me)
He: "Oh, a teacher."
Me: "Yes."
He: (with great conviction) "I can tell YOU LOVE JESUS."
Me: (WHAT?! ... a smile with tears in my eyes holding it in...)
He: "Yes, I can tell you love Jesus Christ because you work with kids."
Me: (oh God just please please please hold in this oncoming burst of laughter Callie)
He: "And it's in your eyes. And you know, psychologists say: the eyes are the window to soul."
Me: "Yes, yes that's true." (holding my composure by a thread)
He: "Yes, yes you love Jesus. I'm a painter."
Me: "Oh, you are?"He: "Yes, I paint things that are important to me. I have a painting of an eagle with four chickens. And the mother chicken died for her babies. She was a sacrifice like Jesus."
Me: "That sounds beautiful." (fueling the fire, feeling like a bastard for doing it, but I couldn't help myself)
He: "Yes, yes. I'm a painter. I have 4 paintings."
Me: "FOUR PAINTINGS?!"He: "Yes, four."
(at this point, the power went out... chaos ensued... candles were lit and he still tried to carry on a conversation for a mintue though our group was trying to make an invisible exit out the side door)
He: "Nice to know you!"
Me: "You too." (you have NO idea).
i think the greatest part is that literally the whole of our conversing was taped and that simple awkwardness of being at a formal dinner i wasn't invited to (it would basically be the equvalent of going to a wedding in a small town where you didn't know anyone, the whole town was invited, and you just showed up only to sit at the front table and monopolize the photographer). he was glorious, and made me absolutely gleeful and also made me realize how really ridiculous i must sound about 95% of the time i speak spanish. i just hope i don't yell at people in monotone very often, it's definately not something i intentionally do... but i suppose you never know!
miércoles, 9 de mayo de 2007
opportunities in yahda-yahdaing
the fabretto bigwig in DC who's organizing our trip in june writes that i should "let the kids know this trip is about work and not all about play". i feel cut to the core by this comment... does she have any idea what this means? or how it feels like a personal cut at me? of course i'm not expecting to be galavanting around the city skipping along without a care in the world when i'm responsible for taking care of 30 kids! of COURSE i realize that i'll have to be doing a bit of puckering up to appease the other rich folks who've provided us with this opportunity. but my question is this: what kind of OPPORTUNITY are they "PROVIDING" for us if the kids are going to DC just to be schlepped around from one venue to another singing for private parties with hors d'ouvres and sparkling wine and marble floors and hand-shaking and name-dropping and all the bullshit things that go along with the public relations and business world?
my next question is how the heck i ended up being a public relations major in college? (though i have known the irony of this for some time- ever since i showed up at a "shadow-a-professional day" in my normal clothes and everyone else there was wearing four inch tall stiletto heels and a business suit... talk about being a sore thumb! i probably stuck out more in that room than i ever will being a gringa in nicaragua).
i refuse to tell my kids that this trip's not about FUN because that's ridiculous. another thing that's just eating away slowly at my choir director's SOUL is that the same bigwig also wrote to me that "it's OK if there's 5-6 kids that can't go. and it's OK if at our international choir festival concert we don't have enough kids to really sound good because THAT'S THE LEAST IMPORTANT CONCERT PR-WISE". are you KIDDING me LADY? what's that supposed to mean? just because we're not being PAID to be at this festival makes it UNIMPORTANT?! for me, this concert is the REASON we are going to the US in the first place- so that my choir kids will have the OPPORTUNITY to interact with kids from all over the world, and will get to experience the marvelous harmonies found in creating art with other children. HOWEVER according to the money money money worldview, of course this would be the least important part of our trip.
ironic and sad that she's using the festival as an excuse to get the choir to the US to use us for a PR campaign, that the festival seems to be pretty important when donors are considered yet loses it's importance somehow in the mix of things. what it really comes down to is i am so frustrated that these kids are looking forward to having time to spend in museums, and experiencing the festival and the city... and instead we'll be running around DC like mad with our instruments going from private concert to private concert... selling our musical souls to make a buck. i suppose i should be grateful for the free trip, and fabretto is paying for everything for these kids to get the trip to DC (which for most of them will be their only trip to the states in a lifetime). but just don't tell me flat out that the trip's going to be about WORK when i'm already fully aware of it.
i figured i knew how things worked in the world of tax-refundable donations but now i'm certain.
all work and no play means a world filled with dischord and unhappiness.
so i'll work on my yahda-yahda-yahda skills, suck it up, put my PR smile on (didn't pay for 4 years at GU for nothing!), and trudge to the capital with a twinkle in my eye.
and i'll find a way to work in a bit of my own magic in the meantime,
little does she know that even when i'm working i'm still playing in my own mind!
my next question is how the heck i ended up being a public relations major in college? (though i have known the irony of this for some time- ever since i showed up at a "shadow-a-professional day" in my normal clothes and everyone else there was wearing four inch tall stiletto heels and a business suit... talk about being a sore thumb! i probably stuck out more in that room than i ever will being a gringa in nicaragua).
i refuse to tell my kids that this trip's not about FUN because that's ridiculous. another thing that's just eating away slowly at my choir director's SOUL is that the same bigwig also wrote to me that "it's OK if there's 5-6 kids that can't go. and it's OK if at our international choir festival concert we don't have enough kids to really sound good because THAT'S THE LEAST IMPORTANT CONCERT PR-WISE". are you KIDDING me LADY? what's that supposed to mean? just because we're not being PAID to be at this festival makes it UNIMPORTANT?! for me, this concert is the REASON we are going to the US in the first place- so that my choir kids will have the OPPORTUNITY to interact with kids from all over the world, and will get to experience the marvelous harmonies found in creating art with other children. HOWEVER according to the money money money worldview, of course this would be the least important part of our trip.
ironic and sad that she's using the festival as an excuse to get the choir to the US to use us for a PR campaign, that the festival seems to be pretty important when donors are considered yet loses it's importance somehow in the mix of things. what it really comes down to is i am so frustrated that these kids are looking forward to having time to spend in museums, and experiencing the festival and the city... and instead we'll be running around DC like mad with our instruments going from private concert to private concert... selling our musical souls to make a buck. i suppose i should be grateful for the free trip, and fabretto is paying for everything for these kids to get the trip to DC (which for most of them will be their only trip to the states in a lifetime). but just don't tell me flat out that the trip's going to be about WORK when i'm already fully aware of it.
i figured i knew how things worked in the world of tax-refundable donations but now i'm certain.
all work and no play means a world filled with dischord and unhappiness.
so i'll work on my yahda-yahda-yahda skills, suck it up, put my PR smile on (didn't pay for 4 years at GU for nothing!), and trudge to the capital with a twinkle in my eye.
and i'll find a way to work in a bit of my own magic in the meantime,
little does she know that even when i'm working i'm still playing in my own mind!
lunes, 23 de abril de 2007
un escorpion me pique!
rainy season has officially started here, though we'll have a few days of rain then it's bloody hot for a week before it rains again. we're still experiencing water shortages, and only have running water for about 2 days per week. anyways, all the rain has led to a massive influx of bugs (mainly beetles) and frogs (hopping around in puddles on the street) and other random critters.
last thursday i had a disturbing experience where i found the second tarantula within 24 hours in my bedroom- so i squished it with a shoe only to have the thing basically explode and about 50 baby spiders come streaming out of an egg sack i hadn't seen on its belly. i somehow maintained my composure enough to find a bottle of windex in our kitchen (of course i don't have bug spray or anything useful like that) and drowned the little buggers. now normally i'm all about saving little bugs lives but when they're gnarly spiders like that in my room that crosses the line.
the line was leaped across however that night as i was sleeping. i woke up at around 2 AM to something crawling up my pant leg and knew immediately it wasn't the normal beetle/moth/ant/mosquito experience. so, half-asleep still, i reached my hand down to brush it off and was stuck in my kneecap by a huge sting (OH GOD!) and looked down at my hand to see a HUGE black scorpion clutched on to my fingers (it was the size of my hand- probably about 6 inches long) so i shook it off and it ran under my bed (GREAT) then i sat down for a moment thinking "well, this really could be the end of it all" shaking something awful and trying to make myself breathe. i found my nicaragua guidebook (obviously i didn't have any bug identification books) because i wanted to know if i should go to a doctor, if i had to worry about dying or anything like that... thank goodness i had seen it and knew it was a big negrito scorpion which according to my MOON guidebook are "not normally deadly" to healthy humans. a bit of good news, but didn't make me feel any safer, that's for sure. i tiptoed into the kitchen (don't ask me why at this point i was not wanting to wake my roomates up) and reached into the freezer to get some ice (which was the only thing i could really think to do) since my kneecap felt like someone had stabbed a knitting needle through the middle of it (unlike what the guidebook said it would feel like "a bee sting" HA!). we didn't have any ice, so i grabbed the next best thing... a bag of frozen chicken drumsticks, and laid in bed for a couple of hours with my knee raised feeling the numbness slowly spread through my body. a very unnerving feeling, let me tell you. the wierdest part of it was that though the rest of my body was nearly numb, my knee was still throbbing like crazy.
somehow i fell back asleep for a few hours and when i woke up in the morning i felt much worse. i stood up and immediately had to sit back down, dizzy and unable to balance. i made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water and to try to eat something (i knew that if i didn't, i'd feel even more faint) and told my roomate chico what had happened to which he replied:
"oh don't worry, i've been stung 5-6 times by scorpions and you'll feel awful for a while but you'll be fine. just drink some milk."
now i don't know anything about recovering from a scorpion sting but his advice seemed better than anything else i'd heard- so i drank the rest of the delicious boxed milk i had on hand and still felt terrible. luckily one of the drivers, jose, was at the house and drove all of us to school so i didn't have to worry about walking there. i told magda what had happened and she was much more concerned than chico, so she had me talk to the doctor at the school who took one look at me and said:
"oh, you'll feel better in 3-4 days so don't worry too much about it. you won't die, they aren't THAT dangerous."
