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Sarah and Rick
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
This is my job?
Rick makes his first entry about a trip to a campo village a few weeks back:
As our cab pulls up to the open air market we are getting propositioned to go to seemingly every city in the country. Multiple men crowd around us while we are still inside the cab scrambling to find money to pay the driver. They forcefully ask us "a Matagalpa?" "Jinotepe?!" "Masaya?" hoping that we'd get on one of the unprivileged/unsanctioned buses not able to enter the station. We push our way through them to reach the relative calm of the bus terminal where we learn that we had just missed a bus heading to our destination, Esteli.
We decide to wait around at the attached restaurant for an hour and a half for our next bus. It's one of roughly 6 or 7 shops and outdoor cafe's in a line. All lightly decorated with donated corporate paraphernalia all attended to by old women wearing frilled aprons to keep their money in. There we encounter the kindest lady who brings us beer and watches our bus carefully so that we can board at the last possible minute to get on. There, sitting in this group of Nicaraguan cafes while being stared at for our blatant gringoness, while being solicited by the multiple rhythmic street vendors, and even apparently propositioned by a young woman, a thought that has occured many times before popped into my head. That thought was: "Wow! What am I doing here?" This thought is typically followed with: "This is my job?" Ultimately, this process produces a smile as I can relax feeling comfortable with my tiny, mostly unknown place in this world.
Eventually my euphoria is interrupted by the lady watching our bus and we hurry over to catch our assigned seats. We board the bus to find that "assigned" is a very loose term and a defiant woman ignores the young bus attendant who asks her to move. The bus surprisingly comes equipped with TV's which are used to play black market copies of old music videos including the BeeGees, MC Hammer, and even NSYNC as drive through increasingly lush rolling hills on our way out of Managua. Along the way, I'm jolted out of my stupor to the smack of the bodies teenage boys hitting the side of the moving bus. Realizing that no one else is alarmed by this, I wait before shouting out and realize that these boys are going to ride on top of the bus. We stop a few minutes later so that large tires needing transport can be tossed to these boys on top.
We slept in Estelí that night and then took an old yellow school bus the next morning at 6am up a the storm-ravaged dirt road where we dropped of in the 2 road town of Regadio. After the bus dropped us off it backed up 1 mile before it reached the one cross-street in the village to turn around. Our organization has been bringing delegation to homes of people in Regadio for years to educate foreigners about the life of common Nicaraguans. There we spent the day talking with our contacts about foreign debt, neoliberalism, education, inflation, and their kids in the states. The knowledege that our isolated contacts had of complex trade issues was surprising and I felt rapidly educated about the hardships that many people are feeling in this country. Our main contact explained how the combination of Hurricane Felix and recent flooding throughout western Nicaragua had destroyed the harvest of many crops. This, added with 10%+ inflation and gas prices above $4 a gallon have made traditional foods such as beans financially impossible for many Nicas. Bean prices tripled over the past few months requiring the government to import them in an effort to control skyrocketing costs.
Hardships aside, we were generously welcomed wherever we went and provided coffee, oatmeal (in drink form), and fresh squeezed juice. We were even given lemons that were as big as our heads. After meeting some of our long-term contacts we decided to catch a bus back to take care of some work back in Managua. However, before leaving I had some time to stop and look out on the rolling hills of the countryside rehashing the past few days. I took a picture trying to absorb it all and said to myself "this is my job!"
As our cab pulls up to the open air market we are getting propositioned to go to seemingly every city in the country. Multiple men crowd around us while we are still inside the cab scrambling to find money to pay the driver. They forcefully ask us "a Matagalpa?" "Jinotepe?!" "Masaya?" hoping that we'd get on one of the unprivileged/unsanctioned buses not able to enter the station. We push our way through them to reach the relative calm of the bus terminal where we learn that we had just missed a bus heading to our destination, Esteli.
We decide to wait around at the attached restaurant for an hour and a half for our next bus. It's one of roughly 6 or 7 shops and outdoor cafe's in a line. All lightly decorated with donated corporate paraphernalia all attended to by old women wearing frilled aprons to keep their money in. There we encounter the kindest lady who brings us beer and watches our bus carefully so that we can board at the last possible minute to get on. There, sitting in this group of Nicaraguan cafes while being stared at for our blatant gringoness, while being solicited by the multiple rhythmic street vendors, and even apparently propositioned by a young woman, a thought that has occured many times before popped into my head. That thought was: "Wow! What am I doing here?" This thought is typically followed with: "This is my job?" Ultimately, this process produces a smile as I can relax feeling comfortable with my tiny, mostly unknown place in this world.
