Greetings from Jinotega, the lush mountainous region of Northern Nicaragua!
I returned here yesterday after adventuring around Nicaragua with Mom and Maeve for a few exciting days! We spent the first part of our time together in the colorful colonial city of Granada where we enjoyed exquisite meals, a bit of shopping and a challenging trek up Volcán Mombacho, located just a few kilometers outside of the city! Then we braved the hot and crowded Nicaraguan buses to get to San Jorge, a port town on Lake Cocibolca, where we boarded a boat for the Isla de Ometepe. This island, comprised of two stunning volcanoes (one of which is active) and the stretch of land connecting them, is in the running as the world’s eighth natural wonder. It is truly spectacular and we spent our time there meandering along the coast, monkey watching, hydrating (the heat was oppressive!) and relishing this oasis in the middle of an enormous lake, where we could watch the sun rise and set on opposite horizons from the balcony of our hotel. Next we spent a long day waiting for buses and traveling north to Matagalpa and then even farther north to Selva Negra, a virgin cloud forest and German-Nicaraguan coffee hacienda and resort off of the scenic highway between Matagalpa and Jinotega. We swung on vines that hung from the enormous Guanacaste trees, admired orchids and the royal blue butterflies with a six-inch wingspans and did our best to avoid encounters with rattle and coral snakes (fortunately we were successful!). We enjoyed delicious organic coffee (I don’t even like coffee and I can appreciate the rich flavor of the beans here) and smoothies, and then we parted ways. I made my way back up to Jinotega to continue working on my independent project and Mom and Maeve did a Coffee Tour, spent the night at Selva Negra, and if all goes as planned, are making their way to Leon right now. They’ll spend the afternoon exploring this lovely colonial city and will catch an early bus to Managua tomorrow morning, in time for their flight home. We had so much fun together and I am REALLY happy they came to visit! Now they too have a sense of the charm and warmth of Nicaraguan people, beauty of the Nicaraguan countryside and the many difficulties this impoverished country faces.
I am now in Jinotega for about twenty days to work on my independent study project. I’m based at an organization called Cuculmeca, which collaborates with local campo communities to improve education and agricultural practices with an emphasis on environmental stewardship, sustainability, food sovereignty, food security and nutrition. As I’m sure you know, in the 1940s and 50s when hunger worldwide was pervasive and plagues and famines destructive to local food systems across the globe, the Green Revolution emerged (engineered by Norman Borlaug), which, based on a relatively new understanding of the requisite components to plant growth (nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium), promoted the use of chemical fertilizers, as well as pesticides, herbicides and fungicides, according to the notion that although the latter three kill the soil and everything in it, the former replenishes it sufficiently to permit desired growth. This model was meant to increase yield in order to feed the burgeoning and starving populations of initially India and Mexico and later many other “developing” countries. While yield did increase, at least in the beginning, and global hunger was curbed slightly, a series of new and very serious problems surfaced. First, this new system concentrated land, seeds, fertilizers and weed and pest management in the hands of few multinational corporations. Specifically, at the beginning, peasant farmers in many countries, including Nicaragua, were offered free fertilizers and pest control by programs such as USAID and other international development agencies. They applied these agrochemicals to their fields for a few growing seasons, which caused the soil to become lifeless, a mere vessel to hold the plants’ weak roots, which were absorbing the synthetic nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium to enable growth, and if and when they attempted to grow crops without synthetic fertilizers, the fields remained bare. So, once yield increased, and international development agencies were satisfied that global hunger was diminishing, subsidies for agrochemicals diminished markedly, and farmers were left to their own devices: either buy the agrochemicals or stop farming (their fields were dead and replenishing soil organically was not a well-known option). Peasants were at the whim of the multinational agro-industry. Second, because this was inherently a multinational effort, monocrops and industrial agriculture systems were favored to polycrops and geographically and climatically appropriate growing and irrigation systems. As a result, major food crops became even more susceptible to disease than they were before and local food crop varieties and indigenous knowledge of effective farming practices diminished. Third, malnutrition swelled. Even though food was more plentiful, variety reduced markedly and the micronutrients that are found in plants grown in healthy soil are virtually nonexistent in those grown in chemically fertilized soils. Again, Nicaragua is no exception, and, although the Green Revolution attempted to improve the well-being of the world’s poor, in retrospect it seems to have done more harm than good.
The campesinos in Jinotega are malnourished and impoverished. They use their meager earnings to buy agrochemicals rather than to send their children to school. Although I was unaware of this when I decided to base my project at Cuculmeca, this organization is just beginning an initiative to promote sustainable agriculture practices in six highly vulnerable communities that have been completely dependent on agrochemicals for over 50 years, and it is on this conversion to organic agriculture that I am basing my research. I am interviewing campesino families who are partaking in the project and attending workshops that teach them how to build compost piles, use organic material to replenish the soil, diversify crops, conserve soil, eat a balanced diet and organize as a community to promote their needs and interests. Many people in these communities suffer from cancer and children are severely malnourished, so as far as I can tell, they are open to and eager for change. I am interested in how they will approach these changes, and how Cuculmeca will make the changes sustainable. After all, a good way to determine whether a humanitarian organization is doing is job is if it’s out of a job within a few years- that’s success! On a broader level, I’m trying to understand what it really means to live day in and day out to simply survive. What does it mean to be a campesino today? They’re the people at the very bottom of free trade policies, such as CAFTA, and they are the ones who take the brunt of environmental degradation, stemming from climate change, natural disasters, and contaminated water. How do they sustain themselves emotionally and spiritually, or is physical sustenance challenge enough? Do they deal with the same existential crises as their counterparts in “developed” countries? What gives them their will to survive? Of course, I don’t expect to answer these questions in a mere twenty-day period, but perhaps I’ll gain a few insights. I hope the prospect of converting to organic agriculture will give them some hope- an inkling that their children’s lives may be better. Maybe this will serve as an opportunity for me to get a glimpse of campesino-hood. Is hope a new feeling for them? Is it hope that they feel? Will this future-oriented strategy be embraced by people who live entirely in the present? Oh, I have so much to learn and ideally I’ll have a bit more to share with you in a few weeks time!!
My love to you!
Em
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Independence!
Hi Everyone,
Believe it or not, my classes ended on Thursday last week! After a few crazy days of paper- writing, I submitted my essays and work journal and left that evening for Matagalpa. I spent Friday visiting my campo host family in Cerro Grande with my friend Rachel - they were very surprised by my visit! We made tortillas and visited other community members. That afternoon they accompanied Rachel and me on the three hour walk to San Ramon, the closest town, and they cried as we bid them farewell. I promised them I´d return again, which means I´ll have to come back to Nicaragua within the next few years!!
I spent Saturday galavanting through the rainforest with Rachel and six guys from California, Washington and Oregon who are here in Nicaragua making a documentary. We swung on vines, climbed up enormous fallen trees and howled back at howler monkeys. It was a very playful day! Finally on Sunday I made my way to Jinotega alone, which is where I will be based for my independent project. I´m working with an organization called Cuculmeca that focuses on education and sustainable agriculture in campesino communites. It is a fantastic organization and everyone has been incredibly welcoming to me! My advisor in an environmental engineer and carries a beautiful vision for a healthy and sustainable world! I´ve spent the past two days on the back of a heavy-duty dirt bike (and a horse!) visiting potential sites for my project. Chico, the man driving the bike, is a community outreach representative for Cuculmeca, and he works closely with familes as they develop long-term plans for their farms. He patiently explains to uneducated peasants the pros and cons of adopting organic agriculture practices, describing how many of the ailments they face are due to the poisons they use on their fields. Chico has been incredibly kind to me, and has invited me to his home for all of my meals. His wife is very sweet too, and his daughter who is just a few years older than me is becoming a friend.
