When I first arrived in Cusmapa I realized two things:
1) I walk like a gringo. Fast-paced, as if I have an actual destination and am looking forward to getting there on time.
2) Nobody here uses a flashlight at night, and there are no street lamps… yet everyone seems to be able to navigate the cobblestone and riverbeds without spraining ankles and with a consistent knowledge of who passes by.
In order to adapt myself to the culture and to build up my (what I like to refer to as) “street credibility” (some may call it “street cred”) I made two adjustments to my behavior:
1) A conscious attempt at sauntering along at the pace of the snorkeling pigs. I am not allowed to pass any moving object, person, or animal… there are no passing lanes. I have to remind myself that it only takes 10 minutes to walk from one end of town to the other… I have no reason to hurry.
2) I do not use my headlamp or a flashlight of any kind to walk around in the dark, even though I finish teaching at about 7 PM every night and sometimes have to walk back through darkness where I can literally not see my hand 6 inches in front of my own face.
I figure that if I do these two things, people will look beyond my whiteness to see the Cusmapan within.
So I’ve been building up my “street cred” around town, “poco-a-poco” (bit by bit) yet I keep hitting major roadblocks which set me back to the gringaness factor I found in square one nearly a year ago. These roadblocks include but are not limited to the following:
1) The first week I was in town, walking home after lunch for a much needed siesta, a bus horn surprised me and I ran face-first into the mayor’s office sign in front of a bus full of people and the mid-day center of town loitering crowd.
2) Two months ago walking to school with Hannah, we walked by the billiards hall and passed two little children who gawked in fear at our oddness. I giggled and right as I was saying “I just love it when I say hi to kids and they look at me like I’m going to eat them” (aka: making fun of these kiddos who’d just been frightened to death by my friendliness) I looked at the sky and BOOM fell over a small rock in the road and nearly broke my ankle (karma’s a real bitch). When I got to the school the house doctor told me that I should probably “take some ibuprofen, ice my ankle, and stop looking at the clouds while I walk”. Thanks for the stellar advice, doc. I’ll write that one down.
3) A month ago, walking to school with Lauren, head in the clouds thinking about a boy (of all things, seriously?!) I again stepped funny on a small rock and landed directly on my OTHER knee (right after the scab on my left one had finally healed). Lauren, being the kind friend she is, didn’t laugh in my face. She sat with me as I crawled to the curb and angrily fought back tears for a few moments… THEN laughed at me. Or rather, with me. Let’s just say, my knees are not in good shape these days.
4) I kept using the word “bicho” to talk to Facundo (the guy who takes care of our house) about the various bugs we have in our house… because in my Harper Collins Spanish Concise Dictionary “bicho” refers to “a small insect”. My Nicaraguan friend Mayerling recently informed me that the word “bicho”, when used in Nicaragua, actually refers to a “vagina”. I have been talking to our caretaker about my vagina for the past two months. If that’s not a roadblock to building a strong foundation of street cred, I don’t know what is.
5) A moment I like to call “THE KICKER” in my complete lack of street cred in Cusmapa. Walking home from school last week, I passed the soccer stadium where the high school boys were playing a late afternoon pick-up game. Their ratty ball conveniently flew over the barbed wire fence 20 feet in front of me so to the yells of “Oye! Profe Callie! El pelota!” In a moment of absolute stupidity (my excuse being that I was in a riot of a good mood) I picked up the ball and took a bit of a running start to kick it to them over the fence (thinking: “that’s right, girls can play soccer too!”) and… WHIFF. Not even kidding you, I whiffed. With my foot. And a soccer ball. Needless to say, the boys and I were all doubled over laughing and I mumbled something about needing different shoes to kick a soccer ball properly (obviously my Chacos were not the right footwear choice for the moment) and threw the ball over the fence.
So, now I resolve to take the following precautions in order to retain the shred of street cred I may currently possess:
1) I will walk with a flashlight. Because not walking with one down my riverbed of a street is just plain stupid.
2) I will no longer make fun of small children while walking. Karma always bites me in the ass.
3) I will no longer look at trees, animals, or the sky while I am walking. That’s just asking for a skinned knee and a visit to the school doctor (whose motto, as I’ve stated before is “take ibuprofen, and if you don’t feel better in four days… you’ll be dead!).
4) I will no longer talk about insects in the presence of “the Cound” (Facundo’s nickname) as I think we’ve had more than enough conversations on the topic of my vagina. I will spare him the pain.
5) I will invest in a pair of soccer cleats in order to be fully prepared for my next opportunity to drop kick a ball into a field of high school boys. Well maybe not, but I will not soon forget the reality of my complete lack of hand-eye coordination and will try to plan my behavior accordingly.
6) I will continue to laugh at myself and hope that others do as well, with the thought that if we are laughing together they’re not directly laughing AT me… I’m just making other people joyous through my follies.
martes, 4 de diciembre de 2007
martes, 6 de noviembre de 2007
AYYYY Mi Amor! Mi Corazon!
A list of heckles I receive every day walking to and from school:
“Ayyyyy mi amor! Mi Corazon!!!!! Mi vida!”
(Translation: Oh, my love. My heart. My life.)
“Voy a casarme contigo y vamos a los Estados!”
(Translation: I’m going to marry you and we are going to the United States.)
“Ayyyy mi muneca….”
(Translation: Oh, my doll.)
“Adios chelita preciosa hermosa (insert smooching sound here)!”
(Translation: Goodbye beautiful precious whitey MWAH.)
“Adios amorSOTA!”
(Translation: Goodbye my LOVE! Straight out of ‘Dumb and Dumber‘.)
“tssst…tssst…tssst….”
(an appalling hissing sound meant to be a romantic attention-grabber)
“Adios, gringo!”
(An enthusiastic exclamation from the mouth of a two-year-old neighbor of mine who must think I am a man.)
And my personal favorite:
“Callie, I love you forever!”
(straight from the mouth of a seven-year-old who isn’t even a student of mine)
These taunts follow me from the moment I leave my house at 7:30 AM until I return at 7 PM. I’ve heard all of the above come from the mouths of my students, their fathers, and quite possibly their grandfathers; from bus drivers, bus attendants, and the owner of the local corner store. Last Valentines Day as I walked home with three rolls of toilet paper and a half-dozen eggs I received quite a few “ay, mi amor!”s, much to my surprise. I can’t think of anything more romantic than buying toilet paper.
I could blame it on the male gender in general, but after talking to a few of my students and friends I’ve found a few other causes for this constant heckling.
1) Boys here learn it from their fathers who learned it from their fathers who learned it from…
(you get the point)
2) Men here are too intimidated to actually have a conversation with women, therefore they choose to inflict a barrage of romantic mumbo jumbo upon them.
3) Men think that the women here actually LIKE this kind of verbal abuse (I’ve assured my Nicaraguan male friends that this is most definitely NOT the case).
4) Alcohol… the town drunk here, a most friendly soul who talks to walls and bricks and dogs (non-discriminating between living and inanimate objects, which I respect) calls me “his love” while asking me to buy him a litro of Caballito (at $1 a bottle and with a picture of a horse on front, comparable to a cross between rubbing alcohol and moonshine)… seriously though, alcohol plays a big role in the fact that men are not comfortable socializing with women on an equal basis. They feel they must be drunk in order to talk to women, and then instead of talking to them as peers, end up insulting them.
5) A major pastime here in Cusmapa, watching telenovelas (cheesy locally produced soap operas) largely contributes to the type of romanticism displayed by the men. Many suitors of mine claimed to love me “at first sight” and claimed to have not thought about another woman since laying eyes on yours truly (including, believe it or not, those I know to have more than one girlfriend). I suppose if I received the majority of my ideas about romance from soap operas I’d have a pretty skewed view on what love actually is. As the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing: “THROW AWAY YOUR TELEVISION.”
A prime example of the “love at first sight” phenomenon occurred today as Lauren and I walked to la Casona (the gigantic Fabretto-owned house in town used for large groups of volunteers) to have dinner with a group of folks from the States who are currently visiting Cusmapa. Marlon (an acquaintance of ours) approached us on the street, flushed and bashful. We know Marlon through his cousin Osmara, one of my high school students. The only time we’ve hung out with him was a few weeks ago at my birthday dinner at Osmara’s house. He studied in the states for a year in a forestry program in Oregon, and loves to practice his English with Lauren and I.
Marlon asked why we didn’t end up having a Halloween fiesta, to which we claimed the reason of volunteer poverty. He wouldn’t look Lauren or I in the eye, which should have been my first clue that something was weird and wonderful in our interaction. He stammered out an:
“I have a dream…”
“Yes…” (Lauren and I both wonder…)
“I have a dream…” (Marlon looks embarrassedly at his shoes. Awkward pause.)
“Um. Like Martin Luther King Jr.?”
(I can really be mean. Like I‘ve said before, I‘m not a good English teacher… or person)
“No.” (The joke went over his head, but Lauren giggles…
I’m glad at least someone finds me funny.)
“I have a dream….”
(Lauren and I look at each other and lean together in a “oh no, oh my, oh goodness, this isn’t going where we think it is” moment of understanding.)
“I can’t tell you.” (I shut off my giggles, and attempt to gain back his confidence by appearing serious and genuinely interested in the profound content of his dream.)
“Oh, come on. What was it?” (I’m such a good shrink.)
“It was about you.” (Marlon gestures at Lauren then looks back at his shoes and blushes and chuckles nervously.)