3-4 days of numbness seemed like a pretty big deal to me, and with the way i was feeling at the time i decided to go with the rest of my roomates to somoto where i'd be closer to a doctor who could do something for me if things got worse. the ride down was pretty miserable, but by the time we arrived i was feeling a bit better and my arms and legs were less numb, which made walking a heck of a lot more manageable. the 3-4 days really only ended up being 24 hours, and after that amount of time only my mouth was numb (which i'd heard was the last place to re-gain feeling). so... i stayed in somoto for the night, bought a mosquito net... and now sleep a little bit lighter and am more wary about shaking out my sheets and blankets before going to bed.
ah... the lessons i've learned. at least now i'm not scared of tarantulas anymore, as long as i don't get any more scorpions crawiling up my pants in the middle of the night i think i'll be just fine.
last thursday i had a disturbing experience where i found the second tarantula within 24 hours in my bedroom- so i squished it with a shoe only to have the thing basically explode and about 50 baby spiders come streaming out of an egg sack i hadn't seen on its belly. i somehow maintained my composure enough to find a bottle of windex in our kitchen (of course i don't have bug spray or anything useful like that) and drowned the little buggers. now normally i'm all about saving little bugs lives but when they're gnarly spiders like that in my room that crosses the line.
the line was leaped across however that night as i was sleeping. i woke up at around 2 AM to something crawling up my pant leg and knew immediately it wasn't the normal beetle/moth/ant/mosquito experience. so, half-asleep still, i reached my hand down to brush it off and was stuck in my kneecap by a huge sting (OH GOD!) and looked down at my hand to see a HUGE black scorpion clutched on to my fingers (it was the size of my hand- probably about 6 inches long) so i shook it off and it ran under my bed (GREAT) then i sat down for a moment thinking "well, this really could be the end of it all" shaking something awful and trying to make myself breathe. i found my nicaragua guidebook (obviously i didn't have any bug identification books) because i wanted to know if i should go to a doctor, if i had to worry about dying or anything like that... thank goodness i had seen it and knew it was a big negrito scorpion which according to my MOON guidebook are "not normally deadly" to healthy humans. a bit of good news, but didn't make me feel any safer, that's for sure. i tiptoed into the kitchen (don't ask me why at this point i was not wanting to wake my roomates up) and reached into the freezer to get some ice (which was the only thing i could really think to do) since my kneecap felt like someone had stabbed a knitting needle through the middle of it (unlike what the guidebook said it would feel like "a bee sting" HA!). we didn't have any ice, so i grabbed the next best thing... a bag of frozen chicken drumsticks, and laid in bed for a couple of hours with my knee raised feeling the numbness slowly spread through my body. a very unnerving feeling, let me tell you. the wierdest part of it was that though the rest of my body was nearly numb, my knee was still throbbing like crazy.
somehow i fell back asleep for a few hours and when i woke up in the morning i felt much worse. i stood up and immediately had to sit back down, dizzy and unable to balance. i made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water and to try to eat something (i knew that if i didn't, i'd feel even more faint) and told my roomate chico what had happened to which he replied:
"oh don't worry, i've been stung 5-6 times by scorpions and you'll feel awful for a while but you'll be fine. just drink some milk."
now i don't know anything about recovering from a scorpion sting but his advice seemed better than anything else i'd heard- so i drank the rest of the delicious boxed milk i had on hand and still felt terrible. luckily one of the drivers, jose, was at the house and drove all of us to school so i didn't have to worry about walking there. i told magda what had happened and she was much more concerned than chico, so she had me talk to the doctor at the school who took one look at me and said:
"oh, you'll feel better in 3-4 days so don't worry too much about it. you won't die, they aren't THAT dangerous."
3-4 days of numbness seemed like a pretty big deal to me, and with the way i was feeling at the time i decided to go with the rest of my roomates to somoto where i'd be closer to a doctor who could do something for me if things got worse. the ride down was pretty miserable, but by the time we arrived i was feeling a bit better and my arms and legs were less numb, which made walking a heck of a lot more manageable. the 3-4 days really only ended up being 24 hours, and after that amount of time only my mouth was numb (which i'd heard was the last place to re-gain feeling). so... i stayed in somoto for the night, bought a mosquito net... and now sleep a little bit lighter and am more wary about shaking out my sheets and blankets before going to bed.
ah... the lessons i've learned. at least now i'm not scared of tarantulas anymore, as long as i don't get any more scorpions crawiling up my pants in the middle of the night i think i'll be just fine.
lunes, 16 de abril de 2007
Amarguillo (How Else Could We Understand?)
A blast of the brightest sunshine yellow sparks,
brave amarguillo trees speckled
amidst dried fields of hopeful farmers
withering crops
crinkling pine needles
fallen trees crying for water, for life.
Smokey the Bear shakes in his Forest Service boots.
I’m told the dry season never ended last year,
and in some towns the water gets shut off for three months at a time.
Forty people died in Chinandega last weekend in temperatures hovering between 35 and 40 degrees Celsius.
Heat stroke can’t be blamed when water’s not an option.
The sharpened guillotine blade hangs on a thread,
perched for the fall.
This is normal.
My roommate Fransisco laughs at my awestruck shock at this statistic
and the joy disperses, as fleeting as it came
with my wondering "Como puede vivir sin agua por tres meses?
(an honest question- how do you live without water for three months?)
Honest but severely loaded.
How do you LIVE?
In one instant I’ve found why Nicaraguans have such faith in God.
His answer:
"We believe because how else could you explain a world in which we must live without water for three months at a time? How else would we understand?"
A slap in the face.
How else could a world in which people with all the power choose to
fund and fight unwarranted religious wars based on fear and oil
yet disregard poverty as part of the "other" world,
the THIRD world.
Why would we care about the THIRD world as much as OUR world?
We invest our money CAREFULLY there, in this other world
Just enough to keep them coming back for more
Just enough to keep the hands outstretched
Just enough to keep the UN off our backs
Just enough to keep opportunities for photo opportunities arising
Just enough to keep them silent and downtrodden
Just enough to keep their starry-eyed focus on our American dream alive.
What is this "American Dream"?
If it’s not meant for all of America,
rather meant to justify the rise of the rich to their castles in the clouds
and blame the victims of our carelessness,
our neighbors
who gaze in our dining room windows
awestruck at the opulence
salivating with hope for our scraps
who struggle every day just to live.
I sound cliché-
how do I paint you a clearer picture what it means to struggle every day to LIVE?
Have you woken in the morning to the same hunger pangs, knitting needles in the depths of your stomach that have haunted your dreams for your whole life?
Have you constantly and consciously been forced to drink water infused with sewage and garbage day-after-day simply because you had no other CHOICE?
Has this water given you life-threatening fevers and blinding migraine headaches?
Has your water been carried up a mountainside in 5-gallon-plastic-jugs by your seven-year-old daughter every morning, her back hunched unnaturally under its crippling weight?
Have you also been forced to send this daughter to beg for pesos to buy rice and beans,
her bare feet dodging broken glass and rusted barbed wire?
How do I get you to see this painting in color, not in the black and white of "THE OTHER"?
For if you are to realize that this type of poverty exists in every moment of every day
for millions upon millions of our brothers and sisters
throughout the entire world
and in your backyard
it MUST be in vivid color
high definition if you will.
Do I need a PowerPoint presentation and a flat screen TV
or will these words of impassioned truth
reach beyond your ears and your eyes and into your heart?
These words, " THE OTHER" and "3rd WORLD" must be abolished
we must learn to empathize
if the world can ever change for the better.
If we can open our minds and our hearts to realize
"THE OTHER" as an intimate, essential, precious component of ourselves,
if we can understand that these words "THE OTHER" and "3rd WORLD"
have been fabricated by people with power,
people who judge and fear change,
people who refuse to grant freedom,
and voices to the voiceless
their bullets silenced with a justification of "US versus THEM".
We must not buy into this
unjustified disabling dichotomy
For each time we turn a blind, ignorant, guilt-laden eye
averting our gaze from the pain and suffering of this world
we in fact turn from the deepest part of our soul.
Who felt the right to draw black lines
zigzagged boundaries across our globe?
How have we not noticed these lines are INVISIBLE?
Invisible until we forget the past
and break ground to construct another embarrassing wall
as if blocking our view of the wrong side of the tracks
will make our neighbors disappear.
The make-believe black lines are pathetic enough,
but walls go beyond the zigzags.
We’re playing a game of Risk so real
that if we allowed ourselves a moment of clarity
our hearts would break into a million pieces.
Do we need these fancy adjectives
these walls
to justify how terribly we treat each other?
Is this all just a big game to people like Mr. G. W. ?
I’d compare his game to chess
but I know the only players he’s aware of are the king and the pawn.
Maybe if he could ever wipe that all-knowing smirk off his face
for long enough to say something real
we’d have a glimpse of some sort of truth…
Ironic how mumble-jumbled and repeated key words
"insurgents"
"terrorists"
"freedom fighters"
"rebel forces"
"fanatics"
cause more conflict, misunderstanding, hatred and war than bombs ever could.
How many soldiers to this date have died
defending these words?
I’d tell you but I’m not trying to give a history lesson.
Would it matter more if it were ONE person or THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND?
How can I paint this picture in COLOR when our own government will not allow the media to show pictures of caskets being carefully carried off a military plane draped in those glorified stars and stripes?
An image sticks in my mind, a 2002 clipping from a newspaper scrap booked next to lyrics from John Lennon’s "Imagine" … a middle-aged man, long beard trailing in the dust, white robes spattered with blood, white linen and crimson death pooling around his knees, arms outstretched desperately to the skies, mouth hanging open in a primal wail that only a man at the foot of the coffins of his two children aged four and six years old could pour forth on an unjust world, dried riverbeds of tears marking the end of any happiness and future he’d seen in life. His babies, gone forever at the hands of "freedom fighters".
"Imagine there’s no Heaven, it’s easy if you try."
It doesn’t take much effort to imagine, Mr. Lennon, that there’s no Heaven
when we’re willing to kill each other in the name of GOD.
How do we think GOD feels about these justifications?
Does he sit on his throne in the sky contentedly staring down as we play plastic soldiers
with real guns
remarking to himself "How lovely are these wars in my name?"
(these words strike too close to "Hallowed be thy name")
or "I must give this judgmental sect of soldiers for Christ a first class seat on the train to glory?"
(those who claim "there are two types of people in this world, those who believe in Jesus Christ as their personal savior and those who don’t")
Even if Jesus Christ was our personal savior and the only son of GOD…
I’d still like to hope GOD sees in color.
Or…
Does GOD sit silently as tears stream down his cheeks,
mourning the death of true life?
Pleading for all of humanity
to give up our fabricated terms of differentiation,
to face each other as human beings,
casting fear aside,
breaking down walls,
tearing across boundaries,
looking through open and non-judgmental eyes,
bowing deeply in acknowledgment of the divine in all,
in communion with nature and our Brothers and Sisters,
filling the deep and lonely fear of vulnerability
with simple, deep, and unconditional love?
We claim an operation in Iraq based on FREEDOM.