Anyway, I have VERY limited internet access now, but next time I will explain my project to you! I hope you are well!
Love,
Em
Believe it or not, my classes ended on Thursday last week! After a few crazy days of paper- writing, I submitted my essays and work journal and left that evening for Matagalpa. I spent Friday visiting my campo host family in Cerro Grande with my friend Rachel - they were very surprised by my visit! We made tortillas and visited other community members. That afternoon they accompanied Rachel and me on the three hour walk to San Ramon, the closest town, and they cried as we bid them farewell. I promised them I´d return again, which means I´ll have to come back to Nicaragua within the next few years!!
I spent Saturday galavanting through the rainforest with Rachel and six guys from California, Washington and Oregon who are here in Nicaragua making a documentary. We swung on vines, climbed up enormous fallen trees and howled back at howler monkeys. It was a very playful day! Finally on Sunday I made my way to Jinotega alone, which is where I will be based for my independent project. I´m working with an organization called Cuculmeca that focuses on education and sustainable agriculture in campesino communites. It is a fantastic organization and everyone has been incredibly welcoming to me! My advisor in an environmental engineer and carries a beautiful vision for a healthy and sustainable world! I´ve spent the past two days on the back of a heavy-duty dirt bike (and a horse!) visiting potential sites for my project. Chico, the man driving the bike, is a community outreach representative for Cuculmeca, and he works closely with familes as they develop long-term plans for their farms. He patiently explains to uneducated peasants the pros and cons of adopting organic agriculture practices, describing how many of the ailments they face are due to the poisons they use on their fields. Chico has been incredibly kind to me, and has invited me to his home for all of my meals. His wife is very sweet too, and his daughter who is just a few years older than me is becoming a friend.
Anyway, I have VERY limited internet access now, but next time I will explain my project to you! I hope you are well!
Love,
Em
Thursday, April 2, 2009
White lobster, Katy and, once again, a new perspective...
Holas!
One week ago my group and I departed hot, sunny, dry Managua in a minibus at 6 AM. We wound our way across expansive pasturelands, over mountain ridges and descended into a lush, tropical rainforest. Seven hours later we arrived in Ramas, the city where the road ends. We boarded a panga, a twenty-foot motorboat, and navigated the Río Escondido. Lush vegetation and tiny thatched-roofed huts on stilts lined the edge of the river. Though we passed a few other motorboats during this multi-hour journey, we shared the river primarily with fisherman in dugout canoes. Late in the afternoon we arrived in Bluefields, an old port town in eastern Nicaragua.
The original inhabitants of this region were indigenous groups, such as the Miskito and the Ramas, though by the1600’s British pirates had established bases along the shores of Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast, and in subsequent years, escaped African slaves and their descendents, known as the Garifuna, began to thrive in this region. Most importantly, the Spanish conquistadors who had invaded the western half of Nicaragua and obliterated many of the indigenous peoples of the region didn’t make it to the eastern half of the country before the Miskitia Kingdom, as dubbed by the British, was sufficiently prepared to fight back. England established a working relationship with the indigenous groups and together they built a strong trade economy, while the Spaniards and growing mestizo population in the other half of the country developed an independent economy. In the mid 1800’s, as a result of political tension between Spain, England and the U.S. about building a canal through southern Nicaragua, England agreed to leave the country on the terms that the Miskitia Kingdom could either become part of Nicaragua or operate independently depending on the desires of its rulers. Despite this decree, by the late 1800’s the national government of western Nicaragua had permitted the exploitation of Miskito gold mines, forests and other natural resources by international corporations, causing outrage among the region’s indigenous peoples, who then sought England’s help to mediate a peaceful resolution. Ultimately it was agreed that eastern Nicaragua, which actually comprises 60% of the country, would be an autonomous region. For the past 100+ years, Costenos have been fighting for this autonomy, as their rights continue to be compromised and their land exploited.
As you may imagine based on this history, the autonomous region of Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast is culturally very different than the Pacific half. Creole, English, Miskito and other indigenous languages are more prevalent than Spanish and indigenous cultures, the Garifuna and other Afro-descendents maintain a strong presence. While Catholicism is the predominant religion of the west, many east coasters are Baptists, Moravians, various Protestant sects and some even practice Voodoo, like their Haitian counterparts. Reggae is more popular than cumbia and even gallo pinto is unique on the coast- flavored with freshly squeezed coconut milk. If I had been blindfolded for the journey there, I would have been easily convinced that Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast is an entirely different country…
The morning after we arrived in Bluefields, we boarded another panga and navigated North for about an hour to the town of Pearl Lagoon, where we stayed for 5 days. A colorful and peaceful dilapidated fishing town, Pearl Lagoon is comprised primarily by Creole-speaking Afro-descendents and Miskitos. Everyone speaks English as well, and many speak Spanish too. We met with community leaders to learn about natural resource management (many people in the region eat endangered sea turtles…), the struggle for autonomy, the social problems including racism, drug and alcohol addiction and teenage pregnancies. Many Costenos face serious discrimination- west coasters look down on them and accuse them of being primitive and unintelligent or drug dealers; the national government, based in the west, provides little infrastructure and community support (for example, while west coast students each receive government issued text books, only one per classroom is issued to east coast schools); and among each other, social hierarchies and racial divisions are unfortunately prolific. Despite these problems, the people we met were welcoming and eager to talk to us about their culture as well as their love of U.S. baseball- Pearl Lagoon has a few players in the major leagues! People were remarkably reflective and introspective, and commented critically and intelligently on human nature, their quest for unity in diversity, U.S. foreign policy, and their new-found inspiration: Obama.
Unfortunately, many U.S. Americans are partially responsible for one of the most serious problems affecting Pearl Lagoon and other nearby communities today: the illegal drug trade. Cocaine addicts, the demand half of this simple supply-demand formula, are the culprits. Cocaine, produced in Colombia for the huge U.S. market, is shuttled north in boats off the coast of Central America to cities like New Orleans. When U.S authorities in helicopters and ships approach the boats partaking in this illegal operation, the drug traffickers throw the shrink-wrapped bundles of cocaine overboard (to pass as common fisherman), which eventually wash up on Pearl Lagoon’s beaches. Fishermen, who make pennies for spending hours to catch many pounds of shrimp and lobster, can make a fortune if they catch one bundle of cocaine, and as a result of this market, 40 crack kitchens have sprung up in this small community. A place where illegal drugs barely existed a few years ago is now filled with crack-addicts, which is pulling families apart, causing violence and dysfunction. Until a few years ago illegal drugs were unheard of in Pearl Lagoon, and when the first fisherman came across the packages of cocaine, the turned them into local authorities. Today youth are dropping out of school to “go fishing for white lobster” which is tempting for many; as it is, Pearl Lagoon suffers from 60% unemployment. This innocent community is being torn apart by an incredibly destructive international drug trade.