Eventually my euphoria is interrupted by the lady watching our bus and we hurry over to catch our assigned seats. We board the bus to find that "assigned" is a very loose term and a defiant woman ignores the young bus attendant who asks her to move. The bus surprisingly comes equipped with TV's which are used to play black market copies of old music videos including the BeeGees, MC Hammer, and even NSYNC as drive through increasingly lush rolling hills on our way out of Managua. Along the way, I'm jolted out of my stupor to the smack of the bodies teenage boys hitting the side of the moving bus. Realizing that no one else is alarmed by this, I wait before shouting out and realize that these boys are going to ride on top of the bus. We stop a few minutes later so that large tires needing transport can be tossed to these boys on top.
We slept in Estelí that night and then took an old yellow school bus the next morning at 6am up a the storm-ravaged dirt road where we dropped of in the 2 road town of Regadio. After the bus dropped us off it backed up 1 mile before it reached the one cross-street in the village to turn around. Our organization has been bringing delegation to homes of people in Regadio for years to educate foreigners about the life of common Nicaraguans. There we spent the day talking with our contacts about foreign debt, neoliberalism, education, inflation, and their kids in the states. The knowledege that our isolated contacts had of complex trade issues was surprising and I felt rapidly educated about the hardships that many people are feeling in this country. Our main contact explained how the combination of Hurricane Felix and recent flooding throughout western Nicaragua had destroyed the harvest of many crops. This, added with 10%+ inflation and gas prices above $4 a gallon have made traditional foods such as beans financially impossible for many Nicas. Bean prices tripled over the past few months requiring the government to import them in an effort to control skyrocketing costs.
Hardships aside, we were generously welcomed wherever we went and provided coffee, oatmeal (in drink form), and fresh squeezed juice. We were even given lemons that were as big as our heads. After meeting some of our long-term contacts we decided to catch a bus back to take care of some work back in Managua. However, before leaving I had some time to stop and look out on the rolling hills of the countryside rehashing the past few days. I took a picture trying to absorb it all and said to myself "this is my job!"
Monday, November 12, 2007
small thing #1: hairbrush
I am finding it difficult to write entries lately. Not for lack of topics to write about, but because I feel so inadequate explaining the complexity of my life down here--even things that may seem simple, like my daily routine, or my trip to Granada this weekend. I feel a burden of explanation and honesty. But the honesty I would like to portray is difficult to access from my limited perspective and without better language skills. The story is always much longer than any of us want to endure.
I am going to try to write about small things, and perhaps with a collection of tiny windows into this life, you will all be able to piece together something more true that any summary I could compile.
small thing #1: Hairbrush
I have been meaning to buy a hairbrush for weeks. The handle snapped off a while ago, and now I have only the bristle-barrel head to straighten my tresses. Each time I try to use it, my fingers get in the way, knuckling my scalp without brushing much at all.
Brushes are not very expensive. I can afford a brush. I saw one in the supermarket for about 80 cords (4 dollars), but I didn't buy it. In fact, I stared at it for a good 5 minutes before I decided that it was a bad deal, that no Nicaraguan would buy this brush, so why should I. And I left. Without the brush. That was probably 2 weeks ago.
I keep telling myself that I will go to the mercado and buy a brush, that I will save a tremendous amount--possibly 60 cords! I imagine myself hopping off the bus and strutting into the market, determined to locate and purchase my brush. All of the merchants ask me what I am looking for, and I say, in perfect Spanish, "I would like to buy a hairbrush, can you tell me where I ought to go?" I don't mend my tense to simplify the sentence or stumble over conjugation. My prepositions are precise and accurate. All of the merchants widen their eyes in disbelief at my perfect Nicaraguan accent. They wonder if am, in fact, Nicaraguan.
Then, when I find my brush, I shrewdly talk the price down from 40 cords to 30, possibly even 25. When the moment is right, I pay in exact change and exit the market. I know how to leave without looking lost. I pass the hissing men, the young girls carrying daughters of their own, the women who reach out to caress my arm and entice me with pot holders and tupperware. And when they ask me, "What are you looking for?" I will say, "nothing. I have found what I need."
I wonder if my dream of the perfect market trip keeps me from actually going. Every day I pass the market twice on the bus. I look out the window at the huddling maze of zinc roofs and imagine, with even more precision, the scenario. Sometimes I even stand up as though I am about to get off. The possibility of exiting the bus without my prefect Spanish, of running into the market and stumbling through the interaction, of emerging with a brush other than that which I have so thoroughly imagined is terrifying and liberating at once.
I am going to try to write about small things, and perhaps with a collection of tiny windows into this life, you will all be able to piece together something more true that any summary I could compile.
small thing #1: Hairbrush
I have been meaning to buy a hairbrush for weeks. The handle snapped off a while ago, and now I have only the bristle-barrel head to straighten my tresses. Each time I try to use it, my fingers get in the way, knuckling my scalp without brushing much at all.