Is this another fancy word we’ve manipulated for our own causes?
Freedom from what?
From our own fears and anxieties?
From having to explain the selfish reasons we’re still there?
From "THE OTHER"?
From terrorists?
From four and six year-old Iraqi children?
Where does freedom end and murder begin?
It’s a slippery slope;
the boundary between the two as invisible
as those inked black lines flowing across the maps of humanity.
Yet across the deserts of hopeless lands
rise moments of triumph and brilliant life
amarguillos, my eyes see in rusted dry brown and mid-day sunlight yellow
tufts of blossoms defiant in the face of drought,
peeking over walls to the better side of town.
"Amargo, like coffee without sugar" my friend Henry explains.
He speaks of bitterness with an unsettling smile.
It’s why we believe in GOD.
"How else could we understand?"
brave amarguillo trees speckled
amidst dried fields of hopeful farmers
withering crops
crinkling pine needles
fallen trees crying for water, for life.
Smokey the Bear shakes in his Forest Service boots.
I’m told the dry season never ended last year,
and in some towns the water gets shut off for three months at a time.
Forty people died in Chinandega last weekend in temperatures hovering between 35 and 40 degrees Celsius.
Heat stroke can’t be blamed when water’s not an option.
The sharpened guillotine blade hangs on a thread,
perched for the fall.
This is normal.
My roommate Fransisco laughs at my awestruck shock at this statistic
and the joy disperses, as fleeting as it came
with my wondering "Como puede vivir sin agua por tres meses?
(an honest question- how do you live without water for three months?)
Honest but severely loaded.
How do you LIVE?
In one instant I’ve found why Nicaraguans have such faith in God.
His answer:
"We believe because how else could you explain a world in which we must live without water for three months at a time? How else would we understand?"
A slap in the face.
How else could a world in which people with all the power choose to
fund and fight unwarranted religious wars based on fear and oil
yet disregard poverty as part of the "other" world,
the THIRD world.
Why would we care about the THIRD world as much as OUR world?
We invest our money CAREFULLY there, in this other world
Just enough to keep them coming back for more
Just enough to keep the hands outstretched
Just enough to keep the UN off our backs
Just enough to keep opportunities for photo opportunities arising
Just enough to keep them silent and downtrodden
Just enough to keep their starry-eyed focus on our American dream alive.
What is this "American Dream"?
If it’s not meant for all of America,
rather meant to justify the rise of the rich to their castles in the clouds
and blame the victims of our carelessness,
our neighbors
who gaze in our dining room windows
awestruck at the opulence
salivating with hope for our scraps
who struggle every day just to live.
I sound cliché-
how do I paint you a clearer picture what it means to struggle every day to LIVE?
Have you woken in the morning to the same hunger pangs, knitting needles in the depths of your stomach that have haunted your dreams for your whole life?
Have you constantly and consciously been forced to drink water infused with sewage and garbage day-after-day simply because you had no other CHOICE?
Has this water given you life-threatening fevers and blinding migraine headaches?
Has your water been carried up a mountainside in 5-gallon-plastic-jugs by your seven-year-old daughter every morning, her back hunched unnaturally under its crippling weight?
Have you also been forced to send this daughter to beg for pesos to buy rice and beans,
her bare feet dodging broken glass and rusted barbed wire?
How do I get you to see this painting in color, not in the black and white of "THE OTHER"?
For if you are to realize that this type of poverty exists in every moment of every day
for millions upon millions of our brothers and sisters
throughout the entire world
and in your backyard
it MUST be in vivid color
high definition if you will.
Do I need a PowerPoint presentation and a flat screen TV
or will these words of impassioned truth
reach beyond your ears and your eyes and into your heart?
These words, " THE OTHER" and "3rd WORLD" must be abolished
we must learn to empathize
if the world can ever change for the better.
If we can open our minds and our hearts to realize
"THE OTHER" as an intimate, essential, precious component of ourselves,
if we can understand that these words "THE OTHER" and "3rd WORLD"
have been fabricated by people with power,
people who judge and fear change,
people who refuse to grant freedom,
and voices to the voiceless
their bullets silenced with a justification of "US versus THEM".
We must not buy into this
unjustified disabling dichotomy
For each time we turn a blind, ignorant, guilt-laden eye
averting our gaze from the pain and suffering of this world
we in fact turn from the deepest part of our soul.
Who felt the right to draw black lines
zigzagged boundaries across our globe?
How have we not noticed these lines are INVISIBLE?
Invisible until we forget the past
and break ground to construct another embarrassing wall
as if blocking our view of the wrong side of the tracks
will make our neighbors disappear.
The make-believe black lines are pathetic enough,
but walls go beyond the zigzags.
We’re playing a game of Risk so real
that if we allowed ourselves a moment of clarity
our hearts would break into a million pieces.
Do we need these fancy adjectives
these walls
to justify how terribly we treat each other?
Is this all just a big game to people like Mr. G. W. ?
I’d compare his game to chess
but I know the only players he’s aware of are the king and the pawn.
Maybe if he could ever wipe that all-knowing smirk off his face
for long enough to say something real
we’d have a glimpse of some sort of truth…
Ironic how mumble-jumbled and repeated key words
"insurgents"
"terrorists"
"freedom fighters"
"rebel forces"
"fanatics"
cause more conflict, misunderstanding, hatred and war than bombs ever could.
How many soldiers to this date have died
defending these words?
I’d tell you but I’m not trying to give a history lesson.
Would it matter more if it were ONE person or THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND?
How can I paint this picture in COLOR when our own government will not allow the media to show pictures of caskets being carefully carried off a military plane draped in those glorified stars and stripes?
An image sticks in my mind, a 2002 clipping from a newspaper scrap booked next to lyrics from John Lennon’s "Imagine" … a middle-aged man, long beard trailing in the dust, white robes spattered with blood, white linen and crimson death pooling around his knees, arms outstretched desperately to the skies, mouth hanging open in a primal wail that only a man at the foot of the coffins of his two children aged four and six years old could pour forth on an unjust world, dried riverbeds of tears marking the end of any happiness and future he’d seen in life. His babies, gone forever at the hands of "freedom fighters".
"Imagine there’s no Heaven, it’s easy if you try."
It doesn’t take much effort to imagine, Mr. Lennon, that there’s no Heaven
when we’re willing to kill each other in the name of GOD.
How do we think GOD feels about these justifications?
Does he sit on his throne in the sky contentedly staring down as we play plastic soldiers
with real guns
remarking to himself "How lovely are these wars in my name?"
(these words strike too close to "Hallowed be thy name")
or "I must give this judgmental sect of soldiers for Christ a first class seat on the train to glory?"
(those who claim "there are two types of people in this world, those who believe in Jesus Christ as their personal savior and those who don’t")
Even if Jesus Christ was our personal savior and the only son of GOD…
I’d still like to hope GOD sees in color.
Or…
Does GOD sit silently as tears stream down his cheeks,
mourning the death of true life?
Pleading for all of humanity
to give up our fabricated terms of differentiation,
to face each other as human beings,
casting fear aside,
breaking down walls,
tearing across boundaries,
looking through open and non-judgmental eyes,
bowing deeply in acknowledgment of the divine in all,
in communion with nature and our Brothers and Sisters,
filling the deep and lonely fear of vulnerability
with simple, deep, and unconditional love?
We claim an operation in Iraq based on FREEDOM.
Is this another fancy word we’ve manipulated for our own causes?
Freedom from what?
From our own fears and anxieties?
From having to explain the selfish reasons we’re still there?
From "THE OTHER"?
From terrorists?
From four and six year-old Iraqi children?
Where does freedom end and murder begin?
It’s a slippery slope;
the boundary between the two as invisible
as those inked black lines flowing across the maps of humanity.
Yet across the deserts of hopeless lands
rise moments of triumph and brilliant life
amarguillos, my eyes see in rusted dry brown and mid-day sunlight yellow
tufts of blossoms defiant in the face of drought,
peeking over walls to the better side of town.
"Amargo, like coffee without sugar" my friend Henry explains.
He speaks of bitterness with an unsettling smile.
It’s why we believe in GOD.
"How else could we understand?"
martes, 10 de abril de 2007
let the rain fall down...
my three month "anniversary" of being in nicaragua! i can't believe how fast the time is going- yet sometimes it truly seems to stand still. today was my first day back at work after a week-long trek around southern nicaragua with james and josh. i visited my family in la concha for a weekend, then we went to isla de ometepe, grenada, and i spent the last few days of my trip in managua staying at the jvi house. here are some trip highlights:
- morning from hell getting out of cusmapa: a bus breakdown between las savannas and somoto- 45 minutes of three guys taking pieces of the motor off, cleaning them, and re-assembling them on the sidewalk much to the amusement of passers by- fransisco assuring me that they were "engineers" as i (baffled) watched one lean over the running engine with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth- drinking apple juice and feeling very much a spectator in some ridiculous nicaraguan sport
-spending time with paulette and gaiermena, enjoying her lovely library, meeting new members of their animal clan (or zoo as i like to refer to it)
- climbing a mandarin tree with elton and raquelita (two of the kids in my family in la concha) to get a view of a volcano- eating handfuls of plump perfectly ripe mandarinos, stuffing ourselves silly- trying to explain to them why i felt more comfortable with my feet planted firmly on the ground
- day trip to grenada with mama gina, raquelita, and madi (from florida who is living at their house)- hopping on a boat and walking past a 50-year-old woman saying the rosary, boat ride to an island with a "pool" which was filled with kids and dirty lake water, sharing beers with mama gina, a beautiful sunset over the lake and a purple moon rising
- long trip full of mishaps to get to ometepe: left late, took a useless 100 cord taxi cab ride to see the "scenic route" in grenada, a long bus to rivas, another taxi to san jorje, caught the last ferry to the islands- had a spectacular sunset approaching the island, caught the last bus to altagracia (which got us half way to our hotel) and wandered around asking about a place to stay for cheap, stumbled into a house where we were put up for 30 cords per night (less than $2), ate fritanga with an argentinian jewelry maker and his girlfriend- talking about politics and hitchhiking while attempting to drown out evangelical ramblings in the city's central park
- beers at a random tucked-away bar, the glorious cartoon of a man who struck up a conversation with us: think billy crystal but nicaraguan with a purple long-sleeved satin button-up shirt and poufy curly hair and a voice like a cross between mickey mouse and the gatekeeper to the city of oz ("not nobody, not no how!")- some choice quotes from his side of the conversation:
"you like this music? (we were singing along to summer of '69) i thought only people my age like this music? you like Brian music? (i assume here he was referring to brian adams) and patrick swazy? you know him? i would not recommend you to Rambo, the movie- all nicaraguans are rambo junior (i don't even know what that means). i have been practicing my A.B.C.'s this week. you know, mouth to mouth? A.B.C.'s? we are all very important people (gesturing to the three other men who were seated at his table). these two work at the mayor's office, he is a doctor, and i am that guy" (at this point i was holding in what was sure to be an explosion of laughter and replied enthusiastically while pointing for emphasis: "you ARE THAT GUY!". james turned to me and said "no, Cal. he's a GUIDE. he's a TOUR GUIDE." OH. i still think he was that guy. best character i've come across in a very long time.