On Sunday morning I was introduced to my “host parents” for the day (because of the drug problem we were not permitted to spend the whole week with host families, so one day of carefully vetted families had to suffice). Katy and Kenly, ages 20 and 21,and their two daughters, ages 1 and 6, served as my family, and within just a few hours of talking with them, Katy poured her heart out to me in her Creole-accented English. “You’re the first girl my age I’ve talked to for years,” she told me. “I don’t have any friends… they are all addicted to drugs, so every day I stay home alone and take care of my babies. I have no one to laugh with or talk with. The girls my age tell me to drink and to smoke - that that’ll make me feel better, but I don’t do that, so now I have no friends.” She also has no job, and no formal education. She loves to bake –its what she does to make herself happy- and spends Saturdays working toward her high school degree, but with Kenly unemployed too, she can barely afford school. The family eats only one meal each day. She told me, “I can go without food, but when my babies cry because their hungry my heart breaks. Every mother wants to be able to feed her kids.”
Katy and Kenly’s situation is not unlike that of many young people in Pearl Lagoon, and probably, in some ways it is better as they have both abstained from using drugs. But, they have two children, no jobs and no home (they rent a small concrete house with almost no furniture, but will be moving out next month because they cant afford it). Kenly completed high school and Katy completed primary school, but regardless of education, employment is impossible to come by. Because they don’t own land, they cannot farm or garden, so the family depends on about $50 per month that Kenly’s brother in Miami sends down. Both Katy and Kenly love to learn, and both said that the’re willing to sacrifice anything for their children to get an education. The local school costs one dollar per month per family, which is nearly out of their reach. Katy lamented that she feels useless without work- she would be willing to do almost anything to feel that she had a purpose each day. “It’s tough,” she said. “It’s really tough to get up each day and have no commitments. I have nothing to look forward to, nothing occupy me. If I had a job this would be different.” Kenly told me that he dreams of going to college. He asked me endless questions about my studies and about various majors. He told me that he would do it all over again if he had the chance, but when Katy got pregnant when she was fourteen, he knew he needed to stay with her and to support their family. As a child he was abandoned by his mother, who tried to make a life in Miami, and was passed around to various relatives for weeklong intervals. He didn’t want his daughters to share his fate, so now he’s doing his best to raise them well. “It’s my duty,” he said, but his eyes were cast down and he was prodding at the rice on his plate, hungry but without an appetite. As Katy and Kenly spoke to me, they weren’t seeking pity. Rather, they seemed to assume that their plights were common, as they are among many of their peers, and were just happy to talk through problems that have been boiling inside. They were so earnest and honest, and thanked me repeatedly for being a real friend.
When this day came to an end I felt weighed down by the many burdens of this young and desperate family. We hugged goodbye for a while, and I promised I’d come visit again the next day. I’d asked them how much it costs to build a house in Pearl Lagoon; it’s only $500 dollars, just a little bit more than my flight to come down here…I wrote for hours in my journal that night. This is real poverty. In the campo, my family could at least grow food and work for nearby industries, cutting wood or cultivating coffee. Industry is nonexistent in Pearl Lagoon, and with no land, growing food is not an option. This situation was deeply distressing to me. There is so much money in the world, so much gluttony, and this poor little family is hungry and barely getting by. Some how though, their faith is intact. They ceaselessly hope that something good will come; that a new option will surface. Katy told that she sits on the dock some days and cries, but she needs to be strong, she said, she needs to live to feed her babies.
My friend Katie and I returned the next day and with Katy we baked a cake. Then we wandered around town for a few hours. She wanted to hold on to the last moments of our time together she said, and asked that we please return within the next few years. “It is so wonderful to have friends,” she said. “These days have made me so happy.” I left for Bluefields the next morning, and by the time I got there, Katy had left a message on my phone, making sure I’d arrived safely. She called again when I got to Managua. “Thanks for being my friend,” she said, before her phone cut out.
These days with Katy were really special to me. She embodies a struggle that I can barely fathom- a young mother with simple dreams, barely making ends meet. I am certain I’ll stay in touch with her, and though we only spent hours together, I consider her a friend too. This was a wonderful way to celebrate my 22nd birthday; I hope I’ll be fortunate enough for the rest of my life to share candid and honest moments with strangers. What a perfect way to learn about life- to begin to understand this very complicated world.
On Tuesday we returned to Bluefields, then made our way to Managua yesterday. Katy's burdens and her honest and self-assured nature left a strong impression on me- her presence and the lessons she taught me are encompassing.
I hope you are all well! Happy April!
Love,
Em
One week ago my group and I departed hot, sunny, dry Managua in a minibus at 6 AM. We wound our way across expansive pasturelands, over mountain ridges and descended into a lush, tropical rainforest. Seven hours later we arrived in Ramas, the city where the road ends. We boarded a panga, a twenty-foot motorboat, and navigated the Río Escondido. Lush vegetation and tiny thatched-roofed huts on stilts lined the edge of the river. Though we passed a few other motorboats during this multi-hour journey, we shared the river primarily with fisherman in dugout canoes. Late in the afternoon we arrived in Bluefields, an old port town in eastern Nicaragua.
The original inhabitants of this region were indigenous groups, such as the Miskito and the Ramas, though by the1600’s British pirates had established bases along the shores of Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast, and in subsequent years, escaped African slaves and their descendents, known as the Garifuna, began to thrive in this region. Most importantly, the Spanish conquistadors who had invaded the western half of Nicaragua and obliterated many of the indigenous peoples of the region didn’t make it to the eastern half of the country before the Miskitia Kingdom, as dubbed by the British, was sufficiently prepared to fight back. England established a working relationship with the indigenous groups and together they built a strong trade economy, while the Spaniards and growing mestizo population in the other half of the country developed an independent economy. In the mid 1800’s, as a result of political tension between Spain, England and the U.S. about building a canal through southern Nicaragua, England agreed to leave the country on the terms that the Miskitia Kingdom could either become part of Nicaragua or operate independently depending on the desires of its rulers. Despite this decree, by the late 1800’s the national government of western Nicaragua had permitted the exploitation of Miskito gold mines, forests and other natural resources by international corporations, causing outrage among the region’s indigenous peoples, who then sought England’s help to mediate a peaceful resolution. Ultimately it was agreed that eastern Nicaragua, which actually comprises 60% of the country, would be an autonomous region. For the past 100+ years, Costenos have been fighting for this autonomy, as their rights continue to be compromised and their land exploited.