(Marlon mumbles something under his breath, losing his English speaking capabilities and resorting to an unintelligible Spanglish, which I myself am entirely guilty of speaking the vast majority of the time.)
“Um. Was it a long dream?” (Lauren, the gifted interviewer tries to pry some more information from our suffering friend and looks at me, eyebrows raised in utter disbelief in the ridiculousness of her life. She tries desperately to make the conversation a bit more bearable.)
“I can’t tell you.” (Oh sweet lord, out with it already buddy.)
(Marlon looks at me, then pulls Lauren aside for secrecy… obviously the dream’s contents are meant for her ears only).
I walk out of earshot and look at the sky, smiling. Good lord, I never know what to expect when I wake up every single morning in this country. All I hear from their conversation is Lauren’s awkward laughter as she asks:
“Haha but it was just a dream, RIGHT?” (oh Lord, how she hopes it was)
Then I hear, “…you can come over later… JUST FRIENDS…” and more nervous laughter. I know exactly where that conversation went. Lauren and I hold our giggles as best as we possibly can as she fills me in on “the dream” that Marlon experienced. Apparently in dream-land, Marlon is in love with Lauren. Shocking. And now he wonders if he can come hang out at our house “as friends”. Poor blundering guy.
I gotta hand it to Marlon, he’s the creative romantic type.
At least he didn’t use the
“I’m going to marry you and we’ll go to the United States” line straight off the bat.
“Ayyyyy mi amor! Mi Corazon!!!!! Mi vida!”
(Translation: Oh, my love. My heart. My life.)
“Voy a casarme contigo y vamos a los Estados!”
(Translation: I’m going to marry you and we are going to the United States.)
“Ayyyy mi muneca….”
(Translation: Oh, my doll.)
“Adios chelita preciosa hermosa (insert smooching sound here)!”
(Translation: Goodbye beautiful precious whitey MWAH.)
“Adios amorSOTA!”
(Translation: Goodbye my LOVE! Straight out of ‘Dumb and Dumber‘.)
“tssst…tssst…tssst….”
(an appalling hissing sound meant to be a romantic attention-grabber)
“Adios, gringo!”
(An enthusiastic exclamation from the mouth of a two-year-old neighbor of mine who must think I am a man.)
And my personal favorite:
“Callie, I love you forever!”
(straight from the mouth of a seven-year-old who isn’t even a student of mine)
These taunts follow me from the moment I leave my house at 7:30 AM until I return at 7 PM. I’ve heard all of the above come from the mouths of my students, their fathers, and quite possibly their grandfathers; from bus drivers, bus attendants, and the owner of the local corner store. Last Valentines Day as I walked home with three rolls of toilet paper and a half-dozen eggs I received quite a few “ay, mi amor!”s, much to my surprise. I can’t think of anything more romantic than buying toilet paper.
I could blame it on the male gender in general, but after talking to a few of my students and friends I’ve found a few other causes for this constant heckling.
1) Boys here learn it from their fathers who learned it from their fathers who learned it from…
(you get the point)
2) Men here are too intimidated to actually have a conversation with women, therefore they choose to inflict a barrage of romantic mumbo jumbo upon them.
3) Men think that the women here actually LIKE this kind of verbal abuse (I’ve assured my Nicaraguan male friends that this is most definitely NOT the case).
4) Alcohol… the town drunk here, a most friendly soul who talks to walls and bricks and dogs (non-discriminating between living and inanimate objects, which I respect) calls me “his love” while asking me to buy him a litro of Caballito (at $1 a bottle and with a picture of a horse on front, comparable to a cross between rubbing alcohol and moonshine)… seriously though, alcohol plays a big role in the fact that men are not comfortable socializing with women on an equal basis. They feel they must be drunk in order to talk to women, and then instead of talking to them as peers, end up insulting them.
5) A major pastime here in Cusmapa, watching telenovelas (cheesy locally produced soap operas) largely contributes to the type of romanticism displayed by the men. Many suitors of mine claimed to love me “at first sight” and claimed to have not thought about another woman since laying eyes on yours truly (including, believe it or not, those I know to have more than one girlfriend). I suppose if I received the majority of my ideas about romance from soap operas I’d have a pretty skewed view on what love actually is. As the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing: “THROW AWAY YOUR TELEVISION.”
A prime example of the “love at first sight” phenomenon occurred today as Lauren and I walked to la Casona (the gigantic Fabretto-owned house in town used for large groups of volunteers) to have dinner with a group of folks from the States who are currently visiting Cusmapa. Marlon (an acquaintance of ours) approached us on the street, flushed and bashful. We know Marlon through his cousin Osmara, one of my high school students. The only time we’ve hung out with him was a few weeks ago at my birthday dinner at Osmara’s house. He studied in the states for a year in a forestry program in Oregon, and loves to practice his English with Lauren and I.
Marlon asked why we didn’t end up having a Halloween fiesta, to which we claimed the reason of volunteer poverty. He wouldn’t look Lauren or I in the eye, which should have been my first clue that something was weird and wonderful in our interaction. He stammered out an:
“I have a dream…”
“Yes…” (Lauren and I both wonder…)
“I have a dream…” (Marlon looks embarrassedly at his shoes. Awkward pause.)
“Um. Like Martin Luther King Jr.?”
(I can really be mean. Like I‘ve said before, I‘m not a good English teacher… or person)
“No.” (The joke went over his head, but Lauren giggles…
I’m glad at least someone finds me funny.)
“I have a dream….”
(Lauren and I look at each other and lean together in a “oh no, oh my, oh goodness, this isn’t going where we think it is” moment of understanding.)
“I can’t tell you.” (I shut off my giggles, and attempt to gain back his confidence by appearing serious and genuinely interested in the profound content of his dream.)
“Oh, come on. What was it?” (I’m such a good shrink.)
“It was about you.” (Marlon gestures at Lauren then looks back at his shoes and blushes and chuckles nervously.)
(Marlon mumbles something under his breath, losing his English speaking capabilities and resorting to an unintelligible Spanglish, which I myself am entirely guilty of speaking the vast majority of the time.)
“Um. Was it a long dream?” (Lauren, the gifted interviewer tries to pry some more information from our suffering friend and looks at me, eyebrows raised in utter disbelief in the ridiculousness of her life. She tries desperately to make the conversation a bit more bearable.)
“I can’t tell you.” (Oh sweet lord, out with it already buddy.)
(Marlon looks at me, then pulls Lauren aside for secrecy… obviously the dream’s contents are meant for her ears only).
I walk out of earshot and look at the sky, smiling. Good lord, I never know what to expect when I wake up every single morning in this country. All I hear from their conversation is Lauren’s awkward laughter as she asks:
“Haha but it was just a dream, RIGHT?” (oh Lord, how she hopes it was)
Then I hear, “…you can come over later… JUST FRIENDS…” and more nervous laughter. I know exactly where that conversation went. Lauren and I hold our giggles as best as we possibly can as she fills me in on “the dream” that Marlon experienced. Apparently in dream-land, Marlon is in love with Lauren. Shocking. And now he wonders if he can come hang out at our house “as friends”. Poor blundering guy.
I gotta hand it to Marlon, he’s the creative romantic type.
At least he didn’t use the
“I’m going to marry you and we’ll go to the United States” line straight off the bat.
lunes, 5 de noviembre de 2007
The Not-So-Magic Schoolbus
I consider myself a fairly tolerant person, yet when it comes to bus rides here in Nicaragua I find myself beginning to lose patience with a few essential bus ride factors:
1) the music being rocked over sound systems which belong in Honda Civics with spoilers, not on ancient school buses
2) the absolute lack of safety (though I had some illusion of it until this past weekend)
3) subjection to spontaneous Evangelical sermons
The last four times Lauren and I traveled back and forth between Somoto and Cusmapa we’ve been in the same bus, as there’s only three which ramble back and forth up and down the mountain. Eddy, the wide-mustached driver, seems hell bent (though he may not be conscious of it) on providing the most awful, repetitive music possible to accompany this scenic route. Imagine looking across the misty forests and mountains of Nicaragua and Honduras and being subjected to tunes such as: Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, a CD which I refer to as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack”, or my newest favorites which I call “Spoken Word Evangelical Style” and “Woman Howling in Spanish about her Failed Romantic Endeavors”. Every once in a while Eddy plays a gem like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” or some ranchero (Mexican drinking music). However, the vast majority of the time I find myself groaning as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack” repeats itself for the fourth time. What makes the music selection particularly destructive to my mental health is THE VOLUME LEVEL OF THE TUNES REFLECTS EDDY’S ASSUMPTION THAT EVERY SINGLE OF HIS BUS PATRONS MUST BE DEAF.
It’s not only the bus music selection that sets Nicaragua apart from other countries in this world. Tell a Nicaraguan you’re from the United States and you are bound to be faced with a few remarkable questions:
1) “OH! You must love the music of Michael Bolton!”
2) “Ooooh. Bryan Adams. Don’t you love romantic music?!”
3) “Have you ever heard the song ‘Hotel California’ ?”
If you haven’t heard “Hotel California” lately, you’re bound to hear it within the first two hours you’re in the country. If like myself, you don’t even know what songs Michael Bolton actually sings, you will know soon enough. If Bryan Adams songs bring back thoughts of the mid-eighties, they will now bring thoughts of Nicaraguan friends who enjoy singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs at 6 AM. My favorite part of the random awful selection of US music listened to here in Nicaragua has to be what’s lost in the translation between English and Spanish. Although in English most romantic music refers to human relationships, the Spanish versions most often showcase Jesus as the song’s major theme.