Brushes are not very expensive. I can afford a brush. I saw one in the supermarket for about 80 cords (4 dollars), but I didn't buy it. In fact, I stared at it for a good 5 minutes before I decided that it was a bad deal, that no Nicaraguan would buy this brush, so why should I. And I left. Without the brush. That was probably 2 weeks ago.
I keep telling myself that I will go to the mercado and buy a brush, that I will save a tremendous amount--possibly 60 cords! I imagine myself hopping off the bus and strutting into the market, determined to locate and purchase my brush. All of the merchants ask me what I am looking for, and I say, in perfect Spanish, "I would like to buy a hairbrush, can you tell me where I ought to go?" I don't mend my tense to simplify the sentence or stumble over conjugation. My prepositions are precise and accurate. All of the merchants widen their eyes in disbelief at my perfect Nicaraguan accent. They wonder if am, in fact, Nicaraguan.
Then, when I find my brush, I shrewdly talk the price down from 40 cords to 30, possibly even 25. When the moment is right, I pay in exact change and exit the market. I know how to leave without looking lost. I pass the hissing men, the young girls carrying daughters of their own, the women who reach out to caress my arm and entice me with pot holders and tupperware. And when they ask me, "What are you looking for?" I will say, "nothing. I have found what I need."
I wonder if my dream of the perfect market trip keeps me from actually going. Every day I pass the market twice on the bus. I look out the window at the huddling maze of zinc roofs and imagine, with even more precision, the scenario. Sometimes I even stand up as though I am about to get off. The possibility of exiting the bus without my prefect Spanish, of running into the market and stumbling through the interaction, of emerging with a brush other than that which I have so thoroughly imagined is terrifying and liberating at once.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Our Trip to Xiloa, or Editing Notes for the Moon Handbook of Nicaragua
Rick and I went to Xiloa (roughly pronounced "hee-low-AH") this past Sunday for a day trip. Xiloa is a little Laguna just northwest of Managua. We read in our guide book not expect crowds or tourism since many of the restaurants and ventas were still closed and in disrepair from Hurricane Mitch (circa 1998).
The guidebook read, "There are frequent buses from Managua that will take you right to the water at Xiloa." Unable to find any such bus, or even a single person in the mercado who knew of such a bus, we setteled on riding a bus headed out of town, which, for 30 cents each, dropped us off at the mouth of the access road to Xiloa. The guidebook, our trusty bible, insisted that the walk from the mouth of the access road to the waterfront was no more than 30 mins. However, upon exiting our bus, we found a sign indicating that Xiloa was a good 7 kilometers away. If my arithmatic is right, we would have to be "walking" seven-minute miles in order to make it there in half an hour. Maybe if our legs were 7 feet long... So, about a kilometer into the walk, we decided that if we were going to get some swimming in before night fall, we'd better hitch a ride.
We thumbed our way into the back of a truck (sorry, mom, but the family inside looked very sweet, and not at all like crazy psycho killers. they eve had little boy with little toys in the truck bed, so he probably wasn't kidnapped.). We were at the beach in about 15 mins!
The beach at Xiloa is a grassy little area with little colorful pavillions you can have picnics under. You barely know that you're 20 mins outside Managua. The guidebook, which insisted that we would be, "alone except for marine biologists scuba diving for marine life," was, as we have now learned to expect, wrong. There were many people there: families, soldiers (no machine guns, dad), teenagers, etc. The bar on the shore was absolutely packed with people drinking and dancing. We went for a short swim, but had to be careful because we didn't want to leave our backpack unattended. The water was surprisingly warm--hot in places--even a good 20 meters out, where the bottom of the lake lay beyond fathomable depth.
The scenery of Xiloa is exquisite, and it seems that most of the lake is uninhabited. We managed to find a paddle boat (can you imagine!?) that we rented for 100 cords/1 hour (roughly 5 dollars). Our brilliant plan was to paddle around the whole lake exploring the distant shore. About 15 mins into our "paddle" we realized the utter inefficiency of our boat as a slight breeze would push us like a plastic bath toy in one way or another, and would take 3 times the energy to recover from. The laguna, we found out later, measures 2 kilometres across. Our hour tour turned into an intense aerobic workout into the center of an inactive volcanic crater, and back out. Which, considering the fried tacos/cheese/plantains we had for dinner, wasn't a such a bad idea.
After eating fritanga at a waterfront counter, we headed into the bar, which was easily the loudest establishment in a 7 km radius. Sipping a liter of beer, we watched Nicaraguans dance to a mixture of music: everything from pachata to mid-nineties pop. There was even a sort of drag act during which a man called "The Mexican Hurricane" dressed up in white satin sauntered through the bar lip-singing and climbing into the laps of lucky gents (including Rick).
