Hello everyone!
Our new and improved blog is now located here:
www.mytb.org/SarahandRick
If you are a reader here, hopefully you're already subscribed at the new address. If not, go there and subscribe yourself!
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)