As if listening to Jesus theme songs and “Evangelical Spoken Word” isn’t grand enough, approximately 1/3 of the bus rides also include an unsolicited Evangelical sermon. The first time I experienced this event, I sat wide-eyed and awed (you know those times you feel like life’s so ridiculous that you MUST be in a movie) as the preacher sent fire and brimstone across the vinyl bus seats, praising Senor Dios almighty before he came around to each patron, hand outstretched to collect cordobas. Though I’d like for nothing more than contributing to the construction of another “Dios Poderoso Iglesia de Jerusalem” or “DioZ es el Senor” (literally spelled with a backward S, seen on the front of a Baptist church here in Cusmapa), I normally choose to abstain from the bus pastor’s collection.
My favorite display of public Evangelism occurred nearly four months ago at the bus station in Managua (which apparently is an extremely dangerous place, though after this experience I have my doubts) as Ingrid and I headed home after a weekend in Managua. We curiously watched a pot-bellied middle aged man set up a karaoke machine, wiping beads of sweat off his brow with a washcloth and adjusting the volume so it would be just right (aka: enough to reach the ears of every person within a two block radius). After indulging the audience with a few warm-up elevator music hits, the pastor grabbed his Bible and started praying (now that I think about it, he sounded a lot like the “Evangelical Spoken Word” CD Eddy likes to play so much). Ingrid and I marveled at the exhibit, and the man took a long gulp of water before clearing his throat and beginning to SING. To get some idea of his vocal chord capabilities, you must imagine Josh Groban with the voice of a 60-year-old smoker. Not pretty. Entirely hilarious. Whoever does the Public Relations for the Evangelical churches in Nicaragua certainly iced the cake by flaunting this multi-talented pastor at one of the busiest travel hubs in the country.
I digress. Lauren, Mike and I set off for Esteli in the early morning last Saturday, after a lengthy Friday evening of shenanigans and billiards. The Esteli trip served three purposes:
1) We are unable to cash our paychecks in Somoto (the bank there we refer to as a FAKE bank because they do not take travelers checks OR cash any type of check from a different bank chain) so we must make the nine-hour round trip bus ride to stand in line for two hours to get our monthly stipend. (aka: I will NEVER complain about going to the bank in the States again.)
2) Lauren and I have decided to do our grocery shopping at the nearest store not owned by Wal-Mart, which happens to be a locally owned supermarket called “Las Segovias” in Esteli. It’s also the only place in the Northern part of Nicaragua which sells both wine and coconut milk.
* and they served us free beer on my birthday, which boosts the store’s rating to *****.
3) La Casita, our favorite restaurant in Nicaragua, which sells whole wheat bread, muesli, banana marmalade, and Swiss and brie cheese is located in Esteli. To keep up morale, I find I must indulge in one of their sandwiches and a banana milkshake at least once per month.
The stretch of Pan American Highway between Somoto and Esteli looks similar to the two-lane mountain madness at the top of the Fourth of July mountain pass between Idaho and Montana. While living in Spokane during college, I made this trip dozens of times in my trusty ‘93 Subaru Legacy (which hugs the curves much more successfully than the trusty rusty school buses here ever could) and endured quite a few near-death experiences (mainly due to blizzards, breakdowns of Reghan’s “Budgets” mini-van, and crazed semi-truck drivers). Winding two-lane mountain roads and school buses don’t mix. You get the picture.
This particular bus driver (as we were on an Express bus) drove like a “bat out of hell” (as my mom would say) and I felt more than a little queasy as his Indy 500 attempts at tight corners tilted the bus precariously. Lauren and I sat together near the front while Mike brought up the rear of the bus (this being the first time I’d ever experienced bus-attendant-enforced seat numbers). On a particularly dodgy twist, we passed a semi-truck and just as Lauren and I gave each other a “good god we might die today” look…
“WHAM!” people screaming and the bus lurched as the semi-truck grazed the back 15 feet of the bus. For a good 30 seconds, I thought our driver was going to keep on truckin’ down the highway with a hole ripped through the back of the bus. He finally pulled over and I saw Mike stand up brushing broken glass off himself. He’d been one row in front of the shattered windows. We piled off the bus, my heart pounding emergently. There were no serious injuries, only a shaken group of 20-some people who’d literally seen their lives flash before their eyes. The semi-truck we’d hit kept driving! Scary thought. Lauren, Mike, and I regained our composure and shook our heads in disbelief. The bus attendant began to sweep out the broken glass with the head of a broken broom and some of our fellow bus-mates hitchhiked with passing lorries. Five minutes after we stopped, folks loaded back on the bus and we looked at each other warily before making our way back to our seats. (Yes, we got BACK ON the wrecked bus). Ten minutes later we were still waiting and the man standing in front of Lauren and I reported that the driver had called the police, and we wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time. The three of us got back off the bus, tracked down the attendant to get 20 of our 30 cordobas refunded, and caught the next bus passing on its way to Esteli.
The irony of the situation was that the day before, Lauren asked if I carried my travelers insurance information with me in the case of a bus accident. Truthfully, I’ve never thought about how important it could be to have my medical information on me, but now I am absolutely convinced. I think Mike might take to renting cars rather than relying on public transportation (though I suggested the purchase of oxen and a cart, which would be much more cost effective than car rentals). Any minor sense of safety I felt traveling on the public bus system has been completely shot after that experience, especially seeing the nonchalant reactions of the Nicaraguan’s I’ve told about the wreck. Their flat-line response to hearing about the accident points to one simple fact: there are absolutely no magical crash-free school buses in this country…
Oh, the things we risk and endure just to get a brie and hummus sandwich, a can of coconut milk, and to avoid shopping at Wal-Mart owned Pali.
1) the music being rocked over sound systems which belong in Honda Civics with spoilers, not on ancient school buses
2) the absolute lack of safety (though I had some illusion of it until this past weekend)
3) subjection to spontaneous Evangelical sermons
The last four times Lauren and I traveled back and forth between Somoto and Cusmapa we’ve been in the same bus, as there’s only three which ramble back and forth up and down the mountain. Eddy, the wide-mustached driver, seems hell bent (though he may not be conscious of it) on providing the most awful, repetitive music possible to accompany this scenic route. Imagine looking across the misty forests and mountains of Nicaragua and Honduras and being subjected to tunes such as: Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, a CD which I refer to as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack”, or my newest favorites which I call “Spoken Word Evangelical Style” and “Woman Howling in Spanish about her Failed Romantic Endeavors”. Every once in a while Eddy plays a gem like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” or some ranchero (Mexican drinking music). However, the vast majority of the time I find myself groaning as “Night at the Roxbury on Crack” repeats itself for the fourth time. What makes the music selection particularly destructive to my mental health is THE VOLUME LEVEL OF THE TUNES REFLECTS EDDY’S ASSUMPTION THAT EVERY SINGLE OF HIS BUS PATRONS MUST BE DEAF.
It’s not only the bus music selection that sets Nicaragua apart from other countries in this world. Tell a Nicaraguan you’re from the United States and you are bound to be faced with a few remarkable questions:
1) “OH! You must love the music of Michael Bolton!”
2) “Ooooh. Bryan Adams. Don’t you love romantic music?!”
3) “Have you ever heard the song ‘Hotel California’ ?”
If you haven’t heard “Hotel California” lately, you’re bound to hear it within the first two hours you’re in the country. If like myself, you don’t even know what songs Michael Bolton actually sings, you will know soon enough. If Bryan Adams songs bring back thoughts of the mid-eighties, they will now bring thoughts of Nicaraguan friends who enjoy singing the lyrics at the top of their lungs at 6 AM. My favorite part of the random awful selection of US music listened to here in Nicaragua has to be what’s lost in the translation between English and Spanish. Although in English most romantic music refers to human relationships, the Spanish versions most often showcase Jesus as the song’s major theme.
As if listening to Jesus theme songs and “Evangelical Spoken Word” isn’t grand enough, approximately 1/3 of the bus rides also include an unsolicited Evangelical sermon. The first time I experienced this event, I sat wide-eyed and awed (you know those times you feel like life’s so ridiculous that you MUST be in a movie) as the preacher sent fire and brimstone across the vinyl bus seats, praising Senor Dios almighty before he came around to each patron, hand outstretched to collect cordobas. Though I’d like for nothing more than contributing to the construction of another “Dios Poderoso Iglesia de Jerusalem” or “DioZ es el Senor” (literally spelled with a backward S, seen on the front of a Baptist church here in Cusmapa), I normally choose to abstain from the bus pastor’s collection.
My favorite display of public Evangelism occurred nearly four months ago at the bus station in Managua (which apparently is an extremely dangerous place, though after this experience I have my doubts) as Ingrid and I headed home after a weekend in Managua. We curiously watched a pot-bellied middle aged man set up a karaoke machine, wiping beads of sweat off his brow with a washcloth and adjusting the volume so it would be just right (aka: enough to reach the ears of every person within a two block radius). After indulging the audience with a few warm-up elevator music hits, the pastor grabbed his Bible and started praying (now that I think about it, he sounded a lot like the “Evangelical Spoken Word” CD Eddy likes to play so much). Ingrid and I marveled at the exhibit, and the man took a long gulp of water before clearing his throat and beginning to SING. To get some idea of his vocal chord capabilities, you must imagine Josh Groban with the voice of a 60-year-old smoker. Not pretty. Entirely hilarious. Whoever does the Public Relations for the Evangelical churches in Nicaragua certainly iced the cake by flaunting this multi-talented pastor at one of the busiest travel hubs in the country.