It got to be about 5:00 and we decided we'd better head home before the sun set. At the gate of the park, we hitched a ride with another Nicaraguan family in a truck. They offered us seats in the cab, but we insisted on the truck bed. On our way out of the park, it became evident that the only reason we were offered any ride at all was because of our skin color, as every Nicaraguan thumbing a ride was nearly invisible to the line of middle-class families driving home. At the mouth of the access road we hopped out of the truck to catch a bus. the family that drove us asked if they could drop us off wherever we were going, since the "busses were dangerous." (Nicaraguans who live above the means of the urban bus system insist that the buses are sure traps for trouble. True, one is more likely to be robbed on a bus than in a private car, but the actual likelihood that it will happen is not high, and the thief is likely to make a quick, non-violent getaway. Mostly, honest, hardworking Managuans ride the buses to save money. Otherwise they would either need to own a car ($$$) or take taxies, which can cost 10-20 times what the bus costs.) Anyway, since our house is on the way back into town, and we didn't really know if or when another bus would be headed that way, we took their offer. Good thing too, as it began to rain on the way home. When they dropped us off at our street, the man in the front seat handed us a booklet about the Sandinista party. We thanked them for their generosity, and walked home wondering exactly whose truck we just rode home in, and what kind of political handy work they were responsible for.
The guidebook read, "There are frequent buses from Managua that will take you right to the water at Xiloa." Unable to find any such bus, or even a single person in the mercado who knew of such a bus, we setteled on riding a bus headed out of town, which, for 30 cents each, dropped us off at the mouth of the access road to Xiloa. The guidebook, our trusty bible, insisted that the walk from the mouth of the access road to the waterfront was no more than 30 mins. However, upon exiting our bus, we found a sign indicating that Xiloa was a good 7 kilometers away. If my arithmatic is right, we would have to be "walking" seven-minute miles in order to make it there in half an hour. Maybe if our legs were 7 feet long... So, about a kilometer into the walk, we decided that if we were going to get some swimming in before night fall, we'd better hitch a ride.
We thumbed our way into the back of a truck (sorry, mom, but the family inside looked very sweet, and not at all like crazy psycho killers. they eve had little boy with little toys in the truck bed, so he probably wasn't kidnapped.). We were at the beach in about 15 mins!
The beach at Xiloa is a grassy little area with little colorful pavillions you can have picnics under. You barely know that you're 20 mins outside Managua. The guidebook, which insisted that we would be, "alone except for marine biologists scuba diving for marine life," was, as we have now learned to expect, wrong. There were many people there: families, soldiers (no machine guns, dad), teenagers, etc. The bar on the shore was absolutely packed with people drinking and dancing. We went for a short swim, but had to be careful because we didn't want to leave our backpack unattended. The water was surprisingly warm--hot in places--even a good 20 meters out, where the bottom of the lake lay beyond fathomable depth.
The scenery of Xiloa is exquisite, and it seems that most of the lake is uninhabited. We managed to find a paddle boat (can you imagine!?) that we rented for 100 cords/1 hour (roughly 5 dollars). Our brilliant plan was to paddle around the whole lake exploring the distant shore. About 15 mins into our "paddle" we realized the utter inefficiency of our boat as a slight breeze would push us like a plastic bath toy in one way or another, and would take 3 times the energy to recover from. The laguna, we found out later, measures 2 kilometres across. Our hour tour turned into an intense aerobic workout into the center of an inactive volcanic crater, and back out. Which, considering the fried tacos/cheese/plantains we had for dinner, wasn't a such a bad idea.
After eating fritanga at a waterfront counter, we headed into the bar, which was easily the loudest establishment in a 7 km radius. Sipping a liter of beer, we watched Nicaraguans dance to a mixture of music: everything from pachata to mid-nineties pop. There was even a sort of drag act during which a man called "The Mexican Hurricane" dressed up in white satin sauntered through the bar lip-singing and climbing into the laps of lucky gents (including Rick).
It got to be about 5:00 and we decided we'd better head home before the sun set. At the gate of the park, we hitched a ride with another Nicaraguan family in a truck. They offered us seats in the cab, but we insisted on the truck bed. On our way out of the park, it became evident that the only reason we were offered any ride at all was because of our skin color, as every Nicaraguan thumbing a ride was nearly invisible to the line of middle-class families driving home. At the mouth of the access road we hopped out of the truck to catch a bus. the family that drove us asked if they could drop us off wherever we were going, since the "busses were dangerous." (Nicaraguans who live above the means of the urban bus system insist that the buses are sure traps for trouble. True, one is more likely to be robbed on a bus than in a private car, but the actual likelihood that it will happen is not high, and the thief is likely to make a quick, non-violent getaway. Mostly, honest, hardworking Managuans ride the buses to save money. Otherwise they would either need to own a car ($$$) or take taxies, which can cost 10-20 times what the bus costs.) Anyway, since our house is on the way back into town, and we didn't really know if or when another bus would be headed that way, we took their offer. Good thing too, as it began to rain on the way home. When they dropped us off at our street, the man in the front seat handed us a booklet about the Sandinista party. We thanked them for their generosity, and walked home wondering exactly whose truck we just rode home in, and what kind of political handy work they were responsible for.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The people on the bus go up and down
I take the bus to and from Spanish class every day. The trip takes about 30 mins in each direction. That's a full hour of intense, presonal Nucaraguense, a kind of daily informal orientation to Managuan life. And so, I bring you the Managuan bus system as I know and love it:
The bus lines are run by private entities, usually co-operatives, that own and maintain the buses. The fares are regulated by the government, but that's about it. Buses are generally old US school buses, and some are old European or Russian buses.