- bonfire the first night at monkey's island hostel, sharing a little rum and skinny dipping under a full moon
- josh & i taking a somewhat treacherous swim out to an island made of volcanic rocks, seeing monkeys curiously poking their heads out of the trees (joking that both of us are blind and neither one had glasses on... which was sort of sad)
- waking up in the middle of the night and listening to the rain for an hour
- a day spent reading, playing 31, chess, checkers, and singing along to james playing the guitar- sharing pistachios and macadamia nuts with jacinto (the hostel owner) who'd never tried them before
- throwing rocks at 60' tall mango trees to get the ripe fruits to fall- young nica boys taking pity on the gringos and showing us proper form
- sophie the crazy belgian who has a not-so-sneakily taken picture of james in the buff
- chocolate ice cream shared in an empty market vendor stand
- glorious fritanga and the biggest vat of ensalada i have ever seen, people-watching in the park of grenada
- playing pool, yahtzee, and trivial pursuit with james while eavesdropping on josh playing monopoly with two 18 year old norweigan girls in our hostel- key cards and factoids learned: pope JPII wore white doc martens, the buffalo bills cheerleaders are called 'the buffalo jills', there are 15 people on a scottish jury, they don't speak egyptian in egypt, israel's not in europe (HM. think i need to work on my geography), and the kicker: about 10 years ago london tried to enforce slow and fast lanes on its sidewalks (i wonder are there speed limits to these lanes?)
- waking up early in our hostel (after enjoying a night's rest on couch cushions and being bit by a nasty spider) and enjoying a cup of coffee in the morning breeze before anyone else woke up
- finding out my high school choir gets to go to DC in june for an international children’s arts festival!!!!
- walk to the laguna apollo- being a bit sketched out about getting robbed and having a guy with a leather glove endowed with metal spikes try to convince us to take his "safer" road down to the lake. we may be gringos but we're not that stupid!
- day spent at the laguna relaxing, swimming, exploring underwater, reading out loud to each other, picnic-ing, and getting royally sunburned
- catching the last bus to managua by an absolute miracle
- sleeping in till 9 AM!!! going to james' favorite reading spot and devouring a david sedaris book, james knocking down starfruit out of the tree we sat under (just the fact that i was reading under a starfruit tree was pretty awesome in general i think) for a snack
- good friday service- my teary-eyed singing along to 'be not afraid'
- an excellent and very patient guitar lesson from james
- a fest of a dinner for the arrival of ad's friends from the states (who she hasn't seen for more than a year) beans, veggies, garlic bread (thanks josh!), and spaghetti
- james and josh finding, reading out loud, and performing songs they'd written in high school mostly about loves... my favorite being josh's "apple of my eyyyeeeee"
- giggling with margy till my belly hurt and i had tears running down my cheeks
- riding an expresso bus with reclining seats (i didn't even know those existed here!) not getting off at the right spot (though i've made the journey about 10 times now) and instead an hour later realizing i had no idea where i was- taking a random taxi to somoto (when i realized it we were somehow near a junction and somoto was only 10 minutes away!), feeling like a silly gringa
- getting to talk to my fam on the phone (and regs!)
- a day spent in easter celebration by writing letters and cooking a weeks worth of beans, listening to the rain trample across my rooftop
today i got back into the swing of things, though in my 5 classes i had a grand total of 10 students... but we finally had the internet so i got to respond to all sorts of emails and post pictures, chatted with jason and nikki (who i miss terribly), had quite a bit of cleaning time (the amount of dust here after a week is phenomenal!), gave a frustrating english class (i hate the books we have to use) to ONE person, loved my little ones- who held my hands and gave me hugs at the end of class, practiced the guitar, had a heck of a time with my tenors in the high school choir.
right as i was about to leave it started raining so i thought "i'll wait it out" because i wanted to bring my computer and guitar home. so i sat to practice the guitar a bit and watched the rain. the eye of the thunderstorm seemed to hover over the oratory for at least 45 minutes, pouring huge droplets and letting forth a FURY of thunder which (even when i anticipated it) made my heart leap. i finally decided (after a good hour of a relentless storm) to just leave my computer in my office, and that i'd better get home before it was completely dark. i went to get the key from juan carlos (one of my roommates) and in the 20 seconds i was outside i got absolutely soaked to the bone (i needed the house key because a missionary stayed at our house last week and left with my key- or so i thought).
i resigned myself to getting good and soaked and made my way toward home, leaping across small rivers which had formed in the road and hopping gleefully in puddles. a small figure came scurrying toward me buried under a broken umbrella- the only other person silly enough to be out in the dumping rain- she stopped, lifted her protective cover- and it was Anyelka- i exclaimed "what ARE you doing?!" and she answered "i came to look for you" so we walked, her arm around my waist and mine around her shoulder back to he house. along the way i lifted her over particularly large streams of water while we giggled and she pointed out a frog hopping across the street which made me wide-eyed and open-mouthed in delight. i had water running down my entire left half but a smile on my face. when we reached the house there was a light on and jubelki poked her head out the door. dona miriam was STILL THERE! (it was about 6:30 by this time) they had all been worried and waiting for me to come home. turns out dona miriam had my house key- the missionary had left it with her, and she couldn't bear the thought of leaving my house open, so she was waiting till i got home. i invited the girls to stay for tea and crackers, and we chatted for a bit- anyelka started to try to go home barefoot because her shoes were so awful and soaked so of course i gave her a pair of shoes to wear.
again i am humbled by the amount of thoughtful and genuine care i receive from people here, i am brought to my knees. three months blessed by lots of living, learning, and love- good health and good spirits, and the making of wonderful new friends. here's to many more months to come!
love and miss you all- joy and peace to you! cal
- morning from hell getting out of cusmapa: a bus breakdown between las savannas and somoto- 45 minutes of three guys taking pieces of the motor off, cleaning them, and re-assembling them on the sidewalk much to the amusement of passers by- fransisco assuring me that they were "engineers" as i (baffled) watched one lean over the running engine with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth- drinking apple juice and feeling very much a spectator in some ridiculous nicaraguan sport
-spending time with paulette and gaiermena, enjoying her lovely library, meeting new members of their animal clan (or zoo as i like to refer to it)
- climbing a mandarin tree with elton and raquelita (two of the kids in my family in la concha) to get a view of a volcano- eating handfuls of plump perfectly ripe mandarinos, stuffing ourselves silly- trying to explain to them why i felt more comfortable with my feet planted firmly on the ground
- day trip to grenada with mama gina, raquelita, and madi (from florida who is living at their house)- hopping on a boat and walking past a 50-year-old woman saying the rosary, boat ride to an island with a "pool" which was filled with kids and dirty lake water, sharing beers with mama gina, a beautiful sunset over the lake and a purple moon rising
- long trip full of mishaps to get to ometepe: left late, took a useless 100 cord taxi cab ride to see the "scenic route" in grenada, a long bus to rivas, another taxi to san jorje, caught the last ferry to the islands- had a spectacular sunset approaching the island, caught the last bus to altagracia (which got us half way to our hotel) and wandered around asking about a place to stay for cheap, stumbled into a house where we were put up for 30 cords per night (less than $2), ate fritanga with an argentinian jewelry maker and his girlfriend- talking about politics and hitchhiking while attempting to drown out evangelical ramblings in the city's central park
- beers at a random tucked-away bar, the glorious cartoon of a man who struck up a conversation with us: think billy crystal but nicaraguan with a purple long-sleeved satin button-up shirt and poufy curly hair and a voice like a cross between mickey mouse and the gatekeeper to the city of oz ("not nobody, not no how!")- some choice quotes from his side of the conversation:
"you like this music? (we were singing along to summer of '69) i thought only people my age like this music? you like Brian music? (i assume here he was referring to brian adams) and patrick swazy? you know him? i would not recommend you to Rambo, the movie- all nicaraguans are rambo junior (i don't even know what that means). i have been practicing my A.B.C.'s this week. you know, mouth to mouth? A.B.C.'s? we are all very important people (gesturing to the three other men who were seated at his table). these two work at the mayor's office, he is a doctor, and i am that guy" (at this point i was holding in what was sure to be an explosion of laughter and replied enthusiastically while pointing for emphasis: "you ARE THAT GUY!". james turned to me and said "no, Cal. he's a GUIDE. he's a TOUR GUIDE." OH. i still think he was that guy. best character i've come across in a very long time.
- bonfire the first night at monkey's island hostel, sharing a little rum and skinny dipping under a full moon
- josh & i taking a somewhat treacherous swim out to an island made of volcanic rocks, seeing monkeys curiously poking their heads out of the trees (joking that both of us are blind and neither one had glasses on... which was sort of sad)
- waking up in the middle of the night and listening to the rain for an hour
- a day spent reading, playing 31, chess, checkers, and singing along to james playing the guitar- sharing pistachios and macadamia nuts with jacinto (the hostel owner) who'd never tried them before
- throwing rocks at 60' tall mango trees to get the ripe fruits to fall- young nica boys taking pity on the gringos and showing us proper form
- sophie the crazy belgian who has a not-so-sneakily taken picture of james in the buff
- chocolate ice cream shared in an empty market vendor stand
- glorious fritanga and the biggest vat of ensalada i have ever seen, people-watching in the park of grenada
- playing pool, yahtzee, and trivial pursuit with james while eavesdropping on josh playing monopoly with two 18 year old norweigan girls in our hostel- key cards and factoids learned: pope JPII wore white doc martens, the buffalo bills cheerleaders are called 'the buffalo jills', there are 15 people on a scottish jury, they don't speak egyptian in egypt, israel's not in europe (HM. think i need to work on my geography), and the kicker: about 10 years ago london tried to enforce slow and fast lanes on its sidewalks (i wonder are there speed limits to these lanes?)
- waking up early in our hostel (after enjoying a night's rest on couch cushions and being bit by a nasty spider) and enjoying a cup of coffee in the morning breeze before anyone else woke up
- finding out my high school choir gets to go to DC in june for an international children’s arts festival!!!!