I digress. Lauren, Mike and I set off for Esteli in the early morning last Saturday, after a lengthy Friday evening of shenanigans and billiards. The Esteli trip served three purposes:
1) We are unable to cash our paychecks in Somoto (the bank there we refer to as a FAKE bank because they do not take travelers checks OR cash any type of check from a different bank chain) so we must make the nine-hour round trip bus ride to stand in line for two hours to get our monthly stipend. (aka: I will NEVER complain about going to the bank in the States again.)
2) Lauren and I have decided to do our grocery shopping at the nearest store not owned by Wal-Mart, which happens to be a locally owned supermarket called “Las Segovias” in Esteli. It’s also the only place in the Northern part of Nicaragua which sells both wine and coconut milk.
* and they served us free beer on my birthday, which boosts the store’s rating to *****.
3) La Casita, our favorite restaurant in Nicaragua, which sells whole wheat bread, muesli, banana marmalade, and Swiss and brie cheese is located in Esteli. To keep up morale, I find I must indulge in one of their sandwiches and a banana milkshake at least once per month.
The stretch of Pan American Highway between Somoto and Esteli looks similar to the two-lane mountain madness at the top of the Fourth of July mountain pass between Idaho and Montana. While living in Spokane during college, I made this trip dozens of times in my trusty ‘93 Subaru Legacy (which hugs the curves much more successfully than the trusty rusty school buses here ever could) and endured quite a few near-death experiences (mainly due to blizzards, breakdowns of Reghan’s “Budgets” mini-van, and crazed semi-truck drivers). Winding two-lane mountain roads and school buses don’t mix. You get the picture.
This particular bus driver (as we were on an Express bus) drove like a “bat out of hell” (as my mom would say) and I felt more than a little queasy as his Indy 500 attempts at tight corners tilted the bus precariously. Lauren and I sat together near the front while Mike brought up the rear of the bus (this being the first time I’d ever experienced bus-attendant-enforced seat numbers). On a particularly dodgy twist, we passed a semi-truck and just as Lauren and I gave each other a “good god we might die today” look…
“WHAM!” people screaming and the bus lurched as the semi-truck grazed the back 15 feet of the bus. For a good 30 seconds, I thought our driver was going to keep on truckin’ down the highway with a hole ripped through the back of the bus. He finally pulled over and I saw Mike stand up brushing broken glass off himself. He’d been one row in front of the shattered windows. We piled off the bus, my heart pounding emergently. There were no serious injuries, only a shaken group of 20-some people who’d literally seen their lives flash before their eyes. The semi-truck we’d hit kept driving! Scary thought. Lauren, Mike, and I regained our composure and shook our heads in disbelief. The bus attendant began to sweep out the broken glass with the head of a broken broom and some of our fellow bus-mates hitchhiked with passing lorries. Five minutes after we stopped, folks loaded back on the bus and we looked at each other warily before making our way back to our seats. (Yes, we got BACK ON the wrecked bus). Ten minutes later we were still waiting and the man standing in front of Lauren and I reported that the driver had called the police, and we wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time. The three of us got back off the bus, tracked down the attendant to get 20 of our 30 cordobas refunded, and caught the next bus passing on its way to Esteli.
The irony of the situation was that the day before, Lauren asked if I carried my travelers insurance information with me in the case of a bus accident. Truthfully, I’ve never thought about how important it could be to have my medical information on me, but now I am absolutely convinced. I think Mike might take to renting cars rather than relying on public transportation (though I suggested the purchase of oxen and a cart, which would be much more cost effective than car rentals). Any minor sense of safety I felt traveling on the public bus system has been completely shot after that experience, especially seeing the nonchalant reactions of the Nicaraguan’s I’ve told about the wreck. Their flat-line response to hearing about the accident points to one simple fact: there are absolutely no magical crash-free school buses in this country…
Oh, the things we risk and endure just to get a brie and hummus sandwich, a can of coconut milk, and to avoid shopping at Wal-Mart owned Pali.
sábado, 3 de noviembre de 2007
126 Hours of Rain
Anyelka (of the Jungle Death March, a student of mine and adventure companion) comes to my house this morning offering fresh tortillas, still warm off the adobe oven. We sit at the dining room table and chat for some time, mainly commenting on the weather. You see, today is Saturday and it’s been raining non-stop since Tuesday morning. There’s been a few half-hour breaks here and there but currently we’re going on more than a hundred straight hours of rain. That’s more rain than I’m used to seeing in a whole year, or even five years!
Anyelka tells me that in El Cariso, a community close to Cusmapa, 50 people have been evacuated from their flooded homes and that two houses have already collapsed here in town.
A few days before, we sat at the same table as Jubelkis (Anyelka’s sister) nonchalantly mentioned that one of her cousins died last weekend in the drainage ditch right outside my house. Apparently he’d been in town early morning to buy some cheese and other supplies, walked across one of the wooden plank bridges (which my friend Mike refers to as “rickety planks”), slipped, fell head-first into the concrete riverbed, and was unconscious for a few minutes gulping down rainwater before someone found him and took him to the health center. He died on the spot, a mixture of the concussion and drowning in 6 inches of rainwater. I wonder if anyone at the scene knew CPR? Because of this accident (which has been coming for some time, as the ditch is not covered and is located on a main street where children play unsupervised all the time) people are scared and avoid walking over it
Anyelka earnestly states that her mother’s been with her aunt in El Cariso all week, praying and holding vigil over the boy. The family lost two cousins in the past year. Last April, Manuel, an 18-year-old (who used to be in the same high school choir I currently teach) started coughing up blood and died within 24 hours. Death in Nicaragua- not a foreign event awaiting to take people at age 70 peacefully in their sleep. Death waits around every corner. In a shot given at the health center with an overdose of medication, which killed Anyelka’s oldest sister three years ago, in fungal infections which require pills too expensive for a family to buy, in the inability to provide basic first aid to someone with a minor injury.
Anyelka and I continue discussing the weather, and she informs me that another hurricane is on the way. “Haven’t you been watching the news?” she exclaims, wondering at the insanity of the fact that I don’t spend any of my time watching the three television channels we get here in town. She’s adamant and seems to have her facts straight, becoming the fourth or fifth person in the past day to tell me that there’s never been a rain like this here in Cusmapa (since Hurricane Mitch, which put the pueblo out of contact with civilization for nearly 2 ½ months). I call Lauren (my new roomate) into the room and tell her the big news. I figure that whether or not Anyelka’s news right, we should be prepared for the worst. So we strap on our soaking wet shoes, damp rain jackets, wool socks, pop open our broken umbrellas, and head out into the rain.
“What should we buy?” Lauren asks, her eyes grazing each shelf of our corner pulperia store. The 10 X 15 foot room, stuffed to the gills with essential items such as hair gel, gumballs, Coca Cola, Gustitos (a Cheeto/Dorito mix), sardines, and shortening grows silent in pregnant anticipation. What do the crazy gringas want now? I shrug, wondering if sardines take first prize as the only non-perishable item to be found in Cusmapa.
Four sticks of margarine, two bags of rice, a dozen eggs, a pound of potatoes, a pound of cheese, and some sweet bread later, we pay the store’s owner 114 cordobas (about six dollars) and wade our way carefully downhill (currently downstream) stepping over moss-covered rocks and dodging the current river of rainwater pouring down what once was our street. We pack our pantry (ie: old non-functioning refrigerator) with our hurricane supplies and set to making banana pancakes (because in the face of a storm, what else are you going to do?).
After breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, we turn on our TV (for the first time) to see what Channel 10 (the 24-hour news station) reports about the storm. Twenty minutes into the news-watching all we’ve learned consists of the fact that Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro are buddy-buddy (big surprise there) and that George Bush has asked the legislature for “TLC” for Central American countries (lord knows what TLC means in Spanish, but we got a big kick out of that one as I‘m sure it does NOT refer to “tender loving care“). We also happen upon a program about fire-dancers, a Frankenstein-looking botox-enhanced mullet-sporting man singing about Jesus Cristo… and in the meantime realize that our roof has a massive leak. Nothing about the hurricane, so we turn off the scary electric box and figure we’ll just weather whatever comes our way.
I read in my Moon guidebook of Nicaragua some months ago about rains “being an excuse” for just about anything but never believed it until now. Public school’s been cancelled since last Tuesday and currently classes are suspended until further notice. We worked at Fabretto all last week but no students came, and to get to and from work was a quest each time. Thursday afternoon, after the strongest of rains hit town, Lauren and I ventured back to the house and ALL the streets in town were flooded riverbeds; we dodged raging waters left and right. Growing up in Montana, I was granted one “ice” day of winter freedom- we never had a single snow day in my 12 years of school! Imagine my thoughts regarding rain days….
A ridiculous concept, right? Wrong.
This kind of weather makes foot travel nearly impossible for many of my students who walk more than an hour to get to school each day. Most of them do not own a rain jacket (though it‘s rainy season six months of the year here) or any other waterproof clothing. My students who did show up last week at school wore sandals and cotton shorts and dresses and shivered constantly. Kids wander around the streets barefoot and wearing little or no clothing; while I’m dressed in the same garb I‘d sport for a day of downhill skiing. Our garden’s been ravaged. Half a banana tree fallen, all the sunflowers satiated and keeling over, roots exposed. I stood in the doorway this morning and watched two chickens unsuccessfully search for a dry place to preen.