The companies paint the buses in their own color themes, so it sort of feels like you're joining a team by riding it (maybe that's just me). The red and white buses are lines 113 and 114. I don't know if this is a rule, or just a coincidence. I take the 114 almost every time I go to class. I imagine myself on the red and white team. Maybe our mascot could be the candy cane or a barber poll. More likely, however, it is Jesus in a red and white jeresy. That's right, Jesus. Pictures of Jesus can be found on any given wall of any given bus. If you didn't know who or what Jesus was, you might think that "Jesus" meant "bus" based solely on how many times it appears on Managua's public transportation system. Outside of Jesus's picture and name, the interior bus walls are usually covered in sayings and graffiti. Mostly, they address love, god, pain, fear, and otherwise abstract or intangible concepts. They are stenciled to the wall in the team colors. I imagine them as my mantras, words with meaning beyond meaning, words that will carry me through the intense populous that pours in and out of the mechanical doors.
Riding the bus feels more like a daily carnival than a commute. Often, as I walk up to the bus stop the 114 is waiting for me with an announcer outside the door yelling something like "114, 114! There's room for everyone! Come on! Ride the 114!" When I walk up, he usually says some variation of "Gringita, come ride my bus." This is one of the more polite phrases that Nicaraguan men yell at me, luckily I don't usually understand them.
Then I hop on and pay my 2.50 (~15 cents) and find a seat. Often there are no seats, in which case I hold onto one of the bars that has been welded to the ceiling and coated with colorful plastic tape. The Managuan bus system's answer to nylon upholstery is plastic tape. When the bus takes off it weaves in and out of traffic honking its horn wildly at passers bye. If another bus of the same color (team) passes it, the drivers cheer at one another and honk their horns with fury. At each stop the bodies shuffle around one another to squeeze on or off. Usually, a vendor will hop on selling chicklets, bags of water, carmel peanut bars, or some other sweet snack for a cord or two. He will push his way down the isle, stepping on feet, pressing his candies against the backs and heads and arms of people. He will ask me three or four times if I want a candy. Just in case, he tries again in broken English. I am pleased by his persistence, his generosity of time and manner. I feel a little bad that I will not be buying candy.
The bus offers me a little journey into the pulse of a populous I can't communicate with (yet). It presses me against strangers, jostles my belongings, makes me a little worried about whether I will ever get off. It lets me touch and smell and hear the normalcies of Managuan life. Each day I feel a little more like I might become one of those normalcies--the little gringa with a plastic bag who rides from Las Piedrecitas to the FNI and back again . I imagine myself as part of other people's commutes, less of a spectacle.
The bus lines are run by private entities, usually co-operatives, that own and maintain the buses. The fares are regulated by the government, but that's about it. Buses are generally old US school buses, and some are old European or Russian buses.
The companies paint the buses in their own color themes, so it sort of feels like you're joining a team by riding it (maybe that's just me). The red and white buses are lines 113 and 114. I don't know if this is a rule, or just a coincidence. I take the 114 almost every time I go to class. I imagine myself on the red and white team. Maybe our mascot could be the candy cane or a barber poll. More likely, however, it is Jesus in a red and white jeresy. That's right, Jesus. Pictures of Jesus can be found on any given wall of any given bus. If you didn't know who or what Jesus was, you might think that "Jesus" meant "bus" based solely on how many times it appears on Managua's public transportation system. Outside of Jesus's picture and name, the interior bus walls are usually covered in sayings and graffiti. Mostly, they address love, god, pain, fear, and otherwise abstract or intangible concepts. They are stenciled to the wall in the team colors. I imagine them as my mantras, words with meaning beyond meaning, words that will carry me through the intense populous that pours in and out of the mechanical doors.
Riding the bus feels more like a daily carnival than a commute. Often, as I walk up to the bus stop the 114 is waiting for me with an announcer outside the door yelling something like "114, 114! There's room for everyone! Come on! Ride the 114!" When I walk up, he usually says some variation of "Gringita, come ride my bus." This is one of the more polite phrases that Nicaraguan men yell at me, luckily I don't usually understand them.