- walk to the laguna apollo- being a bit sketched out about getting robbed and having a guy with a leather glove endowed with metal spikes try to convince us to take his "safer" road down to the lake. we may be gringos but we're not that stupid!
- day spent at the laguna relaxing, swimming, exploring underwater, reading out loud to each other, picnic-ing, and getting royally sunburned
- catching the last bus to managua by an absolute miracle
- sleeping in till 9 AM!!! going to james' favorite reading spot and devouring a david sedaris book, james knocking down starfruit out of the tree we sat under (just the fact that i was reading under a starfruit tree was pretty awesome in general i think) for a snack
- good friday service- my teary-eyed singing along to 'be not afraid'
- an excellent and very patient guitar lesson from james
- a fest of a dinner for the arrival of ad's friends from the states (who she hasn't seen for more than a year) beans, veggies, garlic bread (thanks josh!), and spaghetti
- james and josh finding, reading out loud, and performing songs they'd written in high school mostly about loves... my favorite being josh's "apple of my eyyyeeeee"
- giggling with margy till my belly hurt and i had tears running down my cheeks
- riding an expresso bus with reclining seats (i didn't even know those existed here!) not getting off at the right spot (though i've made the journey about 10 times now) and instead an hour later realizing i had no idea where i was- taking a random taxi to somoto (when i realized it we were somehow near a junction and somoto was only 10 minutes away!), feeling like a silly gringa
- getting to talk to my fam on the phone (and regs!)
- a day spent in easter celebration by writing letters and cooking a weeks worth of beans, listening to the rain trample across my rooftop
today i got back into the swing of things, though in my 5 classes i had a grand total of 10 students... but we finally had the internet so i got to respond to all sorts of emails and post pictures, chatted with jason and nikki (who i miss terribly), had quite a bit of cleaning time (the amount of dust here after a week is phenomenal!), gave a frustrating english class (i hate the books we have to use) to ONE person, loved my little ones- who held my hands and gave me hugs at the end of class, practiced the guitar, had a heck of a time with my tenors in the high school choir.
right as i was about to leave it started raining so i thought "i'll wait it out" because i wanted to bring my computer and guitar home. so i sat to practice the guitar a bit and watched the rain. the eye of the thunderstorm seemed to hover over the oratory for at least 45 minutes, pouring huge droplets and letting forth a FURY of thunder which (even when i anticipated it) made my heart leap. i finally decided (after a good hour of a relentless storm) to just leave my computer in my office, and that i'd better get home before it was completely dark. i went to get the key from juan carlos (one of my roommates) and in the 20 seconds i was outside i got absolutely soaked to the bone (i needed the house key because a missionary stayed at our house last week and left with my key- or so i thought).
i resigned myself to getting good and soaked and made my way toward home, leaping across small rivers which had formed in the road and hopping gleefully in puddles. a small figure came scurrying toward me buried under a broken umbrella- the only other person silly enough to be out in the dumping rain- she stopped, lifted her protective cover- and it was Anyelka- i exclaimed "what ARE you doing?!" and she answered "i came to look for you" so we walked, her arm around my waist and mine around her shoulder back to he house. along the way i lifted her over particularly large streams of water while we giggled and she pointed out a frog hopping across the street which made me wide-eyed and open-mouthed in delight. i had water running down my entire left half but a smile on my face. when we reached the house there was a light on and jubelki poked her head out the door. dona miriam was STILL THERE! (it was about 6:30 by this time) they had all been worried and waiting for me to come home. turns out dona miriam had my house key- the missionary had left it with her, and she couldn't bear the thought of leaving my house open, so she was waiting till i got home. i invited the girls to stay for tea and crackers, and we chatted for a bit- anyelka started to try to go home barefoot because her shoes were so awful and soaked so of course i gave her a pair of shoes to wear.
again i am humbled by the amount of thoughtful and genuine care i receive from people here, i am brought to my knees. three months blessed by lots of living, learning, and love- good health and good spirits, and the making of wonderful new friends. here's to many more months to come!
love and miss you all- joy and peace to you! cal
jueves, 29 de marzo de 2007
Jungle Death March Part II
Fourteen year-old Anyelka, my closest comrade here in the mountains, arrives on schedule at precisely 10:35 AM. She pays me a visit every Sunday after mass ends to deliver my week's batch of clean laundry. She wears a canary yellow polo shirt, dirty whitewashed jeans, and broken plastic flip-flop sandals reminiscent of the jellies I remember wearing in middle school. The intensely light colors of her outfit highlight her smooth cappuccino skin tone, and her cat-like obsidian eyes sparkle with teenage secrets. She fishes in her pocket to produce a solitary earring, which is presented to me along with a handmade wire and bead bracelet. My gifts for the morning, which I’ve learned to accept with sincere gratitude rather than attempt to refuse.
Last week Anyelka asked me with unabashed curiously why I only had one small grocery bag full of clothes per week for her mother to wash. I told her that I did not need all the clothes washed that I'd worn for the week, only the completely dust-ridden ones. She looked at me wonderingly and shrugged her shoulders with a slight smirk which I take to mean "oh that -- (insert adjective here)-- gringa!" The shoulder shrug with hands held up in a despairing question mark is a common expression for the locals in San Jose de Cusmapa, who marvel at their token gringa's foreign ways. I wonder how long it will take for Anyelka to give up on my un-cleanliness, for as Walt Whitman wrote, "the scent of these armpits, aroma finer than prayer" and I find that his sage advice applies directly to my clothing habits. I also wonder why, when we're facing a fairly serious water shortage here on our mountain-top, where the nearest "river" (read: foot-wide trickle) is located at least 4 kilometers below the city, that my not wanting to have more clothes washed on a weekly basis has become such a concern for Anyelka. I’m not used to a fourteen year-old pitying my "bedraggled vagabond" style. And by pitying I mean pitying. I truly believe that she has taken upon herself the impossible task of turning me into a presentable woman. If I really knew Spanish I'd explain to her that it's truly not worth her effort. Instead I smile widely; her enthusiasm for my hopeless habits is a lovely gesture of friendship.
Anyelka inquires if I'd be interested in meeting her Padrino (godfather) in the afternoon, an invitation that I simply cannot resist. I've just sat down at my computer to get some reading done for a project I'm starting here with women’s health education (something I'd effectively put off all weekend by hiking all over the place, taking pictures, sleeping on the spectacular down pillow Steph left me, making a glorious stir-fry for my roommates, and practicing my struggling guitar skills) so I ask her to come back around three in the afternoon to fetch me. After she waltzes out the door, fulfilled with a cup of tea and a mango (both of our favorites) I make a valiant attempt to get back to my reading.
Five minutes later I hear a shuffling of steps in our living room and recognize the notorious muttering of the three-toothed cackling homeless woman of Cusmapa. Her sun-baked grinning face greets me with hardy laughter and she croons a string of Spanish of which I understand less than one word . I've found that teeth are an important factor in whether or not I'm able to understand the language... at least a 70% increase in my understanding happens when a person has more than a handful of teeth. Her gnarled fingers generously pat me on the head like I'm a small, well-behaved child. I hand her a package of saltine crackers and lead her to the door, trying to explain that she can't just come in to our house without knocking... a particularly ridiculous statement as all doors in Cusmapa are always open to this ancient wandering soul. I feel sort of a kindred spirit with this semi-crazy crone, as we're regarded by community members with the same sentiment. We're intriguing and eccentric yet harmless apparitions- not of the same reality, clumsily stumbling along the outer boundaries of the community begging for a moment's inclusion. As I shoo her out the door I'm able to decipher a mumbled yet sincere "gracias" before turning back to my work.
Moments later I hear footsteps climbing our front steps and a knock, peek around the corner and OH NO there stands a very hopeful local Romeo (and by local Romeo I mean he lives 3 hours from Cusmapa by bus). I met him last weekend and had (what I thought was) a very terse conversation (read: I'm most definitely not interested in you) before assuring him that I had a very serious race-car-driver boyfriend back in the States. Yet, he saunters into my life again, Saved by the Bell era bleached jean jacket flung over his shoulder, waiting for an invite to sit down. I'm brisk with him to the point of rudeness. At this point but I’m really not in the mood to get hit on by a creepy guy who think's he's Webster's definition of saucy sexiness. He gets the hint after a few minutes, and literally turns on his heel to make a quick exit when Domingo, one of my roommates, returns from lunch and passes him in the doorway with a friendly handshake (read: "come on in, buddy!) then immediately disappears into his bedroom. Damnit Domingo. I continue to read about women's reproductive rights (ie: I'm most definitely not interested in talking to you!) and he finally asks "am I annoying you?" (um... are you kidding me?!). In trying to adhere with the local cultural practice of saving face of both people involved by lying to somebody's face I reply “of course not, I just need to work" and explain to him how important I think it is for women here to be able to have the right to legal abortion (at least when the mother's life is at risk- a right which was taken away by law about six months ago). I think this topic will turn him off infinitely. I’m dead wrong. This statement somehow turns into a half hour discussion on religion, at the pinnacle of which he generously gives me a copy of an Evangelical DVD (after I’d told him that I think Evangelical religions are absolutely frightening and assured him that I wanted nothing to do with that type of church). I politely and enthusiastically refuse his preaching peace pipe. His weak laughter in retaliation of my refusal only augments the awkwardness; he continues with unyielding romantic advances. At this point I answer with a ruthless silence. Finally he stands, clears his throat, and attempts a cheek-kiss, which I meet with a handshake. He tells me he hopes to see me soon. I say the only thing which seems appropriate in the moment, "adios". Sometimes “goodbye” is all there’s left to say...