I’m struck by how relatively unaffected I’ve been by the storm. Other than dreams of sunshine and lectures I’ve prepared in my mind targeted at global warming nay-sayers, I’m comfortable in my fleece pants with a cup of tea in a draft-free (relatively drip-free) house, guarding all the instruments from the music program (I currently have 9 guitars, a set of bongoes, a jembe drum, and 4 congo drums drying out in my bedroom- as our music classroom’s broken windows let in moisture), and banking on my backup margarine and rice supply to sustain me through whatever tempest comes my way.
And for those in my community who are losing so much more to these rains… crops, homes, family members… I hope, I wish, for blue skies…
Anyelka tells me that in El Cariso, a community close to Cusmapa, 50 people have been evacuated from their flooded homes and that two houses have already collapsed here in town.
A few days before, we sat at the same table as Jubelkis (Anyelka’s sister) nonchalantly mentioned that one of her cousins died last weekend in the drainage ditch right outside my house. Apparently he’d been in town early morning to buy some cheese and other supplies, walked across one of the wooden plank bridges (which my friend Mike refers to as “rickety planks”), slipped, fell head-first into the concrete riverbed, and was unconscious for a few minutes gulping down rainwater before someone found him and took him to the health center. He died on the spot, a mixture of the concussion and drowning in 6 inches of rainwater. I wonder if anyone at the scene knew CPR? Because of this accident (which has been coming for some time, as the ditch is not covered and is located on a main street where children play unsupervised all the time) people are scared and avoid walking over it
Anyelka earnestly states that her mother’s been with her aunt in El Cariso all week, praying and holding vigil over the boy. The family lost two cousins in the past year. Last April, Manuel, an 18-year-old (who used to be in the same high school choir I currently teach) started coughing up blood and died within 24 hours. Death in Nicaragua- not a foreign event awaiting to take people at age 70 peacefully in their sleep. Death waits around every corner. In a shot given at the health center with an overdose of medication, which killed Anyelka’s oldest sister three years ago, in fungal infections which require pills too expensive for a family to buy, in the inability to provide basic first aid to someone with a minor injury.
Anyelka and I continue discussing the weather, and she informs me that another hurricane is on the way. “Haven’t you been watching the news?” she exclaims, wondering at the insanity of the fact that I don’t spend any of my time watching the three television channels we get here in town. She’s adamant and seems to have her facts straight, becoming the fourth or fifth person in the past day to tell me that there’s never been a rain like this here in Cusmapa (since Hurricane Mitch, which put the pueblo out of contact with civilization for nearly 2 ½ months). I call Lauren (my new roomate) into the room and tell her the big news. I figure that whether or not Anyelka’s news right, we should be prepared for the worst. So we strap on our soaking wet shoes, damp rain jackets, wool socks, pop open our broken umbrellas, and head out into the rain.
“What should we buy?” Lauren asks, her eyes grazing each shelf of our corner pulperia store. The 10 X 15 foot room, stuffed to the gills with essential items such as hair gel, gumballs, Coca Cola, Gustitos (a Cheeto/Dorito mix), sardines, and shortening grows silent in pregnant anticipation. What do the crazy gringas want now? I shrug, wondering if sardines take first prize as the only non-perishable item to be found in Cusmapa.
Four sticks of margarine, two bags of rice, a dozen eggs, a pound of potatoes, a pound of cheese, and some sweet bread later, we pay the store’s owner 114 cordobas (about six dollars) and wade our way carefully downhill (currently downstream) stepping over moss-covered rocks and dodging the current river of rainwater pouring down what once was our street. We pack our pantry (ie: old non-functioning refrigerator) with our hurricane supplies and set to making banana pancakes (because in the face of a storm, what else are you going to do?).
After breakfast and a strong cup of coffee, we turn on our TV (for the first time) to see what Channel 10 (the 24-hour news station) reports about the storm. Twenty minutes into the news-watching all we’ve learned consists of the fact that Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro are buddy-buddy (big surprise there) and that George Bush has asked the legislature for “TLC” for Central American countries (lord knows what TLC means in Spanish, but we got a big kick out of that one as I‘m sure it does NOT refer to “tender loving care“). We also happen upon a program about fire-dancers, a Frankenstein-looking botox-enhanced mullet-sporting man singing about Jesus Cristo… and in the meantime realize that our roof has a massive leak. Nothing about the hurricane, so we turn off the scary electric box and figure we’ll just weather whatever comes our way.
I read in my Moon guidebook of Nicaragua some months ago about rains “being an excuse” for just about anything but never believed it until now. Public school’s been cancelled since last Tuesday and currently classes are suspended until further notice. We worked at Fabretto all last week but no students came, and to get to and from work was a quest each time. Thursday afternoon, after the strongest of rains hit town, Lauren and I ventured back to the house and ALL the streets in town were flooded riverbeds; we dodged raging waters left and right. Growing up in Montana, I was granted one “ice” day of winter freedom- we never had a single snow day in my 12 years of school! Imagine my thoughts regarding rain days….
A ridiculous concept, right? Wrong.
This kind of weather makes foot travel nearly impossible for many of my students who walk more than an hour to get to school each day. Most of them do not own a rain jacket (though it‘s rainy season six months of the year here) or any other waterproof clothing. My students who did show up last week at school wore sandals and cotton shorts and dresses and shivered constantly. Kids wander around the streets barefoot and wearing little or no clothing; while I’m dressed in the same garb I‘d sport for a day of downhill skiing. Our garden’s been ravaged. Half a banana tree fallen, all the sunflowers satiated and keeling over, roots exposed. I stood in the doorway this morning and watched two chickens unsuccessfully search for a dry place to preen.
I’m struck by how relatively unaffected I’ve been by the storm. Other than dreams of sunshine and lectures I’ve prepared in my mind targeted at global warming nay-sayers, I’m comfortable in my fleece pants with a cup of tea in a draft-free (relatively drip-free) house, guarding all the instruments from the music program (I currently have 9 guitars, a set of bongoes, a jembe drum, and 4 congo drums drying out in my bedroom- as our music classroom’s broken windows let in moisture), and banking on my backup margarine and rice supply to sustain me through whatever tempest comes my way.
And for those in my community who are losing so much more to these rains… crops, homes, family members… I hope, I wish, for blue skies…
jueves, 4 de octubre de 2007
Niblits (Nica Newsy Tidbits)
Oh dear I am a slacker. I haven´t written anything of substance, or given an update of sorts for months! Life here is treating me so well! Things here are busy, yet the days are long and tranquil. I have been teaching three choirs (all different ages), an English class (of 10-14 year-olds), voice lessons, and have even managed to score a night with a family once per week where I give a piano lesson to their daughter in exchange for great company and dinner! I am feeling more and more at home in my community, connecting with my co-workers on a deeper level, and my language has improved drastically. It´s been interesting to have my language capabilities and trust in relationships develop at a similar pace, and I have found in the past months more and more deep conversations with my students and co-workers.
The electricity situation in the country has not improved at all, we are power-less from 7 AM until 3 PM most days… at first I was annoyed with the lack of light, but I have realized that it has freed up time I probably would have spent browsing around on the internet, and have been able to use this time to do MUCH better things. My guitar playing is improving bit by bit (thanks to finding a beginners Beatles book and some Christmas songs with tabs on them), and I have a lot more time to lesson plan, and to engage in any student who happens to pop in to my office. That being said, the power situation is OK for me but is affecting Nicaragua drastically on the economic front. I can´t imagine what the lack of electricity does for businesses around the country, we are blessed in Cusmapa to have less reliance on electricity. Candles are a wonderful, wonderful invention indeed! But I do miss being able to rely on my refrigerator to keep things from spoiling, and showers in the morning…
I spent two weeks in the US at the beginning of August, one week with my dad´s family in Wisconsin at our family reunion (highlighted by dancing to blues bands, card games galore, golf tournaments, great time with cousins, and my new stepsister Emily getting jabbed in the leg with a lawn dart… welcome to the family!). The second week I spent in Montana, seeing my mom´s family and hanging out with friends. It was incredible to see all my loved ones again! The highlights of that week were many barbeques, bluegrass dancing at the Top Hat, shuffleboard, croquet at the Miller´s house, going to Flathead Lake with my mom, Cece, Kate, Tira, and Kayla, getting to see my favourite cousins, lots of laughter, great food, even greater company! It was so hard for me to leave Missoula, a place I feel that will always be my roots and soul. I cried through the entire first two flights back to Nicaragua… but the moment I set foot on this country´s soil again I felt rejuvenated and ready to get back to Cusmapa. That, combined with the amount of incredible little kid hugs I received upon my arrival (and every day since) has lessened the homesickness. But I still crave the sound of banjos, my mom´s hugs, my little sister´s laughter, and the bright eyes of my friends. I am so excited to see all of you again next July!