Then I hop on and pay my 2.50 (~15 cents) and find a seat. Often there are no seats, in which case I hold onto one of the bars that has been welded to the ceiling and coated with colorful plastic tape. The Managuan bus system's answer to nylon upholstery is plastic tape. When the bus takes off it weaves in and out of traffic honking its horn wildly at passers bye. If another bus of the same color (team) passes it, the drivers cheer at one another and honk their horns with fury. At each stop the bodies shuffle around one another to squeeze on or off. Usually, a vendor will hop on selling chicklets, bags of water, carmel peanut bars, or some other sweet snack for a cord or two. He will push his way down the isle, stepping on feet, pressing his candies against the backs and heads and arms of people. He will ask me three or four times if I want a candy. Just in case, he tries again in broken English. I am pleased by his persistence, his generosity of time and manner. I feel a little bad that I will not be buying candy.
The bus offers me a little journey into the pulse of a populous I can't communicate with (yet). It presses me against strangers, jostles my belongings, makes me a little worried about whether I will ever get off. It lets me touch and smell and hear the normalcies of Managuan life. Each day I feel a little more like I might become one of those normalcies--the little gringa with a plastic bag who rides from Las Piedrecitas to the FNI and back again . I imagine myself as part of other people's commutes, less of a spectacle.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Felix y Katrina hermanos de destruccion
This morning Rick and I went to Casa Ben Linder to hear a presentation by the director of Accion Medica Cristiana or Christian Medical Action. He discussed the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua, focusing mainly on the effects of Hurricane Felix, which some of you may know struck Central America on September 4th of this year.
After painting a general socio-economic picture of the region before the Hurricane, he addressed the relief work by international aid efforts, the Nicaraguan government, and various NGO's. Primarily, he demonstrated that the portion of the country hit by the hurricane was under-funded and over-burdened with health issues (malnourished population, lack of access to health care, etc) previous to the hurricane, and that the current conditions only exacerbate that situation. After the hurricane struck, the government was unable to provide the necessary aid, and developed no effective venue to coordinate private and public efforts. As a result, food and water shipments arrived in some localities two and three times, and in others not at all. Many smaller and more recent developments got no aid because no one even knew they existed. For ten days after the hurricane thousands of people were stranded without shelter, potable water and food.
Besides the sheer tragedy of the information, one particularly interesting point he addressed was food security. The portion of the country hit by Hurricane Felix is largely agricultural. Much of the land and infrastructure has been destroyed, which has rendered it useless for the second harvest of the year. Besides leaving the people of the region without current sources of food, he explained that missing the second harvest will threaten the availability of food for the entire country in approximately 9 months. This will mean a greater dependency on foreign food sources for the entire country, and a corresponding hike in prices.
Although the two situations are certainly different, I found many similarities and even some connections between the current Nicaraguan problem and the US's own struggle with Hurricane Katrina. The government's infrastructure of relief failed the people of New Orleans, many of whom were already in extremely vulnerable socio-economic positions. Immediately after the hurricane, the price of fuel for the entire country rose dramatically because of threatened oil production in the Gulf of Mexico. Also similar, the relief efforts following the storm were total chaos--regardless of the US's relatively prevalent transportation resources and a strong, wealthy government.
One conclusion that these similar scenarios has led me to draw--and I would love to hear observations from anyone reading this--is that although it plays an important role, the wealth of a nation does not necessarily allow that nation to effectively address crises. In fact, it seems that greater overall wealth, coupled with great disparities between wealthy and poor individuals, as in the United States, serves mostly to isolate privileged persons from such crises without necessarily preventing or addressing them.
Nine months from now in Nicaragua most of the country will be feeling the effects of Hurricane Felix, even though it struck a relatively unpopulated, poor region of the country. On the other hand, while many people in the US felt sympathy for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, the privileged class was not subject to any substantive aftermath. Wealthy individuals could absorb the rise in fuel cost, thus making it more of a tax on those families and persons already struggling to get by--the same group of people that suffered most from the direct impact of the hurricane. Although Hurricane Katrina did not necessarily threaten the economic vitality of the US, such monetary resilience does not translate into a nation that is better suited to handle crises and natural disaster, merely one that is better able to shove the effects of such events onto the backs of struggling populations.
Furthermore, American economic policy abroad limits the capacity for poorer countries, like Nicaragua, to respond to their own crises. By backing IMF plans and pushing trade agreements like CAFTA, the US hog-ties social spending in poor countries in order to institute free trade and short term (ineffective) "debt management" plans. These plans outlaw export subsidies and import tariffs, devalue currency, freeze domestic health and education funding, and destroy agricultural infrastructure in developing nations. How is Nicaragua supposed to administer even basic medical aid in a crisis if their national budget is dictated by a trade agreement that insists on extremely limited social spending?