I've entirely wasted two hours of my "working" time entertaining and attempting to thwart various visitors. The clock reads 1:50. I sigh... one hour of work before Anyelka's return. I'll give you ONE guess what happened next. Of course my dear little friend shows up an hour early (which is nearly unheard of in Nicaragua, most of the time people arrive to events or meetings between 20 minutes and two hours late) obviously excited for our little jaunt. What choice did I have but to close up shop? I completely surrender any hope of getting work done on this interrupted Sunday afternoon. We walk in silence in the mid-afternoon heat to say a quick hello to Blanca (Anyelka's 32 year-old mother) who stands in the doorway holding a wiggly two-year-old Luis (the baby of the family). Luis greets me with great gusto and pats my hand in response to my greetings. Blanca, always quick to smile, assures me that Anyelka's padrino's house is "circa" (very close) to Cusmapa.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up una momento. My "Nicaraguan cultural knowledge" alarm goes off in high volume. I’ve heard these words before.. a "very close distance to walk" in La Concha this January turned into a 8 mile "Jungle Death March" (as Sky, my buddy from New York and I dubbed it in an exhausted attempt to find some sort of humor in the situation). The Jungle Death March ended with me falling three times and nearly crawling on hands and knees to the top of a mountain ridge in a sweaty collapsing mess. The crowning moment was when we finally stumbled upon a roadside pulperia (corner store) where a crinkled bespectacled woman in an apron sold us water which had been (in her words) "partially" frozen. I’ve never had a more joyous and devastating moment in the span of a coveted gulp of water. Sky and I had toasted, our water bottles clinking magnificently as only the promise of cold water after a dust-laden death march can feel, and tipped back our heads at the same moment, only yearning for a giant gulp of gloriousness. Instead I received a meager three drops of water. In all honesty I nearly cried in that evil moment. Instead, Sky and I immediately caught each others eyes and laughed hysterically for about five minutes, enough time for our COMPLETELY frozen water to thaw for a hearty gulp. After the Jungle Death March I decided to acknowledge that most Nicaraguans' sense of distance would be extremely different from my North American lazy-assed perspective.
In my state of alarm, I indicate to Anyelka that I thought her padrino lived IN Cusmapa, not SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO CUSMAPA (why else would i have signed up for this program?). My mind reels with the desperate knowledge that I’m already in for the long haul. Ticket booked, signed, sealed, delivered, no refunds, no change-of-date, no coupon for a free alcoholic beverage. I make an executive decision to return to my house to put on sunscreen and get a water bottle, change into more appropriate clothes for "a very close distance walk" and am struck like lightning with karma for my annoyed demeanor by a rock jumping under my foot which sends me flying across the cobblestone street in front of my house. I completely skin my knee before the journey even begins. This not a good omen; but it does lighten my spirits, giving the whole adventure a surreal air.
We set off down the river-bed of a road at about 2:45 PM and Anyelka assures me that we'll return by 5. I completely concur with her cousin Aleygda, (age 13) who's also accompanying us, when she exclaims "mentira!" (you're lying!) HA! We read right through your claim that your padrino only lives half-an-hour walk from Cusmapa! Jader (Anyelka's five-year-old brother who's had a veritable river of snot running down his face since the moment I met him) and Marvin (Aleygda's seven-year-old brother) skip ahead of us exclaiming and pointing out various bugs and trees for our viewing pleasure. My next clue that I'm embarking on another Jungle Death March comes after about 15 minutes, when the dried river bed we're hopping from side to side down suddenly veers off to the right, a foot-wide rocky path down the mountainside into the tangled forest of the unknown. This path just so happens to be the same one Domingo pointed out to me earlier in the morning as “dangerous”. Great. After a few tenuous first steps down the 60 degree incline, I get a bit self-assured with my mountain-goat like mountain scaling abilities and immediately am upended, skinning my entire forearm on a sharp rock. I let out a few choice explicatives, dust myself off, and glare at the menacing path which winds before me in a mocking display of unearthed tree roots, boulders, and pools of dust. At this point I absorb myself in conquering the path with all the sheer force my gringa-ness allows me, I concentrate fiercely with each step. You will not skin any other part of my body today, enough is enough. Anyelka fake-falls twice to make me feel better. Again, a true friend, allowing me to not look so ridiculously silly in my constant follies. In her motherly ways, she walks behind me watching my every movement, exclaiming and clucking when I make the slightest error "cuidado!" (be careful!). She also makes a point of making me look up from my careful steps every five seconds to regard a pine tree, which I think I’ve seen my fare share of growing up in Montana.
After about a half-hour of clambering down this precarious path to the forest floor, we hit solid flat ground. I make no attempt to hide my joy for the upcoming leg of our adventure- which looks remarkably tranquil compared to the last hair-raising descent. The right of our path is lined with a variety of trees- most look like what I’d imagine olive trees to be- scraggly and grey-barked, branches reaching toward the sky at unthinkable angles, sinew broken by time and the constant gale of mountain wind. To the left, a sea of mountain ranges. I’ve heard varieties of these facts but apparently the first mountain range is in Nicaragua, the second misty range is in Honduras, then the flat expanse of the Pacific Ocean can be seen in the distance. I learn today that the volcano I’d thought was in Honduras is in fact Volcan Momotombo, near the foot of which lies the capital city of Managua. I also now know that the third range of mountains (which can only be seen on a completely clear-skied day like today) are in El Salvador. I’m no geographer, but I realize that my home state, Montana, is probably bigger than all three of these countries combined. Anyelka stops to pick up a dead bug from the ground, which strikes me as a cross between a house-fly, a dragon-fly, and a grasshopper- and looks positively too large for my comfort. "chinchilla" she tells me, as she points to the trees. they must be the culprits of the constant cacophonous symphony of monotone ringing rising from the forests here, a vibrato which at points during the next hour or so of walking runs through my nerves with an electric current of shiver-inducing sound.
We pass a wild-haired woman and her little one sitting in the shadows of a naked tree waiting for something, anything, to happen. Anyelka tells me they're selling some type of fruit from a red sandbox bucket. I brought two pesos with me for the adventure, which seems to be enough for the sprightly woman to finger through the fruit to pick out the best ones for each of the five of us. I end up with a half-chewed on (by some small animal I'm assuming) piece which looks like a cross between an apple, a nectarine, a plum, and a pomegranate with a waxy yellowish-red skin and an entirely fake looking stem (right out of a Christmas decor catalog). At first bite I pucker with the bitterness, however my thirst overpowers the flavor and I soon find myself appraising it as a lovely specimen of the fruity kind. I'm thirsty at this point because the first time I'd produced my 16-ounce water bottle and taken a swig I'd been swarmed by the kids and was left with a nice mouthful of backwash for whatever thirst-inducing trails that certainly lay ahead. Note to self: next time bring a gallon of water (and a donkey, and a ankle wrap).
We're suddenly on the valley floor and stumble upon what must be a new school surrounded by barbed wire fence, plopped in literally the most rural place I've ever seen. I’m awestruck, and even more so when Anyelka informs me that if you follow the road the school's situated on you'll be in Honduras in 4 KM. What that really means, I have no idea. Just the thought of walking to Honduras in itself is marvelous. We walk across the "road" (which around these parts is one of the nicest, flattest, most navigable roads I've seen), and the kids assure me that from here it's "very close". We round a corner to find a woman relieving herself in the middle of the path about 40 yards ahead. The kids whisper and giggle to themselves and tell me she's crazy. She pulls up her turquoise skirt and picks up the burden of her water bucket, ducking under a barbed wire fence all in one stealthy and sure movement. As we pass, she eyeballs me suspiciously and returns an "adios". Aleygda tells me that a few months ago she killed both of her parents, and that's why they call her crazy. I gulp. Well, now not only am I on a Death March but I'm literally on a Death March in the middle of absolute nowhere and we have a known murderer who I’ve just sauntered past and gregariously greeted. Why am I not surprised?
Anyelka informs me that this walk seems long to me because I've never been here before. I scoff in my mind. No shit Sherlock, but we have been hiking now for nearly two hours. Thirty minutes later we finally step through a creaking wooden gate on to the infamous Padrino's property. I stop dead in my tracks to marvel at a 20 foot tall boulder, an artifact of ancient times, upon which a grove of trees have planted themselves, their leaves whispering in the soft late-afternoon sunshine. My companions, who by now have become accustomed to my substantial and un-ceasing obsession with trees, wait patiently while I snap off a few photos. The path winds round the other side of the boulder, where a house is nestled into the hillside. Anyelka calms her Padrino's dog who has probably never seen a white person before and by the sound of his grumbling growl I assume has white-woman flesh on the brain. I consider my unclothed calves, which to this malnourished pup must look like a drumstick mirage of mythic proportions and allow for a few queasy moments to pass before he's calmed down. I'm hospitably asked to enter and to sit in one of two chairs which decorate the one-room house. From the ceiling hang bunches of dried corn and green plantains. The corner houses a clay oven upon which simmers a pot of coffee. I'm graciously offered "cafecita" (a cup of coffee). I think to myself how strange a lot of social situations would be here if I didn't drink coffee, it's entirely a national pastime. Consuming your host's homebrew here is an essential part a part of being a guest.
I have a brief conversation with said-Padrino, a middle-aged man going on 80, with a thin graying moustache and a body frame of a man who's spent his life hard-laboring in the fields, who now feels the deep pressure of time and age. His left eye clouded with cataracts, and hair peppered with hints of black peering boldly through silver, he asks me if I know Mateo (one of the American volunteers who lived here about 5 years ago) and I tell him no, then ask him how far it is to Honduras. He tells me 15 kilometers. A bit different than Anyelka's 4 kilometers- but at least I’m getting a mean of 9.5 which is definitely walkable. Chickens wander in and out of the dirt-floored room, and I watch the kids hunkered down by the door sharing a cup of coffee, listless in these few moments of non-movement.
Anyelka gives up on the prospect of a deep long-winded conversation between her Padrino and I, and we descend out the back door down the hillside to a little quebrata (water pump which serves as bathing area and laundry facility) where three girls in their early-teens vigorously scrub today's laundry, absolutely soaked to the bone. The kids find it strange that I'm not compelled to rinse my feet off. I’m all too aware that we're soon to be on our return voyage, so I don't really see the necessity of washing them. Again I'm met with a notorious "hopeless gringa" shoulder shrug and we clamber back up the hillside to the house. We're given a bunch of bananas for the walk back, I’m squawked at by a frightened baby (this also happens to me often here, as to them my thick-rimmed glasses and facial piercings probably look absolutely and horrifyingly alien), and we say our goodbyes. I'm told to return soon, which I promise to do. Now that I know how close they live to Cusmapa, how could I not visit more often?!
We take a different path back. Another pattern I'm noticing about the way things work around here is that when you walk somewhere you never take the same path to return. Always walking in circles... Twenty minutes into our walk I find myself ducking under a barbed wire fence and the kids are looking at each other warily. I know this kid look, I’m not that old yet. In universal kid language it means "we're most definitely not supposed to be here right now but let's not tell the old lady cause then if we get caught we can just blame it on her". We tiptoe past what appear to be bunkhouses and are met with the yipping of yet another underfed canine admiring my white chops. We quickly duck out of sight behind a latrine and are suddenly in the front yard of Tia's (Auntie's) house. Five kids sit on a long bench out front, sharing a small elementary calculator and one notebook, arguing about the solution to a math problem. They snicker at my plaid boy-shorts as I lumber in front of their huddle. I use the word lumber as I've been making a lot of "fat gringa" jokes lately mainly because, well, my roommate informs me on a constant basis that I'm fat. He never says it like it's a bad thing, just like it's an indisputable truth. I don't know which of these meanings is worse, but they're equally detrimental to a gal like me who already towers above 99% of the women here by at least a foot (take into consideration that I'm only 5'6").