Since I´ve been back, things are busy and wonderful. There´s been an influx of new Fabretto volunteers (up until this point in my trip I had been the only one). Hannah, who is in Esteli, Mike who is living in Somoto, and Lauren who is my new roomie in Cusmapa! It´s great to have folks to bomb around and travel with, and to have places to go on the weekends. And more company so I can quit doing dorky things like playing Scrabble against myself for fun. (wow, yeah… lame, I know) About a month ago, we had an unprecedentedly crazy weekend in Cusmapa, attended by Josh and Adriana (of JVI clan), and Hannah and Mike. We spent the weekend basically cooking glorious amounts of food and drinking rum… plans to hike on Saturday were thwarted with a late night Friday, spent carrying on and dancing and playing cards. The food highlights included fresh pineapple, alfredo, the best cuajada (fresh cheese!) I have ever tasted, French toast, banana bread, mojitos, and CALZONES (something I never thought in a million years I would eat in Nicaragua). Lots of giggles and ridiculousness. My new roommate Lauren arrived this week and I can already tell we are going to be great friends. She seems like a really compassionate, driven, mindful, artsy type and we are settling into living together and enjoying each other´s company.
For those of you who read the twisted ankles and toothbrushes story, my ankle is feeling a bit better these days. I fell again last week (yeah, I know) which made for a nasty return to the swelling and more pain than I had initially experienced… but it seems to be healing. I went to the school doctor (the same one who told me after the scorpion sting incident that I would ´feel better in a week´) and I think he basically told me what I needed to do to get better was to QUIT FALLING. Which I totally agree with the fellow. It´s difficult, however, to quit falling when I constantly want to be looking at the trees and clouds and the man riding past me on his horse carrying a machete, and the little kids playing in the street. I don´t want to be constantly looking at my feet, I feel like if I do that I will miss what´s really going on in the world! I told the doctor that and he sort of looked at me like I was nuts. It´s true though! I want to look at the clouds while I´m walking sometimes, darnit! So I have been very careful each step the past few weeks and have not noticed a single thing walking too and from school, I am too busy pondering my muddy stinky feet.
A bit of exciting news, I found out last week that my high school choir will be travelling to Spain in March! Apparently there´s a big Georgetown University event (the bigwigs at Fabretto are alumni) and it will be in Madrid, and they want to have Coro Fabrettino sing at the huge banquet of the weekend. Intense! Also, Fabretto has a sister organization in Barcelona, and donors from some beach town in the south of Spain, so we can make it into a tour and travel all over the place singing for people who´ve donated to the organization over the years. EXCELLENT! I am so excited for the trip, it´s sort of overwhelming to think about it now as I know it will be stressful… but I am hoping to get more chaperones in on this adventure so I am not running all over the place the whole time I am there. So that´s my sweet travel news, which means I may have to spend part of my planned vacation time (in January) doing practices with the high schoolers for the trip. But… for a free trip to Spain I guess I could probably manage that.
I am getting ready to have a slew of visitors the next few months! My buddy Evin from college gets here in a few weeks, Katie AND Pat are coming for Thanksgiving (Katie´s one of my best friends from high school and Pat was the last choir director in Cusmapa), then my family will be here for Christmas (and Cece and Cory might stay an extra week so we can have some sibling adventures!!!), then Steph is coming in February for two weeks! AND hopefully Reghan will quit her job and come live with me for a couple of months next Spring. It will be wonderful to get to show all these folks around my home, to have them meet my students and friends and get to know the community.
I am headed to Managua this weekend to do something I never thought I would do in my lifetime… see the Black Eyed Peas in concert. There´s about 10 of us going to the concert, so I think it should be a great time. Hannah, Lauren, and I will also be helping our friend Karlita celebrate her birthday this weekend with margaritas and dancing! So my days of being a hermit here may be officially over, moved to a new phase of having constant company… good stuff! I´m glad to have had the alone time at the beginning to have to really get through things myself, but it feels great now to have some real support and great friends here. Josh and James have also been ´brewing´ some wine type beverage, which sounds very sketchy, and we may get our first taste of that this weekend. We are also planning on going to Leon (a great cultural center of the country, and an hour from the beach) for my birthday here in a couple of weekends. Lots and lots of things happening! Goodness all over the place!
On that note I must sign off, but I send all of you many blessings, and hope all´s well in the rest of the world!
Celebrating 9 months of living in Nicaragua, and loving every moment! And all of you! Love, Cal
The electricity situation in the country has not improved at all, we are power-less from 7 AM until 3 PM most days… at first I was annoyed with the lack of light, but I have realized that it has freed up time I probably would have spent browsing around on the internet, and have been able to use this time to do MUCH better things. My guitar playing is improving bit by bit (thanks to finding a beginners Beatles book and some Christmas songs with tabs on them), and I have a lot more time to lesson plan, and to engage in any student who happens to pop in to my office. That being said, the power situation is OK for me but is affecting Nicaragua drastically on the economic front. I can´t imagine what the lack of electricity does for businesses around the country, we are blessed in Cusmapa to have less reliance on electricity. Candles are a wonderful, wonderful invention indeed! But I do miss being able to rely on my refrigerator to keep things from spoiling, and showers in the morning…
I spent two weeks in the US at the beginning of August, one week with my dad´s family in Wisconsin at our family reunion (highlighted by dancing to blues bands, card games galore, golf tournaments, great time with cousins, and my new stepsister Emily getting jabbed in the leg with a lawn dart… welcome to the family!). The second week I spent in Montana, seeing my mom´s family and hanging out with friends. It was incredible to see all my loved ones again! The highlights of that week were many barbeques, bluegrass dancing at the Top Hat, shuffleboard, croquet at the Miller´s house, going to Flathead Lake with my mom, Cece, Kate, Tira, and Kayla, getting to see my favourite cousins, lots of laughter, great food, even greater company! It was so hard for me to leave Missoula, a place I feel that will always be my roots and soul. I cried through the entire first two flights back to Nicaragua… but the moment I set foot on this country´s soil again I felt rejuvenated and ready to get back to Cusmapa. That, combined with the amount of incredible little kid hugs I received upon my arrival (and every day since) has lessened the homesickness. But I still crave the sound of banjos, my mom´s hugs, my little sister´s laughter, and the bright eyes of my friends. I am so excited to see all of you again next July!
Since I´ve been back, things are busy and wonderful. There´s been an influx of new Fabretto volunteers (up until this point in my trip I had been the only one). Hannah, who is in Esteli, Mike who is living in Somoto, and Lauren who is my new roomie in Cusmapa! It´s great to have folks to bomb around and travel with, and to have places to go on the weekends. And more company so I can quit doing dorky things like playing Scrabble against myself for fun. (wow, yeah… lame, I know) About a month ago, we had an unprecedentedly crazy weekend in Cusmapa, attended by Josh and Adriana (of JVI clan), and Hannah and Mike. We spent the weekend basically cooking glorious amounts of food and drinking rum… plans to hike on Saturday were thwarted with a late night Friday, spent carrying on and dancing and playing cards. The food highlights included fresh pineapple, alfredo, the best cuajada (fresh cheese!) I have ever tasted, French toast, banana bread, mojitos, and CALZONES (something I never thought in a million years I would eat in Nicaragua). Lots of giggles and ridiculousness. My new roommate Lauren arrived this week and I can already tell we are going to be great friends. She seems like a really compassionate, driven, mindful, artsy type and we are settling into living together and enjoying each other´s company.
For those of you who read the twisted ankles and toothbrushes story, my ankle is feeling a bit better these days. I fell again last week (yeah, I know) which made for a nasty return to the swelling and more pain than I had initially experienced… but it seems to be healing. I went to the school doctor (the same one who told me after the scorpion sting incident that I would ´feel better in a week´) and I think he basically told me what I needed to do to get better was to QUIT FALLING. Which I totally agree with the fellow. It´s difficult, however, to quit falling when I constantly want to be looking at the trees and clouds and the man riding past me on his horse carrying a machete, and the little kids playing in the street. I don´t want to be constantly looking at my feet, I feel like if I do that I will miss what´s really going on in the world! I told the doctor that and he sort of looked at me like I was nuts. It´s true though! I want to look at the clouds while I´m walking sometimes, darnit! So I have been very careful each step the past few weeks and have not noticed a single thing walking too and from school, I am too busy pondering my muddy stinky feet.
A bit of exciting news, I found out last week that my high school choir will be travelling to Spain in March! Apparently there´s a big Georgetown University event (the bigwigs at Fabretto are alumni) and it will be in Madrid, and they want to have Coro Fabrettino sing at the huge banquet of the weekend. Intense! Also, Fabretto has a sister organization in Barcelona, and donors from some beach town in the south of Spain, so we can make it into a tour and travel all over the place singing for people who´ve donated to the organization over the years. EXCELLENT! I am so excited for the trip, it´s sort of overwhelming to think about it now as I know it will be stressful… but I am hoping to get more chaperones in on this adventure so I am not running all over the place the whole time I am there. So that´s my sweet travel news, which means I may have to spend part of my planned vacation time (in January) doing practices with the high schoolers for the trip. But… for a free trip to Spain I guess I could probably manage that.
I am getting ready to have a slew of visitors the next few months! My buddy Evin from college gets here in a few weeks, Katie AND Pat are coming for Thanksgiving (Katie´s one of my best friends from high school and Pat was the last choir director in Cusmapa), then my family will be here for Christmas (and Cece and Cory might stay an extra week so we can have some sibling adventures!!!), then Steph is coming in February for two weeks! AND hopefully Reghan will quit her job and come live with me for a couple of months next Spring. It will be wonderful to get to show all these folks around my home, to have them meet my students and friends and get to know the community.