As you may imagine based on this history, the autonomous region of Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast is culturally very different than the Pacific half. Creole, English, Miskito and other indigenous languages are more prevalent than Spanish and indigenous cultures, the Garifuna and other Afro-descendents maintain a strong presence. While Catholicism is the predominant religion of the west, many east coasters are Baptists, Moravians, various Protestant sects and some even practice Voodoo, like their Haitian counterparts. Reggae is more popular than cumbia and even gallo pinto is unique on the coast- flavored with freshly squeezed coconut milk. If I had been blindfolded for the journey there, I would have been easily convinced that Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast is an entirely different country…
The morning after we arrived in Bluefields, we boarded another panga and navigated North for about an hour to the town of Pearl Lagoon, where we stayed for 5 days. A colorful and peaceful dilapidated fishing town, Pearl Lagoon is comprised primarily by Creole-speaking Afro-descendents and Miskitos. Everyone speaks English as well, and many speak Spanish too. We met with community leaders to learn about natural resource management (many people in the region eat endangered sea turtles…), the struggle for autonomy, the social problems including racism, drug and alcohol addiction and teenage pregnancies. Many Costenos face serious discrimination- west coasters look down on them and accuse them of being primitive and unintelligent or drug dealers; the national government, based in the west, provides little infrastructure and community support (for example, while west coast students each receive government issued text books, only one per classroom is issued to east coast schools); and among each other, social hierarchies and racial divisions are unfortunately prolific. Despite these problems, the people we met were welcoming and eager to talk to us about their culture as well as their love of U.S. baseball- Pearl Lagoon has a few players in the major leagues! People were remarkably reflective and introspective, and commented critically and intelligently on human nature, their quest for unity in diversity, U.S. foreign policy, and their new-found inspiration: Obama.
Unfortunately, many U.S. Americans are partially responsible for one of the most serious problems affecting Pearl Lagoon and other nearby communities today: the illegal drug trade. Cocaine addicts, the demand half of this simple supply-demand formula, are the culprits. Cocaine, produced in Colombia for the huge U.S. market, is shuttled north in boats off the coast of Central America to cities like New Orleans. When U.S authorities in helicopters and ships approach the boats partaking in this illegal operation, the drug traffickers throw the shrink-wrapped bundles of cocaine overboard (to pass as common fisherman), which eventually wash up on Pearl Lagoon’s beaches. Fishermen, who make pennies for spending hours to catch many pounds of shrimp and lobster, can make a fortune if they catch one bundle of cocaine, and as a result of this market, 40 crack kitchens have sprung up in this small community. A place where illegal drugs barely existed a few years ago is now filled with crack-addicts, which is pulling families apart, causing violence and dysfunction. Until a few years ago illegal drugs were unheard of in Pearl Lagoon, and when the first fisherman came across the packages of cocaine, the turned them into local authorities. Today youth are dropping out of school to “go fishing for white lobster” which is tempting for many; as it is, Pearl Lagoon suffers from 60% unemployment. This innocent community is being torn apart by an incredibly destructive international drug trade.
On Sunday morning I was introduced to my “host parents” for the day (because of the drug problem we were not permitted to spend the whole week with host families, so one day of carefully vetted families had to suffice). Katy and Kenly, ages 20 and 21,and their two daughters, ages 1 and 6, served as my family, and within just a few hours of talking with them, Katy poured her heart out to me in her Creole-accented English. “You’re the first girl my age I’ve talked to for years,” she told me. “I don’t have any friends… they are all addicted to drugs, so every day I stay home alone and take care of my babies. I have no one to laugh with or talk with. The girls my age tell me to drink and to smoke - that that’ll make me feel better, but I don’t do that, so now I have no friends.” She also has no job, and no formal education. She loves to bake –its what she does to make herself happy- and spends Saturdays working toward her high school degree, but with Kenly unemployed too, she can barely afford school. The family eats only one meal each day. She told me, “I can go without food, but when my babies cry because their hungry my heart breaks. Every mother wants to be able to feed her kids.”
Katy and Kenly’s situation is not unlike that of many young people in Pearl Lagoon, and probably, in some ways it is better as they have both abstained from using drugs. But, they have two children, no jobs and no home (they rent a small concrete house with almost no furniture, but will be moving out next month because they cant afford it). Kenly completed high school and Katy completed primary school, but regardless of education, employment is impossible to come by. Because they don’t own land, they cannot farm or garden, so the family depends on about $50 per month that Kenly’s brother in Miami sends down. Both Katy and Kenly love to learn, and both said that the’re willing to sacrifice anything for their children to get an education. The local school costs one dollar per month per family, which is nearly out of their reach. Katy lamented that she feels useless without work- she would be willing to do almost anything to feel that she had a purpose each day. “It’s tough,” she said. “It’s really tough to get up each day and have no commitments. I have nothing to look forward to, nothing occupy me. If I had a job this would be different.” Kenly told me that he dreams of going to college. He asked me endless questions about my studies and about various majors. He told me that he would do it all over again if he had the chance, but when Katy got pregnant when she was fourteen, he knew he needed to stay with her and to support their family. As a child he was abandoned by his mother, who tried to make a life in Miami, and was passed around to various relatives for weeklong intervals. He didn’t want his daughters to share his fate, so now he’s doing his best to raise them well. “It’s my duty,” he said, but his eyes were cast down and he was prodding at the rice on his plate, hungry but without an appetite. As Katy and Kenly spoke to me, they weren’t seeking pity. Rather, they seemed to assume that their plights were common, as they are among many of their peers, and were just happy to talk through problems that have been boiling inside. They were so earnest and honest, and thanked me repeatedly for being a real friend.
When this day came to an end I felt weighed down by the many burdens of this young and desperate family. We hugged goodbye for a while, and I promised I’d come visit again the next day. I’d asked them how much it costs to build a house in Pearl Lagoon; it’s only $500 dollars, just a little bit more than my flight to come down here…I wrote for hours in my journal that night. This is real poverty. In the campo, my family could at least grow food and work for nearby industries, cutting wood or cultivating coffee. Industry is nonexistent in Pearl Lagoon, and with no land, growing food is not an option. This situation was deeply distressing to me. There is so much money in the world, so much gluttony, and this poor little family is hungry and barely getting by. Some how though, their faith is intact. They ceaselessly hope that something good will come; that a new option will surface. Katy told that she sits on the dock some days and cries, but she needs to be strong, she said, she needs to live to feed her babies.
My friend Katie and I returned the next day and with Katy we baked a cake. Then we wandered around town for a few hours. She wanted to hold on to the last moments of our time together she said, and asked that we please return within the next few years. “It is so wonderful to have friends,” she said. “These days have made me so happy.” I left for Bluefields the next morning, and by the time I got there, Katy had left a message on my phone, making sure I’d arrived safely. She called again when I got to Managua. “Thanks for being my friend,” she said, before her phone cut out.
These days with Katy were really special to me. She embodies a struggle that I can barely fathom- a young mother with simple dreams, barely making ends meet. I am certain I’ll stay in touch with her, and though we only spent hours together, I consider her a friend too. This was a wonderful way to celebrate my 22nd birthday; I hope I’ll be fortunate enough for the rest of my life to share candid and honest moments with strangers. What a perfect way to learn about life- to begin to understand this very complicated world.
On Tuesday we returned to Bluefields, then made our way to Managua yesterday. Katy's burdens and her honest and self-assured nature left a strong impression on me- her presence and the lessons she taught me are encompassing.
I hope you are all well! Happy April!
Love,
Em
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Mi cumpleaños!
Everyone,
My eyes filled with happy tears as I read all of your birthday wishes just now! It feels so wonderful to have so many people in my life that love me - I love you all so much too! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
I had a wonderful birthday yesterday and was sung the birthday song in English, Spanish and Miskito, a local indigenous language! The family we were staying with made me a cake, and even though I´ve been incommunicado all week, I was lucky enough to talk with Mom, Maeve and Mark! So I had a wonderfully happy birthday!
Muchas gracias!