These policies render developing nations utterly dependent on foreign trade and private investment. Already, Nicaraguan farmers cannot compete with the tariff-free prices of foreign products. Agriculture in developed nations is larger, faster, and more productive than Nicaraguan methods. No farmer harvesting with a machete can compete with mass agribusiness. Thus, farmers are having to minimize their capacity, and in some cases stop farming entirely. Will the agricultural infrastructure of Nicaragua be able to recover from Hurricane Felix? Not with cheap international food sources infiltrating the food market, especially over the next nine months. Trade agreements and debt stipulations outlaw domestic farming subsidies. How will agriculture recover without income from a harvest? How will they buy seed? And what happens in the future when the international price of fuel skyrockets as we pass peak oil production? The price of shipping food across the globe will appear in the grocery stores, and there will be nearly no domestic agricultural infrastructure left to pick up the slack.
Thoughts? Comments?
After painting a general socio-economic picture of the region before the Hurricane, he addressed the relief work by international aid efforts, the Nicaraguan government, and various NGO's. Primarily, he demonstrated that the portion of the country hit by the hurricane was under-funded and over-burdened with health issues (malnourished population, lack of access to health care, etc) previous to the hurricane, and that the current conditions only exacerbate that situation. After the hurricane struck, the government was unable to provide the necessary aid, and developed no effective venue to coordinate private and public efforts. As a result, food and water shipments arrived in some localities two and three times, and in others not at all. Many smaller and more recent developments got no aid because no one even knew they existed. For ten days after the hurricane thousands of people were stranded without shelter, potable water and food.
Besides the sheer tragedy of the information, one particularly interesting point he addressed was food security. The portion of the country hit by Hurricane Felix is largely agricultural. Much of the land and infrastructure has been destroyed, which has rendered it useless for the second harvest of the year. Besides leaving the people of the region without current sources of food, he explained that missing the second harvest will threaten the availability of food for the entire country in approximately 9 months. This will mean a greater dependency on foreign food sources for the entire country, and a corresponding hike in prices.
Although the two situations are certainly different, I found many similarities and even some connections between the current Nicaraguan problem and the US's own struggle with Hurricane Katrina. The government's infrastructure of relief failed the people of New Orleans, many of whom were already in extremely vulnerable socio-economic positions. Immediately after the hurricane, the price of fuel for the entire country rose dramatically because of threatened oil production in the Gulf of Mexico. Also similar, the relief efforts following the storm were total chaos--regardless of the US's relatively prevalent transportation resources and a strong, wealthy government.
One conclusion that these similar scenarios has led me to draw--and I would love to hear observations from anyone reading this--is that although it plays an important role, the wealth of a nation does not necessarily allow that nation to effectively address crises. In fact, it seems that greater overall wealth, coupled with great disparities between wealthy and poor individuals, as in the United States, serves mostly to isolate privileged persons from such crises without necessarily preventing or addressing them.
Nine months from now in Nicaragua most of the country will be feeling the effects of Hurricane Felix, even though it struck a relatively unpopulated, poor region of the country. On the other hand, while many people in the US felt sympathy for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, the privileged class was not subject to any substantive aftermath. Wealthy individuals could absorb the rise in fuel cost, thus making it more of a tax on those families and persons already struggling to get by--the same group of people that suffered most from the direct impact of the hurricane. Although Hurricane Katrina did not necessarily threaten the economic vitality of the US, such monetary resilience does not translate into a nation that is better suited to handle crises and natural disaster, merely one that is better able to shove the effects of such events onto the backs of struggling populations.
Furthermore, American economic policy abroad limits the capacity for poorer countries, like Nicaragua, to respond to their own crises. By backing IMF plans and pushing trade agreements like CAFTA, the US hog-ties social spending in poor countries in order to institute free trade and short term (ineffective) "debt management" plans. These plans outlaw export subsidies and import tariffs, devalue currency, freeze domestic health and education funding, and destroy agricultural infrastructure in developing nations. How is Nicaragua supposed to administer even basic medical aid in a crisis if their national budget is dictated by a trade agreement that insists on extremely limited social spending?
These policies render developing nations utterly dependent on foreign trade and private investment. Already, Nicaraguan farmers cannot compete with the tariff-free prices of foreign products. Agriculture in developed nations is larger, faster, and more productive than Nicaraguan methods. No farmer harvesting with a machete can compete with mass agribusiness. Thus, farmers are having to minimize their capacity, and in some cases stop farming entirely. Will the agricultural infrastructure of Nicaragua be able to recover from Hurricane Felix? Not with cheap international food sources infiltrating the food market, especially over the next nine months. Trade agreements and debt stipulations outlaw domestic farming subsidies. How will agriculture recover without income from a harvest? How will they buy seed? And what happens in the future when the international price of fuel skyrockets as we pass peak oil production? The price of shipping food across the globe will appear in the grocery stores, and there will be nearly no domestic agricultural infrastructure left to pick up the slack.