I am headed to Managua this weekend to do something I never thought I would do in my lifetime… see the Black Eyed Peas in concert. There´s about 10 of us going to the concert, so I think it should be a great time. Hannah, Lauren, and I will also be helping our friend Karlita celebrate her birthday this weekend with margaritas and dancing! So my days of being a hermit here may be officially over, moved to a new phase of having constant company… good stuff! I´m glad to have had the alone time at the beginning to have to really get through things myself, but it feels great now to have some real support and great friends here. Josh and James have also been ´brewing´ some wine type beverage, which sounds very sketchy, and we may get our first taste of that this weekend. We are also planning on going to Leon (a great cultural center of the country, and an hour from the beach) for my birthday here in a couple of weekends. Lots and lots of things happening! Goodness all over the place!
On that note I must sign off, but I send all of you many blessings, and hope all´s well in the rest of the world!
Celebrating 9 months of living in Nicaragua, and loving every moment! And all of you! Love, Cal
lunes, 27 de agosto de 2007
Twisted Ankles and Toothbrushes
If there was a Cusmapan newspaper, I’d certainly be writing a letter to the editor thanking the gracious driver and assistants of “el Pizote”, the rundown and re-painted (with Rastafarian tendencies) late 1970’s North American school bus that runs the early-morning route between Somoto and Cusmapa.
I decided to stay overnight in Somoto, eager for the company of my Fabretto co-workers and in dire need of a night of being social in English. I knew full-well that the Friday night would probably end with little sleep, as I needed to take the 6 AM sleepy-eyed bus back to Cusmapa for a 9 AM choir concert on Saturday. Nonetheless, I decided dealing with the early morning would be a small price to pay for a bit of the good times. I played cards with Mike (one of the new volunteers), Oliver (my Peace Corps buddy), and two of Oliver’s Nicaraguan neighbors. We carried on jabbering and singing along to cheesy love songs until the wee hours of the morning. I knew the 6 AM wake-up call would come all too soon…
I slept lightly and awoke at 4, 4:15, 5, 5:30 to the fog-muffled sounds of pre-dawn Nicaragua. Roosters crowing, women dramatically relaying their latest string of life-inflicted barbarities on the way to set up produce stands at the market, taxis passing to and fro beeping at pedestrians in mock warning. At 6, I pulled myself out of bed and wrestled with whether or not I had time to shower (a 10 second match halted with the reflection that I hadn’t showered since Tuesday) and jumped in the ice cold garden-hose stream (what heavenly water pressure!) for just enough time to get soapy and endure a bone chattering rinse. I popped my pajamas back on and grabbed my carton of carrot-orange juice from the fridge, assuming I had at least 10 more minutes (as it was 6:06 and the bus normally doesn’t pass by the house until 6:15 at the earliest).
A too-close for comfort horn blared, and suddenly thrown into panic mode I made a mad dash for my backpack, oversized blue plaid umbrella, and with toothbrush still in mouth, ran full-speed out the door.
I forgot about the front steps.
As quickly as I’d congratulated myself for being ready to leap to action at a moment’s notice, I was brought down and a soul curdling pop resounded from my ankle. I immediately looked up to make sure the bus hadn’t yet passed, and seeing it rambling 30 yards away, burst into tears. An older man who happened to be walking by must have seen me fall then reach my arms out to the bus in desperation. “SUAVE! SUAVE!” (slow down!) he yelled at the driver, then grabbed my arm and got me to my feet and up the steps of “el Pizote” while explaining to the bus driver that he’d seen me take a fall. I never even got a look at this man’s face, he came in and out of my morning as quickly as I took that leap off the stairs. Through my streaming tears, I realized I hadn’t breathed in what felt like 10 minutes (but must have been more like 20 seconds) and started gulping the air desperately, trying to calm myself down.
I stretched my leg and propped my ankle up on the seat in front of me, figuring that maybe if I levitated it the throbbing twisting would cease. The bus assistant (I want to call him a “runner” for some reason, as his duties include running in and out of the bus during the whole route, tossing firewood and crates of tomatoes and rucksacks full of rice and beans onto the roof and giving his hand to aid teetering old ladies and gringas crying with an umbrella in one hand and a carton of juice and toothbrush in the other) asked me if I was ok and I tearfully asked him if he thought we could find a place along the way to buy some ice. The next stop, he set off out on a “hielo” search and the concerned driver regarded my foot like a chicken about to be beheaded- “it’s not the bone” he declared as he grabbed my ankle and gave my foot a good tug. I winced. “No, no es tan serio” (No, it’s not really that serious… though at the time I felt like I was lying). No luck with the ice at the first 3 stops on the pulperias lining main street Somoto. Finally, at the last chance pulperia on the way out of town the runner appeared triumphant with a block of ice just as my seatmate produced some sort of icy hot salve remedy and told me it would help. I spread the miracle salve on my ankle and winced with the 2 lb block of ice jostling against my tendons… watching the countryside pass slower than I’d ever imagined it could.
I noticed more wildflowers than I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve taken this trip dozens of times in the past 7 ½ months. Shooting stars, buttercups, and a red-antennae laden mad-haired flower straight out of the world of Dr. Seuss. I sat in the front seat and watched people’s eyes as they boarded the bus and wondered at their brightness and hollowness, smiled through gritted teeth at the 4 and 5-year-old chatterboxes off for a Saturday outing with Grandma, and shifted in my seat multiple times before I realized I was sitting on my toothbrush. Finally, about two hours into the trip, my foot couldn’t stand the ice any longer, and having turned into a full-body cramp from the awkward raised leg position, I decided to ditch the ice and see how it felt to put a bit of weight on my foot. I knew by then it wasn’t a sprain- I’ve gone through that nastiness before (falling on a sidewalk, of course. How the hell do I manage to hurt myself doing such run-of-the mill things and not on adventures where it would at least be a good story?!), and though the ache didn’t go away I no longer felt the twisting hot poker in the depths of my ankle. I paid the runner the standard fare (20 cordobas, or about $1.10) and tried to give him some money for the ice, which he politely refused. As the bus slowed to let me off at my corner (between the cemetery and the Catholic church) I slowly made my way down the stairs and the driver ever-so-kindly reminded me “not to fall” again. I’ll try to keep that in mind.
I shuffled my way to my house, using the ridiculous umbrella for a cane substitute, wrapped my ankle, took a good dose of Ibuprofen, and stopped to ponder the morning for a moment. In that moment where I lay so vulnerable on the side of the road I felt even more desperate than during the scorpion sting episode (then I had resigned my life to the fates and let venom run its course) and I wonder how long I would have sat there dimly bemoaning my minor injury if the bus had just passed right by… if not for the faceless gruff-voiced man who grabbed me under the armpit and a crinkly eyed driver who slapped me back to reality and the mustachioed runner who grinned with the first-prize trophy of an ice block… I might have sat alone curbside in a small pueblo in Nicaragua and peered from behind a curtain of self-pity at a desperate world.
Instead I sit here, awestruck once again at the grace of humanity and laughing to myself about the unbelievable spectacle I must have been this morning when I hobbled sobbing onto “el Pizote”, the bespectacled gringa with a bright-pink toothbrush and umbrella- prepared to face the world one torrential downpour, cavity, or twisted ankle at a time.
I decided to stay overnight in Somoto, eager for the company of my Fabretto co-workers and in dire need of a night of being social in English. I knew full-well that the Friday night would probably end with little sleep, as I needed to take the 6 AM sleepy-eyed bus back to Cusmapa for a 9 AM choir concert on Saturday. Nonetheless, I decided dealing with the early morning would be a small price to pay for a bit of the good times. I played cards with Mike (one of the new volunteers), Oliver (my Peace Corps buddy), and two of Oliver’s Nicaraguan neighbors. We carried on jabbering and singing along to cheesy love songs until the wee hours of the morning. I knew the 6 AM wake-up call would come all too soon…
I slept lightly and awoke at 4, 4:15, 5, 5:30 to the fog-muffled sounds of pre-dawn Nicaragua. Roosters crowing, women dramatically relaying their latest string of life-inflicted barbarities on the way to set up produce stands at the market, taxis passing to and fro beeping at pedestrians in mock warning. At 6, I pulled myself out of bed and wrestled with whether or not I had time to shower (a 10 second match halted with the reflection that I hadn’t showered since Tuesday) and jumped in the ice cold garden-hose stream (what heavenly water pressure!) for just enough time to get soapy and endure a bone chattering rinse. I popped my pajamas back on and grabbed my carton of carrot-orange juice from the fridge, assuming I had at least 10 more minutes (as it was 6:06 and the bus normally doesn’t pass by the house until 6:15 at the earliest).
A too-close for comfort horn blared, and suddenly thrown into panic mode I made a mad dash for my backpack, oversized blue plaid umbrella, and with toothbrush still in mouth, ran full-speed out the door.
I forgot about the front steps.
As quickly as I’d congratulated myself for being ready to leap to action at a moment’s notice, I was brought down and a soul curdling pop resounded from my ankle. I immediately looked up to make sure the bus hadn’t yet passed, and seeing it rambling 30 yards away, burst into tears. An older man who happened to be walking by must have seen me fall then reach my arms out to the bus in desperation. “SUAVE! SUAVE!” (slow down!) he yelled at the driver, then grabbed my arm and got me to my feet and up the steps of “el Pizote” while explaining to the bus driver that he’d seen me take a fall. I never even got a look at this man’s face, he came in and out of my morning as quickly as I took that leap off the stairs. Through my streaming tears, I realized I hadn’t breathed in what felt like 10 minutes (but must have been more like 20 seconds) and started gulping the air desperately, trying to calm myself down.