Love to you,
Em
My eyes filled with happy tears as I read all of your birthday wishes just now! It feels so wonderful to have so many people in my life that love me - I love you all so much too! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
I had a wonderful birthday yesterday and was sung the birthday song in English, Spanish and Miskito, a local indigenous language! The family we were staying with made me a cake, and even though I´ve been incommunicado all week, I was lucky enough to talk with Mom, Maeve and Mark! So I had a wonderfully happy birthday!
Muchas gracias!
Love to you,
Em
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
My Confrontation with a Ladron in La Maximo…
Greetings!
Yesterday afternoon at about 1:00 three friends and I were walking from the SIT study center to the local bakery, about three blocks down the road. We were hot and sweaty and enjoying a long day of essay writing. I was eager for a refresco de cacoa, a delicious, cold, milk-less chocolate drink, and I was clenching my money in a small change purse in my hand. We exchanged greetings and smiles with people on the street – there is lots of socializing on Sunday afternoons – and then suddenly my purse was snatched from my hand. Without thinking I swirled around, noted a guy about my age making an escape on a bike (he was in the process of changing direction), and as he began to pedal I dashed after him and grabbed onto the back of his shirt. Startled by the tension he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Suddenly we were surrounded by about ten neighborhood men and at least fifty bystanders. The ladron (thief) tried to escape again, but was detained by the aggressive blows of the men. He finally relinquished the money and stumbled away, not seriously hurt but certainly shaken up.
Unable to fully comprehend what had just happened – my heart was racing and my instinctual reaction had startled me – my friends and I were comforted by the witnesses, who by and large were our neighbors (we all live within a few blocks from the study center), and were advised to be more careful - to stash our money in our bras and to be watchful at all times. We then continued our quest for refrescos.
The event took place so quickly that I was hardly able to understand what had transpired until we talked it over in the minutes that followed. Obviously the ladron had targeted us and snuck up behind us on his bike. Relishing our break from work, we weren’t as vigilant as usual and had been caught off guard. During the next moments my adrenaline took over, and contrary to all of the advice I’d received and to what I thought was my own disposition, I stood up for myself and tried to detain the ladron. The irony was that my reaction was completely illogical (though arguably when adrenaline kicks in, explaining something with logic is useless), because I had only 100 cordobas in my purse- about $5. If he’d had a knife or gun on him, as many ladrones do, or it had been nighttime and fewer people had been on the street, my reaction could have turned out quite dangerous- I’m hoping that I was intuitively aware that this action was reasonably safe under the circumstances. I was also concerned because while I had no intention of harming him, the beating he took from the other men could have, which would certainly not have been worth it. But, the only way to fully understand this event is to place it in the broader context of security in Nicaragua. The country’s police force is seriously under funded, so petty crime, such as robbery, must be dealt with by the people, and the only way to keep one’s neighborhood safe is to teach the thieves a lesson. It was an act of solidarity, because it was not solely my foreignness that made me a target- Nicas are targeted frequently too- and there is general disgust in the community with thievery. In fact, during orientation we were told that when someone notices a ladron on a city bus, they will notify the bus driver who will stop the bus and lock the doors, then, it was explained, “mutiny ensues.” It’s the people’s way of cleaning up the streets- of ensuring their own safety and that of their families. Of course I thought about how the ladron could probably have used the $5 more than I, and that I should have just let him go, but that would have been perpetuating a dangerous and violent habit. I am hoping that this taught him a lesson.
So word on the street about the chelita’s (white girl’s) brave confrontation with the ladron spread quickly and when I returned home my host mom beamed with pride, though warned me sternly to be more careful. That evening we went out to buy vegetables for dinner, and three people stopped to tell us the story of the “valiant white girl who pulled a thief off of his bike” not realizing that she was in their presence, nor, of course, that their story was exaggerated.
I was ashamed at first that I had reacted with force- after all, as my academic director explained, he was simply relieving me of my attachment to material possessions. (I think this is the greatest way to frame robbery!) But, I also realized that I contributed to La Maximo’s grassroots justice system, on which my host family, neighbors and friends depend. The best part of all though, was that as a hero for a few hours, the men who usually lurk on the corners and whistle and hiss and propose to me as me as I walk by, greeted me amicably- they were the guys who had confronted the ladron, and perhaps they now respected me for attempting to defend the community. (Whether I deserve this admiration is unclear- I didn’t choose to grab the poor guy by his collar- my body reacted before I was cognizant of the situation- but I don’t mind this new esteem! Friendly hellos are much better than belittling piropos (catcalls)).
So, I am not posting this to concern any of you! Don’t worry- I’m safe and well and clearly the community is vigilant! I just think it is a culturally significant story that you might find interesting. And, I promise, from now on I will be more careful!
My love and warm wishes to all of you! Enjoy the beginning of spring!
Em
Yesterday afternoon at about 1:00 three friends and I were walking from the SIT study center to the local bakery, about three blocks down the road. We were hot and sweaty and enjoying a long day of essay writing. I was eager for a refresco de cacoa, a delicious, cold, milk-less chocolate drink, and I was clenching my money in a small change purse in my hand. We exchanged greetings and smiles with people on the street – there is lots of socializing on Sunday afternoons – and then suddenly my purse was snatched from my hand. Without thinking I swirled around, noted a guy about my age making an escape on a bike (he was in the process of changing direction), and as he began to pedal I dashed after him and grabbed onto the back of his shirt. Startled by the tension he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Suddenly we were surrounded by about ten neighborhood men and at least fifty bystanders. The ladron (thief) tried to escape again, but was detained by the aggressive blows of the men. He finally relinquished the money and stumbled away, not seriously hurt but certainly shaken up.
Unable to fully comprehend what had just happened – my heart was racing and my instinctual reaction had startled me – my friends and I were comforted by the witnesses, who by and large were our neighbors (we all live within a few blocks from the study center), and were advised to be more careful - to stash our money in our bras and to be watchful at all times. We then continued our quest for refrescos.
The event took place so quickly that I was hardly able to understand what had transpired until we talked it over in the minutes that followed. Obviously the ladron had targeted us and snuck up behind us on his bike. Relishing our break from work, we weren’t as vigilant as usual and had been caught off guard. During the next moments my adrenaline took over, and contrary to all of the advice I’d received and to what I thought was my own disposition, I stood up for myself and tried to detain the ladron. The irony was that my reaction was completely illogical (though arguably when adrenaline kicks in, explaining something with logic is useless), because I had only 100 cordobas in my purse- about $5. If he’d had a knife or gun on him, as many ladrones do, or it had been nighttime and fewer people had been on the street, my reaction could have turned out quite dangerous- I’m hoping that I was intuitively aware that this action was reasonably safe under the circumstances. I was also concerned because while I had no intention of harming him, the beating he took from the other men could have, which would certainly not have been worth it. But, the only way to fully understand this event is to place it in the broader context of security in Nicaragua. The country’s police force is seriously under funded, so petty crime, such as robbery, must be dealt with by the people, and the only way to keep one’s neighborhood safe is to teach the thieves a lesson. It was an act of solidarity, because it was not solely my foreignness that made me a target- Nicas are targeted frequently too- and there is general disgust in the community with thievery. In fact, during orientation we were told that when someone notices a ladron on a city bus, they will notify the bus driver who will stop the bus and lock the doors, then, it was explained, “mutiny ensues.” It’s the people’s way of cleaning up the streets- of ensuring their own safety and that of their families. Of course I thought about how the ladron could probably have used the $5 more than I, and that I should have just let him go, but that would have been perpetuating a dangerous and violent habit. I am hoping that this taught him a lesson.