Present circumstances being that I'm wearing a scarf around my head and sporting baggy boy-shorts, sweating like a bandit, I suppose if I saw me right now I'd be doing a lot of snickering too. I'm invited in to a 8 X 8 foot room for a brief moment, till Tia's baby has one look at me and starts howling it's little head off. I make a beeline for the exit. By beeline I mean I take a step backwards and go back outside, and take a seat on the bench near the group of snickerers. An old man in a loose-fitting forest-ranger uniform joins me and we sit in deep silence. I study his time-worn wrinkles as he stares off into the distance. He seems nearly blind but moves his gaze toward a group of chiming clattering children down the road and offers a wide-mouthed non-toothed grin. We don't exchange any words, but I love this man. I suppose it's good that we didn't try to talk considering my five-toothed rule, which he certainly didn't pass. I smile warmly watching him tottle off down the road towards the children, seeking one of their hands to lead the way. I don't know where he goes, but I wish him blessings and a peaceful voyage.
Anyelka's done her best to calm Tia's baby, but to no avail, so we leave with a "mucho gusto" (nice to meet you) and take a much less strenuous, much longer road back up to Cusmapa. About half-way up the mountain she points out our first route to me, a sinister serpent weaving across the mountainside. I look down at my skinned forearm- a spectacular souvenir from the afternoon. At this point romantic dusk lighting takes over the world and I’m struck by how much this golden lighting affects my mood and perception of events. I stop every 200 yards to take pictures of the setting sun. As we finally reach the outskirts of Cusmapa I am thrilled to see smoke rising from houses, battered clothes hanging from rusted barbed wire fences, and barefooted children running willy-nilly down dirt pathways; marking a hodgepodge of images which I now distinctly recognize as "home". All major injuries averted for the day, of which I'm convinced that the dogs being at eye level with my calves were the most life threatening, I take a deep breath of the setting sun, wish my little friends a good evening, and saunter to my house for a much deserved, sure to be completely un-frozen, gulp of water.
Last week Anyelka asked me with unabashed curiously why I only had one small grocery bag full of clothes per week for her mother to wash. I told her that I did not need all the clothes washed that I'd worn for the week, only the completely dust-ridden ones. She looked at me wonderingly and shrugged her shoulders with a slight smirk which I take to mean "oh that -- (insert adjective here)-- gringa!" The shoulder shrug with hands held up in a despairing question mark is a common expression for the locals in San Jose de Cusmapa, who marvel at their token gringa's foreign ways. I wonder how long it will take for Anyelka to give up on my un-cleanliness, for as Walt Whitman wrote, "the scent of these armpits, aroma finer than prayer" and I find that his sage advice applies directly to my clothing habits. I also wonder why, when we're facing a fairly serious water shortage here on our mountain-top, where the nearest "river" (read: foot-wide trickle) is located at least 4 kilometers below the city, that my not wanting to have more clothes washed on a weekly basis has become such a concern for Anyelka. I’m not used to a fourteen year-old pitying my "bedraggled vagabond" style. And by pitying I mean pitying. I truly believe that she has taken upon herself the impossible task of turning me into a presentable woman. If I really knew Spanish I'd explain to her that it's truly not worth her effort. Instead I smile widely; her enthusiasm for my hopeless habits is a lovely gesture of friendship.
Anyelka inquires if I'd be interested in meeting her Padrino (godfather) in the afternoon, an invitation that I simply cannot resist. I've just sat down at my computer to get some reading done for a project I'm starting here with women’s health education (something I'd effectively put off all weekend by hiking all over the place, taking pictures, sleeping on the spectacular down pillow Steph left me, making a glorious stir-fry for my roommates, and practicing my struggling guitar skills) so I ask her to come back around three in the afternoon to fetch me. After she waltzes out the door, fulfilled with a cup of tea and a mango (both of our favorites) I make a valiant attempt to get back to my reading.
Five minutes later I hear a shuffling of steps in our living room and recognize the notorious muttering of the three-toothed cackling homeless woman of Cusmapa. Her sun-baked grinning face greets me with hardy laughter and she croons a string of Spanish of which I understand less than one word . I've found that teeth are an important factor in whether or not I'm able to understand the language... at least a 70% increase in my understanding happens when a person has more than a handful of teeth. Her gnarled fingers generously pat me on the head like I'm a small, well-behaved child. I hand her a package of saltine crackers and lead her to the door, trying to explain that she can't just come in to our house without knocking... a particularly ridiculous statement as all doors in Cusmapa are always open to this ancient wandering soul. I feel sort of a kindred spirit with this semi-crazy crone, as we're regarded by community members with the same sentiment. We're intriguing and eccentric yet harmless apparitions- not of the same reality, clumsily stumbling along the outer boundaries of the community begging for a moment's inclusion. As I shoo her out the door I'm able to decipher a mumbled yet sincere "gracias" before turning back to my work.
Moments later I hear footsteps climbing our front steps and a knock, peek around the corner and OH NO there stands a very hopeful local Romeo (and by local Romeo I mean he lives 3 hours from Cusmapa by bus). I met him last weekend and had (what I thought was) a very terse conversation (read: I'm most definitely not interested in you) before assuring him that I had a very serious race-car-driver boyfriend back in the States. Yet, he saunters into my life again, Saved by the Bell era bleached jean jacket flung over his shoulder, waiting for an invite to sit down. I'm brisk with him to the point of rudeness. At this point but I’m really not in the mood to get hit on by a creepy guy who think's he's Webster's definition of saucy sexiness. He gets the hint after a few minutes, and literally turns on his heel to make a quick exit when Domingo, one of my roommates, returns from lunch and passes him in the doorway with a friendly handshake (read: "come on in, buddy!) then immediately disappears into his bedroom. Damnit Domingo. I continue to read about women's reproductive rights (ie: I'm most definitely not interested in talking to you!) and he finally asks "am I annoying you?" (um... are you kidding me?!). In trying to adhere with the local cultural practice of saving face of both people involved by lying to somebody's face I reply “of course not, I just need to work" and explain to him how important I think it is for women here to be able to have the right to legal abortion (at least when the mother's life is at risk- a right which was taken away by law about six months ago). I think this topic will turn him off infinitely. I’m dead wrong. This statement somehow turns into a half hour discussion on religion, at the pinnacle of which he generously gives me a copy of an Evangelical DVD (after I’d told him that I think Evangelical religions are absolutely frightening and assured him that I wanted nothing to do with that type of church). I politely and enthusiastically refuse his preaching peace pipe. His weak laughter in retaliation of my refusal only augments the awkwardness; he continues with unyielding romantic advances. At this point I answer with a ruthless silence. Finally he stands, clears his throat, and attempts a cheek-kiss, which I meet with a handshake. He tells me he hopes to see me soon. I say the only thing which seems appropriate in the moment, "adios". Sometimes “goodbye” is all there’s left to say...
I've entirely wasted two hours of my "working" time entertaining and attempting to thwart various visitors. The clock reads 1:50. I sigh... one hour of work before Anyelka's return. I'll give you ONE guess what happened next. Of course my dear little friend shows up an hour early (which is nearly unheard of in Nicaragua, most of the time people arrive to events or meetings between 20 minutes and two hours late) obviously excited for our little jaunt. What choice did I have but to close up shop? I completely surrender any hope of getting work done on this interrupted Sunday afternoon. We walk in silence in the mid-afternoon heat to say a quick hello to Blanca (Anyelka's 32 year-old mother) who stands in the doorway holding a wiggly two-year-old Luis (the baby of the family). Luis greets me with great gusto and pats my hand in response to my greetings. Blanca, always quick to smile, assures me that Anyelka's padrino's house is "circa" (very close) to Cusmapa.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up una momento. My "Nicaraguan cultural knowledge" alarm goes off in high volume. I’ve heard these words before.. a "very close distance to walk" in La Concha this January turned into a 8 mile "Jungle Death March" (as Sky, my buddy from New York and I dubbed it in an exhausted attempt to find some sort of humor in the situation). The Jungle Death March ended with me falling three times and nearly crawling on hands and knees to the top of a mountain ridge in a sweaty collapsing mess. The crowning moment was when we finally stumbled upon a roadside pulperia (corner store) where a crinkled bespectacled woman in an apron sold us water which had been (in her words) "partially" frozen. I’ve never had a more joyous and devastating moment in the span of a coveted gulp of water. Sky and I had toasted, our water bottles clinking magnificently as only the promise of cold water after a dust-laden death march can feel, and tipped back our heads at the same moment, only yearning for a giant gulp of gloriousness. Instead I received a meager three drops of water. In all honesty I nearly cried in that evil moment. Instead, Sky and I immediately caught each others eyes and laughed hysterically for about five minutes, enough time for our COMPLETELY frozen water to thaw for a hearty gulp. After the Jungle Death March I decided to acknowledge that most Nicaraguans' sense of distance would be extremely different from my North American lazy-assed perspective.
In my state of alarm, I indicate to Anyelka that I thought her padrino lived IN Cusmapa, not SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO CUSMAPA (why else would i have signed up for this program?). My mind reels with the desperate knowledge that I’m already in for the long haul. Ticket booked, signed, sealed, delivered, no refunds, no change-of-date, no coupon for a free alcoholic beverage. I make an executive decision to return to my house to put on sunscreen and get a water bottle, change into more appropriate clothes for "a very close distance walk" and am struck like lightning with karma for my annoyed demeanor by a rock jumping under my foot which sends me flying across the cobblestone street in front of my house. I completely skin my knee before the journey even begins. This not a good omen; but it does lighten my spirits, giving the whole adventure a surreal air.