I stretched my leg and propped my ankle up on the seat in front of me, figuring that maybe if I levitated it the throbbing twisting would cease. The bus assistant (I want to call him a “runner” for some reason, as his duties include running in and out of the bus during the whole route, tossing firewood and crates of tomatoes and rucksacks full of rice and beans onto the roof and giving his hand to aid teetering old ladies and gringas crying with an umbrella in one hand and a carton of juice and toothbrush in the other) asked me if I was ok and I tearfully asked him if he thought we could find a place along the way to buy some ice. The next stop, he set off out on a “hielo” search and the concerned driver regarded my foot like a chicken about to be beheaded- “it’s not the bone” he declared as he grabbed my ankle and gave my foot a good tug. I winced. “No, no es tan serio” (No, it’s not really that serious… though at the time I felt like I was lying). No luck with the ice at the first 3 stops on the pulperias lining main street Somoto. Finally, at the last chance pulperia on the way out of town the runner appeared triumphant with a block of ice just as my seatmate produced some sort of icy hot salve remedy and told me it would help. I spread the miracle salve on my ankle and winced with the 2 lb block of ice jostling against my tendons… watching the countryside pass slower than I’d ever imagined it could.
I noticed more wildflowers than I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve taken this trip dozens of times in the past 7 ½ months. Shooting stars, buttercups, and a red-antennae laden mad-haired flower straight out of the world of Dr. Seuss. I sat in the front seat and watched people’s eyes as they boarded the bus and wondered at their brightness and hollowness, smiled through gritted teeth at the 4 and 5-year-old chatterboxes off for a Saturday outing with Grandma, and shifted in my seat multiple times before I realized I was sitting on my toothbrush. Finally, about two hours into the trip, my foot couldn’t stand the ice any longer, and having turned into a full-body cramp from the awkward raised leg position, I decided to ditch the ice and see how it felt to put a bit of weight on my foot. I knew by then it wasn’t a sprain- I’ve gone through that nastiness before (falling on a sidewalk, of course. How the hell do I manage to hurt myself doing such run-of-the mill things and not on adventures where it would at least be a good story?!), and though the ache didn’t go away I no longer felt the twisting hot poker in the depths of my ankle. I paid the runner the standard fare (20 cordobas, or about $1.10) and tried to give him some money for the ice, which he politely refused. As the bus slowed to let me off at my corner (between the cemetery and the Catholic church) I slowly made my way down the stairs and the driver ever-so-kindly reminded me “not to fall” again. I’ll try to keep that in mind.
I shuffled my way to my house, using the ridiculous umbrella for a cane substitute, wrapped my ankle, took a good dose of Ibuprofen, and stopped to ponder the morning for a moment. In that moment where I lay so vulnerable on the side of the road I felt even more desperate than during the scorpion sting episode (then I had resigned my life to the fates and let venom run its course) and I wonder how long I would have sat there dimly bemoaning my minor injury if the bus had just passed right by… if not for the faceless gruff-voiced man who grabbed me under the armpit and a crinkly eyed driver who slapped me back to reality and the mustachioed runner who grinned with the first-prize trophy of an ice block… I might have sat alone curbside in a small pueblo in Nicaragua and peered from behind a curtain of self-pity at a desperate world.
Instead I sit here, awestruck once again at the grace of humanity and laughing to myself about the unbelievable spectacle I must have been this morning when I hobbled sobbing onto “el Pizote”, the bespectacled gringa with a bright-pink toothbrush and umbrella- prepared to face the world one torrential downpour, cavity, or twisted ankle at a time.
miércoles, 22 de agosto de 2007
American Blackout
I recently watched “American Blackout”, a documentary film depicting the utter racial discrimination faced mainly by African Americans and Latinos during the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections. I suspected fishy happenings in Florida (2000) and Ohio (2004) but never knew that the actions of the election directors in these respective states were so blatantly undemocratic.
How was front-page news not made when Jeb Bush , Governor of Florida, and Katherine Harris, the Secretary of State, hired a private firm to create a list of 90,000 supposed felons (using misdemeanor records from the state of Texas, of course) in order to blacklist these “criminals”? Choicepoint, the privately contracted company, was informed that names on this list only needed to be 80% matched in order to block a registered voter from casting their ballot in the 2000 presidential elections. So in the state of Texas if you had a misdemeanor charge and your name happened to be John Smith, a registered voter in the state of Florida by the name of John Smyth could have been cut out of voting. No questions asked. Choicepoint was ASKED SPECIFICALLY to provide an UN-VERIFIED list of banned “felons”. Turns out that 97% of these American citizens whose civil rights were destroyed were INNOCENT. How ironic that not only were 75-80% of those listed as apparent “felons” African American, but also that statistically African Americans tend to vote 9 out of 10 times for a democratic candidate! This black list (pun intended) blocked approximately 90,000 legitimate American citizens from voting and the state of Florida (as we all know) went to George Jr. by a mere 537 votes.
Do the math.
The documentary also followed sketchy happenings during Ohio’s bit of the 2004 presidential elections in which election machines were pulled in dozens of inner city precincts in which thousands more citizens were registered to vote than the 2000 elections. Camcorder footage shows empty gymnasiums in the suburbs contrasted with people in the inner city areas who waited in the rain 4 hours to cast their ballots. How can the Elections Committee of Ohio possibly explain the numbers when “Blackout” clearly shows that machines were ONLY pulled from the poorer areas of Ohio’s larger cities (in areas where registered voters were up 27% from the 2000 elections); NO machines were pulled from suburbia? Logical? Only because the Republican government was well aware of the lengths it needed to go to in order to keep their puppet in power. Embarrassing? YES.
Last but certainly not least, “Blackout” follows the story of ex-Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney (of Georgia), a progressive African American woman dedicated to pulling the truth out of war-mongering politicians on the hill, who was sacrificed and labeled as “un-American” for asking questions about 9/11, the war in Iraq, and the debacles of the past two presidential elections (she started asking these questions back in 2000 and to this day has not been dissuaded from her quest for truth). The Republican powers that be banded together to force McKinney out of office when her truth-telling went “too far”. Where are we as a democracy when we’re chucking politicians like McKinney out of power? When did it become un-patriotic to ask questions which DESERVE answers?
It almost seems like the Republican leaders of our country have something to hide!
Let’s do some justice to honest politicians like Cynthia McKinney who are actually working for the people rather than the system, who believe in democracy in its truest sense. Let’s start asking REAL questions and DEMANDING answers. 2008 will not be another regression to the pre-civil rights days. Take action and believe in change!
Let’s get those insurgents off Capitol Hill!
How was front-page news not made when Jeb Bush , Governor of Florida, and Katherine Harris, the Secretary of State, hired a private firm to create a list of 90,000 supposed felons (using misdemeanor records from the state of Texas, of course) in order to blacklist these “criminals”? Choicepoint, the privately contracted company, was informed that names on this list only needed to be 80% matched in order to block a registered voter from casting their ballot in the 2000 presidential elections. So in the state of Texas if you had a misdemeanor charge and your name happened to be John Smith, a registered voter in the state of Florida by the name of John Smyth could have been cut out of voting. No questions asked. Choicepoint was ASKED SPECIFICALLY to provide an UN-VERIFIED list of banned “felons”. Turns out that 97% of these American citizens whose civil rights were destroyed were INNOCENT. How ironic that not only were 75-80% of those listed as apparent “felons” African American, but also that statistically African Americans tend to vote 9 out of 10 times for a democratic candidate! This black list (pun intended) blocked approximately 90,000 legitimate American citizens from voting and the state of Florida (as we all know) went to George Jr. by a mere 537 votes.
Do the math.
The documentary also followed sketchy happenings during Ohio’s bit of the 2004 presidential elections in which election machines were pulled in dozens of inner city precincts in which thousands more citizens were registered to vote than the 2000 elections. Camcorder footage shows empty gymnasiums in the suburbs contrasted with people in the inner city areas who waited in the rain 4 hours to cast their ballots. How can the Elections Committee of Ohio possibly explain the numbers when “Blackout” clearly shows that machines were ONLY pulled from the poorer areas of Ohio’s larger cities (in areas where registered voters were up 27% from the 2000 elections); NO machines were pulled from suburbia? Logical? Only because the Republican government was well aware of the lengths it needed to go to in order to keep their puppet in power. Embarrassing? YES.
Last but certainly not least, “Blackout” follows the story of ex-Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney (of Georgia), a progressive African American woman dedicated to pulling the truth out of war-mongering politicians on the hill, who was sacrificed and labeled as “un-American” for asking questions about 9/11, the war in Iraq, and the debacles of the past two presidential elections (she started asking these questions back in 2000 and to this day has not been dissuaded from her quest for truth). The Republican powers that be banded together to force McKinney out of office when her truth-telling went “too far”. Where are we as a democracy when we’re chucking politicians like McKinney out of power? When did it become un-patriotic to ask questions which DESERVE answers?
It almost seems like the Republican leaders of our country have something to hide!
Let’s do some justice to honest politicians like Cynthia McKinney who are actually working for the people rather than the system, who believe in democracy in its truest sense. Let’s start asking REAL questions and DEMANDING answers. 2008 will not be another regression to the pre-civil rights days. Take action and believe in change!
Let’s get those insurgents off Capitol Hill!
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