So word on the street about the chelita’s (white girl’s) brave confrontation with the ladron spread quickly and when I returned home my host mom beamed with pride, though warned me sternly to be more careful. That evening we went out to buy vegetables for dinner, and three people stopped to tell us the story of the “valiant white girl who pulled a thief off of his bike” not realizing that she was in their presence, nor, of course, that their story was exaggerated.
I was ashamed at first that I had reacted with force- after all, as my academic director explained, he was simply relieving me of my attachment to material possessions. (I think this is the greatest way to frame robbery!) But, I also realized that I contributed to La Maximo’s grassroots justice system, on which my host family, neighbors and friends depend. The best part of all though, was that as a hero for a few hours, the men who usually lurk on the corners and whistle and hiss and propose to me as me as I walk by, greeted me amicably- they were the guys who had confronted the ladron, and perhaps they now respected me for attempting to defend the community. (Whether I deserve this admiration is unclear- I didn’t choose to grab the poor guy by his collar- my body reacted before I was cognizant of the situation- but I don’t mind this new esteem! Friendly hellos are much better than belittling piropos (catcalls)).
So, I am not posting this to concern any of you! Don’t worry- I’m safe and well and clearly the community is vigilant! I just think it is a culturally significant story that you might find interesting. And, I promise, from now on I will be more careful!
My love and warm wishes to all of you! Enjoy the beginning of spring!
Em
Monday, March 23, 2009
El Salvador and the FMLN Victory!
Amigos y Amigas,
I suppose at this point you have all read about the Farabundo Marti Front for National Liberation´s (FMLN) unprecedented victory in last Sunday’s election in El Salvador, but I’ll fill you in about what happened on my end – it was such an exciting day!!
On the day before the election we took a three-hour bus ride from San Salvador to the department of Cabañas, on the border of Honduras. We traveled a long and winding highway through sleepy villages and bustling towns, all of which were decorated with election propaganda- posters of the two candidates were plastered to sides of homes, bus windows and light posts; telephone poles and rocks were painted in the FMLN’s signature red and white or ARENA’s (National Republican Alliance) red, white and blue; cars sported party flags and people wore T-shirts to indicate their political preference. The people were nervous- both Mauricio Funes (FMLN) and Rodrigo Avila (ARENA) supporters were hesitant to predict a winner- the polls were close and, most elections in the past 20 years, including January’s departmental and municipal elections, were rigged in favor of ARENA. Eventually we arrived in the town Victoria, located in a very poor, rural and politically rightwing part of El Salvador, which was to be our command center on election day.
Before we left San Salvador we were trained as official election observers by the Iniciativa Social para
When we arrived in Victoria we met up with members of a youth radio station, Radio Victoria, who had press permits to observe the election. I may have mentioned in an earlier blog that the radio is an essential tool for communication in rural Nicaragua and it turns this is the case in El Salvador as well. In fact, the radio has major historical significance in El Salvador because it was used as a mobilization strategy during the civil war in the 80’s – the only way clandestine guerillas could learn about the status of the liberation movement, including the latest insurgencies and tactics, was to tune into Radio Venceremos - “the voice of the revolution.” Though Radio Victoria serves a different purpose than its 1980’s forbear, its leftist bent is somewhat revolutionary in this conservative department. Also, many of the reporters, most of whom are between the ages of 18 and 24, were born and raised in refugee camps in Honduras (due to the U.S. backed civil war), and endured the pain and horror that ensues from this sort of displacement. As a result, they are staunch supporters of the FMLN.
We paired up with radio reporters (they promised to maintain neutrality on election day!) who were accompanying us to our assigned voting centers in municipalities around Victoria. We awoke at 3 AM on the 15th, dressed in our "official" election observer T-shirts, piled into a bus and were dropped off in small groups across the countryside. Mike, another SITer, and my radio friends, Eliseo and Daysi, and I were stationed in a town called Tejutepeque about an hour and a half from Victoria. We made our way to the voting center, and after showing our official badges to the guards at the door, were premited to enter. At this point, my official observation commenced!
I was expected to observe the entire electoral process in this voting center, paying attention to specific criteria outlined in observation forms and noting questionable behaviors. I also had to call our command center three times to report my observations. One form dedicated to the opening of the polls, asked an array of questions including whether or not the Vote Receiving Board (JRV) knew the set-up procedures and how to cast their own ballots, as well as if all of the necessary materials were present, if the voting stations were properly assembled and if there was partisan propaganda in the voting center. The second form asked whether either political party was being violent, whether the JRV properly checked voter’s IDs, when, if ever, citizens were denied a vote, among others. Finally, the vote closure form asked questions about final vote counts and the presence of authority figures in the voting center.
In this voting center there were eleven JRVs (no more than 450 citizens could legally be assigned to a single JRV) serving a population of about 5000. Organized alphabetically, voters had to determine which JRV they were assigned to by finding their name and photo on a board corresponding to a specific JRV. Each JRV was comprised of a president, a secretary and two vocals. Half of all JRVs in the country were staffed with an FMLN president and half were staffed with an ARENA president. The secretary was always from a different party than the president and one vocal represented each party. In addition, a vigilante from each party patrolled the JRV table. So in all there were six people at each voting table and when a voter approached she would show her ID to the president who would verify it in a registry. The secretary would prepare the ballot by stamping and signing the back and tearing off a corner marked with a corresponding number. The voter would then be handed the ballot, which was a practically blank paper- on one half was the FMLN flag, and on the other was the ARENA flag- and would be told to draw an X through the flag of her chosen party. Illiteracy is pervasive in this country, so a very simple ballot was essential. She would take her ballot to a nearby voting booth, mark it, fold it in quarters and stuff it into a slit in a large cardboard box near the JRV. A vocal would then immerse her thumb in indelible ink to prove that she’d voted and the other would ask her to sign the registry (if she didn’t know how to write her name she could use her fingerprint instead). Having successfully voted, she was free to go.
The voting process was simple, and surprisingly uneventful in Tejutepeque. People were friendly, especially to me and the other international observers. They’d flash me smiles, offer me food and water, and glance at me regularly, soliciting approval. They wanted us to see that they were doing it right- that there was no fraud or other voting misconduct. Actually, their overly attentive and accommodating attitude was a bit unsettling – I approached this as a learning experience as they approached me as an expert in democracy, a title I certainly cannot claim. It was clear, at least in this voting center, that they wanted the election to go smoothly. They wanted to show the world that Salvadorans can conduct a just election and that their era of electoral fraud has come to a close. Perhaps this is a grandiose statement, but I think it is somehow accurate. Being able to confidently state a winner, even on the level of one JRV, must feel like a triumph. At the JRV I observed during the closing, ballots were removed from the collection box one by one, the party marked was announced by the president, the ballot was shown to everyone present (including me!) and handed to the appropriate vigilante to be counted aloud. FMLN received 138 votes and ARENA received 175 votes, but perhaps most pleasing to both parties involved was the certainty and honesty with which these numbers could be reported.