We set off down the river-bed of a road at about 2:45 PM and Anyelka assures me that we'll return by 5. I completely concur with her cousin Aleygda, (age 13) who's also accompanying us, when she exclaims "mentira!" (you're lying!) HA! We read right through your claim that your padrino only lives half-an-hour walk from Cusmapa! Jader (Anyelka's five-year-old brother who's had a veritable river of snot running down his face since the moment I met him) and Marvin (Aleygda's seven-year-old brother) skip ahead of us exclaiming and pointing out various bugs and trees for our viewing pleasure. My next clue that I'm embarking on another Jungle Death March comes after about 15 minutes, when the dried river bed we're hopping from side to side down suddenly veers off to the right, a foot-wide rocky path down the mountainside into the tangled forest of the unknown. This path just so happens to be the same one Domingo pointed out to me earlier in the morning as “dangerous”. Great. After a few tenuous first steps down the 60 degree incline, I get a bit self-assured with my mountain-goat like mountain scaling abilities and immediately am upended, skinning my entire forearm on a sharp rock. I let out a few choice explicatives, dust myself off, and glare at the menacing path which winds before me in a mocking display of unearthed tree roots, boulders, and pools of dust. At this point I absorb myself in conquering the path with all the sheer force my gringa-ness allows me, I concentrate fiercely with each step. You will not skin any other part of my body today, enough is enough. Anyelka fake-falls twice to make me feel better. Again, a true friend, allowing me to not look so ridiculously silly in my constant follies. In her motherly ways, she walks behind me watching my every movement, exclaiming and clucking when I make the slightest error "cuidado!" (be careful!). She also makes a point of making me look up from my careful steps every five seconds to regard a pine tree, which I think I’ve seen my fare share of growing up in Montana.
After about a half-hour of clambering down this precarious path to the forest floor, we hit solid flat ground. I make no attempt to hide my joy for the upcoming leg of our adventure- which looks remarkably tranquil compared to the last hair-raising descent. The right of our path is lined with a variety of trees- most look like what I’d imagine olive trees to be- scraggly and grey-barked, branches reaching toward the sky at unthinkable angles, sinew broken by time and the constant gale of mountain wind. To the left, a sea of mountain ranges. I’ve heard varieties of these facts but apparently the first mountain range is in Nicaragua, the second misty range is in Honduras, then the flat expanse of the Pacific Ocean can be seen in the distance. I learn today that the volcano I’d thought was in Honduras is in fact Volcan Momotombo, near the foot of which lies the capital city of Managua. I also now know that the third range of mountains (which can only be seen on a completely clear-skied day like today) are in El Salvador. I’m no geographer, but I realize that my home state, Montana, is probably bigger than all three of these countries combined. Anyelka stops to pick up a dead bug from the ground, which strikes me as a cross between a house-fly, a dragon-fly, and a grasshopper- and looks positively too large for my comfort. "chinchilla" she tells me, as she points to the trees. they must be the culprits of the constant cacophonous symphony of monotone ringing rising from the forests here, a vibrato which at points during the next hour or so of walking runs through my nerves with an electric current of shiver-inducing sound.
We pass a wild-haired woman and her little one sitting in the shadows of a naked tree waiting for something, anything, to happen. Anyelka tells me they're selling some type of fruit from a red sandbox bucket. I brought two pesos with me for the adventure, which seems to be enough for the sprightly woman to finger through the fruit to pick out the best ones for each of the five of us. I end up with a half-chewed on (by some small animal I'm assuming) piece which looks like a cross between an apple, a nectarine, a plum, and a pomegranate with a waxy yellowish-red skin and an entirely fake looking stem (right out of a Christmas decor catalog). At first bite I pucker with the bitterness, however my thirst overpowers the flavor and I soon find myself appraising it as a lovely specimen of the fruity kind. I'm thirsty at this point because the first time I'd produced my 16-ounce water bottle and taken a swig I'd been swarmed by the kids and was left with a nice mouthful of backwash for whatever thirst-inducing trails that certainly lay ahead. Note to self: next time bring a gallon of water (and a donkey, and a ankle wrap).
We're suddenly on the valley floor and stumble upon what must be a new school surrounded by barbed wire fence, plopped in literally the most rural place I've ever seen. I’m awestruck, and even more so when Anyelka informs me that if you follow the road the school's situated on you'll be in Honduras in 4 KM. What that really means, I have no idea. Just the thought of walking to Honduras in itself is marvelous. We walk across the "road" (which around these parts is one of the nicest, flattest, most navigable roads I've seen), and the kids assure me that from here it's "very close". We round a corner to find a woman relieving herself in the middle of the path about 40 yards ahead. The kids whisper and giggle to themselves and tell me she's crazy. She pulls up her turquoise skirt and picks up the burden of her water bucket, ducking under a barbed wire fence all in one stealthy and sure movement. As we pass, she eyeballs me suspiciously and returns an "adios". Aleygda tells me that a few months ago she killed both of her parents, and that's why they call her crazy. I gulp. Well, now not only am I on a Death March but I'm literally on a Death March in the middle of absolute nowhere and we have a known murderer who I’ve just sauntered past and gregariously greeted. Why am I not surprised?
Anyelka informs me that this walk seems long to me because I've never been here before. I scoff in my mind. No shit Sherlock, but we have been hiking now for nearly two hours. Thirty minutes later we finally step through a creaking wooden gate on to the infamous Padrino's property. I stop dead in my tracks to marvel at a 20 foot tall boulder, an artifact of ancient times, upon which a grove of trees have planted themselves, their leaves whispering in the soft late-afternoon sunshine. My companions, who by now have become accustomed to my substantial and un-ceasing obsession with trees, wait patiently while I snap off a few photos. The path winds round the other side of the boulder, where a house is nestled into the hillside. Anyelka calms her Padrino's dog who has probably never seen a white person before and by the sound of his grumbling growl I assume has white-woman flesh on the brain. I consider my unclothed calves, which to this malnourished pup must look like a drumstick mirage of mythic proportions and allow for a few queasy moments to pass before he's calmed down. I'm hospitably asked to enter and to sit in one of two chairs which decorate the one-room house. From the ceiling hang bunches of dried corn and green plantains. The corner houses a clay oven upon which simmers a pot of coffee. I'm graciously offered "cafecita" (a cup of coffee). I think to myself how strange a lot of social situations would be here if I didn't drink coffee, it's entirely a national pastime. Consuming your host's homebrew here is an essential part a part of being a guest.
I have a brief conversation with said-Padrino, a middle-aged man going on 80, with a thin graying moustache and a body frame of a man who's spent his life hard-laboring in the fields, who now feels the deep pressure of time and age. His left eye clouded with cataracts, and hair peppered with hints of black peering boldly through silver, he asks me if I know Mateo (one of the American volunteers who lived here about 5 years ago) and I tell him no, then ask him how far it is to Honduras. He tells me 15 kilometers. A bit different than Anyelka's 4 kilometers- but at least I’m getting a mean of 9.5 which is definitely walkable. Chickens wander in and out of the dirt-floored room, and I watch the kids hunkered down by the door sharing a cup of coffee, listless in these few moments of non-movement.
Anyelka gives up on the prospect of a deep long-winded conversation between her Padrino and I, and we descend out the back door down the hillside to a little quebrata (water pump which serves as bathing area and laundry facility) where three girls in their early-teens vigorously scrub today's laundry, absolutely soaked to the bone. The kids find it strange that I'm not compelled to rinse my feet off. I’m all too aware that we're soon to be on our return voyage, so I don't really see the necessity of washing them. Again I'm met with a notorious "hopeless gringa" shoulder shrug and we clamber back up the hillside to the house. We're given a bunch of bananas for the walk back, I’m squawked at by a frightened baby (this also happens to me often here, as to them my thick-rimmed glasses and facial piercings probably look absolutely and horrifyingly alien), and we say our goodbyes. I'm told to return soon, which I promise to do. Now that I know how close they live to Cusmapa, how could I not visit more often?!
We take a different path back. Another pattern I'm noticing about the way things work around here is that when you walk somewhere you never take the same path to return. Always walking in circles... Twenty minutes into our walk I find myself ducking under a barbed wire fence and the kids are looking at each other warily. I know this kid look, I’m not that old yet. In universal kid language it means "we're most definitely not supposed to be here right now but let's not tell the old lady cause then if we get caught we can just blame it on her". We tiptoe past what appear to be bunkhouses and are met with the yipping of yet another underfed canine admiring my white chops. We quickly duck out of sight behind a latrine and are suddenly in the front yard of Tia's (Auntie's) house. Five kids sit on a long bench out front, sharing a small elementary calculator and one notebook, arguing about the solution to a math problem. They snicker at my plaid boy-shorts as I lumber in front of their huddle. I use the word lumber as I've been making a lot of "fat gringa" jokes lately mainly because, well, my roommate informs me on a constant basis that I'm fat. He never says it like it's a bad thing, just like it's an indisputable truth. I don't know which of these meanings is worse, but they're equally detrimental to a gal like me who already towers above 99% of the women here by at least a foot (take into consideration that I'm only 5'6").
Present circumstances being that I'm wearing a scarf around my head and sporting baggy boy-shorts, sweating like a bandit, I suppose if I saw me right now I'd be doing a lot of snickering too. I'm invited in to a 8 X 8 foot room for a brief moment, till Tia's baby has one look at me and starts howling it's little head off. I make a beeline for the exit. By beeline I mean I take a step backwards and go back outside, and take a seat on the bench near the group of snickerers. An old man in a loose-fitting forest-ranger uniform joins me and we sit in deep silence. I study his time-worn wrinkles as he stares off into the distance. He seems nearly blind but moves his gaze toward a group of chiming clattering children down the road and offers a wide-mouthed non-toothed grin. We don't exchange any words, but I love this man. I suppose it's good that we didn't try to talk considering my five-toothed rule, which he certainly didn't pass. I smile warmly watching him tottle off down the road towards the children, seeking one of their hands to lead the way. I don't know where he goes, but I wish him blessings and a peaceful voyage.
Anyelka's done her best to calm Tia's baby, but to no avail, so we leave with a "mucho gusto" (nice to meet you) and take a much less strenuous, much longer road back up to Cusmapa. About half-way up the mountain she points out our first route to me, a sinister serpent weaving across the mountainside. I look down at my skinned forearm- a spectacular souvenir from the afternoon. At this point romantic dusk lighting takes over the world and I’m struck by how much this golden lighting affects my mood and perception of events. I stop every 200 yards to take pictures of the setting sun. As we finally reach the outskirts of Cusmapa I am thrilled to see smoke rising from houses, battered clothes hanging from rusted barbed wire fences, and barefooted children running willy-nilly down dirt pathways; marking a hodgepodge of images which I now distinctly recognize as "home". All major injuries averted for the day, of which I'm convinced that the dogs being at eye level with my calves were the most life threatening, I take a deep breath of the setting sun, wish my little friends a good evening, and saunter to my house for a much deserved, sure to be completely un-frozen, gulp of water.
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