Thoughts? Comments?
Friday, October 12, 2007
Hello from the House with the Gray Door
As my plane descended into Managua, I could see them beaming into the night sky, pulsating out from an otherwise sparsely-lit metropolitan area: McDonald's golden arches. Gringos had branded the flight path into Nicaragua with that emblematic nod to mass-produced coronary failure. I began to wonder if McDonald's had actually paid the airport to align the runway so that incoming passengers would pass conveniently overhead. But I digress...
I've marked each paragraph's main topic in bold, so you can read selectively, if you like.
I arrived in Managua on Monday night. Rick picked me up from the airport with all 5 of my bags. (For those of you who are wondering, the computer tower made it safely, but the rolling duffel has some battle wounds.) We got a cab from the airport to our house in Las Piedrecitas (The small stones), a neighborhood in southwest Managua. The cab ride (30 mins) was 6 dollars, roughly 120 cordobas. The cab drove right by the new American embassy complex, which is just down the road from us. Compared to the rest of the city, the embassy looks like a fortress. Its definitely not an exercise in modesty, but that's about what I would expect from a country with our track record.
Our house is wonderful. There are 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, laundry room, and some awesome porch space. We also have a great garden and some fruit trees out back. Just in case this sounds like total paradise, we don't have any hot water, which makes showering a little more brisk than usual. Also, the water tends to "go out" around 5PM and stay off until dawn. This adds a little challenge to dinner prep, but we are usually able to figure out something. We are especially lucky because we live across from a hospital, which means that we almost always have electricity, while most of Managua loses electricity after sunset.
Our roomates rock. Kevin and Rachel have lived here for roughly 5 months. Rachel works for Witness for Peace with Rick. Kevin does graphic design and pretty much operates as house handyman. He planted the garden and is currently building a little pin for the chickens we will be getting! Our other roomate, Patty, also works with Rachel and Rick. She is from Oregon and has some extended family here in Nicaragua. We had our first house meeting Wednesday night, where we decided we will consider getting 2 dogs for security (and for fun). The dogs are puppies that currently live at a neighbor's house. Everyone knows puppies are adorable, but these little guys drive it home.
On Wednesday we took a bus to a market down the road. It was pouring rain for most of the morning, so the market was operating at about 2/3 capacity. It is a total maze of cosmetics, household items, hardware stores, and food stands. Everyone is very friendly, and I was surprised to find that vendors didn't heckle us nearly as much as I expected. I think most people are just surprised to see white people. At one point a little girl who walked by yelled, "Adios Gringoita!" which pretty much means, "See ya later whitey!"
We wont need to go to the market too often because most of the things we need we can get right here in our neighborhood. In fact, there are vendors that walk around all the time selling ice cream, milk, doughnuts, and more. They know that gringos live in this house, so they will usually walk right up to our gate and yell inside. The ice cream man stands in the street out front ringing his bell for, literally, 20 mins every day. Our Nicaraguan friends, Martha and Loius, insist that we get ripped off at all the local vendors because we're Gringo. It's probably true, but the real truth is that we can afford to pay much more, so I suppose this is the barillo's own special communism--from each according to his/her ability, to each according to his/her need. The "rip off" prices are still much, much cheaper than we would pay in the states (2$ for a full lunch or dinner plate). I'm sure as we build relationships in the neighborhood the prices will start to drop a little, too.
On Thursday Kevin and I went to Price Smart. It is both an amazing and disturbing store. It is just like Costco in the States--you have to be a member and buy in bulk (we used Rick's boss's card). In fact, I'm pretty sure that Costco owns Price Smart b/c they have most of the same stuff, the same layout, and they only accept American Express. I was overwhelmed by the place, myself, and obly bought a few items. The prices are pretty high by Nica standards, and the tax is murder (15%!). Kevin, who has been here for longer, went on a total splurge, getting everything from Kraft mac and cheese to frozen burritos. I can see myself at that point in a few months.
Overall, I think of Managua as Los Angeles' shabby doppelganger--it has no functioning metropolitan center, sprawls outward into loosely connected neighborhoods, and is lined with strip malls. Also, the bus system is abysmal, and, oh yes, the air carries that distinct flavor of diesel. That being said, Managua, like LA, has an undeniable draw to it. There is so much to discover that I don't even know about yet. At first I wasn't sure that I wanted to be in Managua, because I had heard a lot of negative reviews. However, I'm very excited to be here. The resources that Managua offers will let Rick and I really make the most of our time in Nicaragua. Also, the ex-pat community here is vast and young--which makes for some great friends. We've hosted 3 parties at our house already, and will be having another one tomorrow night!
I'm going to try to update this blog regularly, and I would love comments and email from any of you. I miss you all very much, and look forward to sharing my adventures with you.
I'd better go make dinner now. Hopefully the water hasn't gone out yet...
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