At about
When we returned to San Salvador the following day the merriment persisted. An iconic statue in the middle of the city was dressed in FMLN garb, people walked with their heads high and the color red was ubiquitous. The couple who owns the guest house where we were staying, both of whom had prominent roles in the revolution and are very politically active today, told us that we witnessed the most momentous event in the past 500 years of Salvadoran history! An exaggeration I’d say, but the sentiment was real. I suppose years and years of overt oppression, injustice and abuse of power make a just victory through a purportedly ideal process – democracy – a glorious triumph. A number of people told us that they would now divide their lives in two eras: before and after this election. For many it really was a life-changing event- one to be cherished, one to restore faith in their country an people! For me it caused my eyes to open once again - I´m increasingly suspicious of U.S. foreign policy in Latin America (apprently manifest destiny persists...), intrigued by Salvadoran and Nicarguan notions of citizenship, political identity and human rights (very new concepts in this part of the world), and a little more wary of "democracy" than I was a few months ago (perhaps it is just one blip in the human quest for just governance).
Until next time…
Monday, March 16, 2009
A bit on the election!
Hey all! Here is a short entry two of my friends and I wrote this afternoon for the SIT blog... I´ll write more about it soon!
After twenty years of National Republican Alliance (ARENA) leadership, on March 15, 2009, the Salvadoran people succeeded in electing a candidate from the opposing political party, the Farabundo Marti Front for National Liberation (FMLN). Mauricio Funes, the moderate FMLN candidate, has gained national respect for his work as a journalist, most well known for his independent and reliable reporting, and his candidacy has brought a fresh face to the traditionally militant FMLN party. Rodrigo Avila, the right-wing ARENA candidate, perpetuated his party’s tactic, instilling fear in the people and accusing the FMLN of being an enemy of the United States in order to dissuade voters from voting for Funes. Not only was the FMLN victory significant for their party, it was a momentous achievement for Salvadoran democracy. According to Jaime Sanchez, a reporter from Radio Victoria, a community radio station in Cabanas, this election “was an exercise in democracy for the country…For the first time, the Salvadoran people have brought about an alternation of power, which is essential for a healthy democracy.”
Five days before the election, the students from SIT Nicaragua arrived in El Salvador to be trained as international election observers. Through the Social Initiative for Democracy (ISD), we received our credentials and left for Cabanas, a department to the north of San Salvador on the Honduran border. As observers, we were instructed to pay close attention to the opening and closing of voting sites along with any suspicious activity throughout the day. For example, in San Isidro, some students witnessed a confrontation between election officials regarding fraudulent identification cards; the FMLN representatives accused nearly ten people of posing as deceased members of their community in order to vote. Another student observed an ARENA official “accidentally” tearing FMLN ballots during the counting process, which according to electoral law, nullifies them. These isolated anomalies and others of their nature, while significant, did not prevent the nation from successfully holding a democratic election. Our group ended the night alongside student reporters from Radio Victoria—celebrating hope and change with our Salvadoran counterparts!
lovem
After twenty years of National Republican Alliance (ARENA) leadership, on March 15, 2009, the Salvadoran people succeeded in electing a candidate from the opposing political party, the Farabundo Marti Front for National Liberation (FMLN). Mauricio Funes, the moderate FMLN candidate, has gained national respect for his work as a journalist, most well known for his independent and reliable reporting, and his candidacy has brought a fresh face to the traditionally militant FMLN party. Rodrigo Avila, the right-wing ARENA candidate, perpetuated his party’s tactic, instilling fear in the people and accusing the FMLN of being an enemy of the United States in order to dissuade voters from voting for Funes. Not only was the FMLN victory significant for their party, it was a momentous achievement for Salvadoran democracy. According to Jaime Sanchez, a reporter from Radio Victoria, a community radio station in Cabanas, this election “was an exercise in democracy for the country…For the first time, the Salvadoran people have brought about an alternation of power, which is essential for a healthy democracy.”
Five days before the election, the students from SIT Nicaragua arrived in El Salvador to be trained as international election observers. Through the Social Initiative for Democracy (ISD), we received our credentials and left for Cabanas, a department to the north of San Salvador on the Honduran border. As observers, we were instructed to pay close attention to the opening and closing of voting sites along with any suspicious activity throughout the day. For example, in San Isidro, some students witnessed a confrontation between election officials regarding fraudulent identification cards; the FMLN representatives accused nearly ten people of posing as deceased members of their community in order to vote. Another student observed an ARENA official “accidentally” tearing FMLN ballots during the counting process, which according to electoral law, nullifies them. These isolated anomalies and others of their nature, while significant, did not prevent the nation from successfully holding a democratic election. Our group ended the night alongside student reporters from Radio Victoria—celebrating hope and change with our Salvadoran counterparts!
lovem
Monday, March 9, 2009
Musings on Ruben Darío and Lacoste
Greetings from Hot and Sunny Nicaragua! (I meant to post this before I made a crazy trip home for an interview in Boston and speedy return to Central America- I´m in El Salvador now! Sorry it´s a few days late...)
I spent the past week, with the exception of the weekend, in Managua finishing up Spanish class (I can´t believe it either!), immersing myself in our module called "The Culture of Peace," and enjoying increasingly subtle, though no less revealing, learning experiences.
The other day I was reading the novel, La Mujer Habitada (The Inhabited Woman), by Gioconda Belli, an extraordinary Nicaraguan author-poet. I came acoss the word, azahare, which I could not find in my dictionary, and asked my host dad, Eddy, what it means. Eddy, an overweight, uneducated bus driver, physically slow due to a stroke, smiled at me warmly and began reciting a poem by Nicaragua´s pride and joy: Ruben Darío. Los azahares, I deduced, are organge blossoms.
One of the most striking elements of Nicaraguan culture is the people s genuine love of poetry. Children and adults, rich and poor, educated and uneducated write and/or recite poetry. Ruben Darío and others are quoted daily- in speeches, newspapers, murals and graffiti, and the belief that everyone is a poet is cited often. Interestingly, literacy does not seem to be a prerequistie for an appreciation of poetry, and actually, in my experience, the correllation is nonexistent. During the war, poetry camps, in which citizens were brought together in warehouses to create poetry, were formed, to maintain this essential element of Nicaraguan culture. Perhaps it is the natural beauty of this country that provokes expression through poetry- awe-inspiring volcanoes and lakes are abundant - or the painful throes of war and curruption. Regardless, I am amazed when an illiterate peasant recites a verse, or a middle-aged man uses Darío´s art to define ¨orange blossom.¨
I spent the past week, with the exception of the weekend, in Managua finishing up Spanish class (I can´t believe it either!), immersing myself in our module called "The Culture of Peace," and enjoying increasingly subtle, though no less revealing, learning experiences.
The other day I was reading the novel, La Mujer Habitada (The Inhabited Woman), by Gioconda Belli, an extraordinary Nicaraguan author-poet. I came acoss the word, azahare, which I could not find in my dictionary, and asked my host dad, Eddy, what it means. Eddy, an overweight, uneducated bus driver, physically slow due to a stroke, smiled at me warmly and began reciting a poem by Nicaragua´s pride and joy: Ruben Darío. Los azahares, I deduced, are organge blossoms.
One of the most striking elements of Nicaraguan culture is the people s genuine love of poetry. Children and adults, rich and poor, educated and uneducated write and/or recite poetry. Ruben Darío and others are quoted daily- in speeches, newspapers, murals and graffiti, and the belief that everyone is a poet is cited often. Interestingly, literacy does not seem to be a prerequistie for an appreciation of poetry, and actually, in my experience, the correllation is nonexistent. During the war, poetry camps, in which citizens were brought together in warehouses to create poetry, were formed, to maintain this essential element of Nicaraguan culture. Perhaps it is the natural beauty of this country that provokes expression through poetry- awe-inspiring volcanoes and lakes are abundant - or the painful throes of war and curruption. Regardless, I am amazed when an illiterate peasant recites a verse, or a middle-aged man uses Darío´s art to define ¨orange blossom.¨
***
I have told a few of you about the sweat shops, or, euphemistically, the free trade zones, in Nicaragua. Cement buildings surrounded by barbed wire two-stories high, spewing pollution into the sky, are the workplaces of thousands of Nicas. Sickly, boney people and dogs mill around these cement and wire compounds. Trash blows in the wind. Villages of plastic, carboard and tin homes have sprung up around the sites.
I´ve also told a few of you about the strange abundance of popular U.S. brands such as American Eagle, Abercrombie and Fitch, Reef, Hollister, and Aeropostale in run-down shops on Managua´s street corners. A Lacoste polo here costs under $6.00.
I was disgusted when I put two and two together.
When I returned from the campo I felt weighed down by my numerous possessions. I have few here and many more at home and every one of them is tugging at me. I feel like I´m dragging them along behind me. More exhausting, though, is the moral weight of my things, which is exacerbated by sheer quantity. How much suffering did this shirt cause? What about the bag and book? Of course these sentiments are wrapped up in neoliberalism and the inherent inequities of global economic systems, but the reality - the implications - are here on the ground.
Here´s another one: My host family in the campo produce coffee, which they sell to cooperatives in Matagalpa for pennies, which then sell it to companies in the U.S and Europe. Dark, robust, organic coffee. But, they drink and served me Nes-Cafe. Believe it or not, it was cheaper for them to buy this weak, instant variety than to consume their own crop. (Transforming the grape-like coffee beans to the dried, shelled and roasted beans we buy in the grocery store at home can be a long and expensive process...) I can´t stop thinking about how by purchasing Nes-Cafe, my campo host family inadervtantly exploits their neighbors - some other group of poor peasants, slaving away in a (most likely) U.S.-owned coffee plantation. What a system! It is cheaper to buy a processed, tasteless, chemical-filled variety of your own crop, than to create it it yourself. They have no option but to propogate an insidious system that fundamentally immobilizes them!
I have told a few of you about the sweat shops, or, euphemistically, the free trade zones, in Nicaragua. Cement buildings surrounded by barbed wire two-stories high, spewing pollution into the sky, are the workplaces of thousands of Nicas. Sickly, boney people and dogs mill around these cement and wire compounds. Trash blows in the wind. Villages of plastic, carboard and tin homes have sprung up around the sites.
I´ve also told a few of you about the strange abundance of popular U.S. brands such as American Eagle, Abercrombie and Fitch, Reef, Hollister, and Aeropostale in run-down shops on Managua´s street corners. A Lacoste polo here costs under $6.00.
I was disgusted when I put two and two together.
When I returned from the campo I felt weighed down by my numerous possessions. I have few here and many more at home and every one of them is tugging at me. I feel like I´m dragging them along behind me. More exhausting, though, is the moral weight of my things, which is exacerbated by sheer quantity. How much suffering did this shirt cause? What about the bag and book? Of course these sentiments are wrapped up in neoliberalism and the inherent inequities of global economic systems, but the reality - the implications - are here on the ground.
Here´s another one: My host family in the campo produce coffee, which they sell to cooperatives in Matagalpa for pennies, which then sell it to companies in the U.S and Europe. Dark, robust, organic coffee. But, they drink and served me Nes-Cafe. Believe it or not, it was cheaper for them to buy this weak, instant variety than to consume their own crop. (Transforming the grape-like coffee beans to the dried, shelled and roasted beans we buy in the grocery store at home can be a long and expensive process...) I can´t stop thinking about how by purchasing Nes-Cafe, my campo host family inadervtantly exploits their neighbors - some other group of poor peasants, slaving away in a (most likely) U.S.-owned coffee plantation. What a system! It is cheaper to buy a processed, tasteless, chemical-filled variety of your own crop, than to create it it yourself. They have no option but to propogate an insidious system that fundamentally immobilizes them!
More to come on coffee later... Also, stay tuned with the presidential elections in El Salvador. I´m going to be an official international election observer this Sunday!
Stay well and happy!
Love,
Em
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Living the life of a campesino in Cerro Grande, Matagalpa, Nicaragua
Buenos y buenas!
I´ve just returned to the city and am now beginning to deconstruct the many complicated elements of my week in the campo. I´ll begin by telling you that one could never go to a place like this with too much humility: a very simple way of life, an extraordinarily hardworking, humble, generous, loving and timid community of people, both of which are perpetually challenged by a complex web of environmental degradation, disease, politics, hunger, technology and poverty. I would return to the campo in a heartbeat, and am considering to do so for my independent study, but now I need to consider and reconsider the many life lessons I learned this week and figure out how my new perspective can be applied to my own lifestyle, which is superficially different, but (ideally) fundamentally similar to the one I led in the campo.
The family I lived with were the salt of the earth- deeply humble and unassuming and endlessly generous with their limited food supply and living space. They have lived in the campo all of their lives, never travelled beyond San Ramon, a small town about a three hour walk away, are largely illiterate and, when they´re lucky, they eat rice, beans and tortillas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Doña Francisca, the mother, is 52 years old, very overweight due to illness, and nearly toothless due to decay. Her husband passed away about 15 years ago and nearly half of her children still live in her one and a half room adobe home. She spends a lot of time cooking each day, and, unlike many of the campo mothers, has a wage job at a birthing center in San Ramon, where she lives for two week intervals. The life expectancy in the campo is 60, so Francisca is considered a very old women by their standards. Victor, 33, the only son living at home, is about 5 ft tall, also toothless and very shy. He works at a coffee plantation in a village about an hour and a half walk away, so I didn´t spend much time with him, but when he was around, he tended to the family´s corn crop and banana, orange, coffee and mango trees, dug irrigation trenches and repaired tools that frequently broke. Paula, 32, is the oldest daughter living at home, though there are three others in the community. She has beautiful black hair half the length of her body and she spends all day, every day, making tortillas and cooking rice and beans. The tortilla-making process is incredibly time consuming and labor insensive, and includes collecting corn kernals, which are either purchased or removed from the cob (depending on the time of year), soaked and cooked for hours, milled into a dough, milled into a finer dough, pounded one by one into the individual tortillas and heated in a pan over the open fire. As the staple of the campo diet, tortillas are eaten at every meal so it is necessary for one family member to make them regularly throughout the day. Socorro, 23, is completing 6th grade at the community´s public school, which runs from 8 AM to 12 PM daily. Her responsibilities at home include, washing the family´s laundry by hand at a spigot that sometimes releases water - quite the task, especially during mud season - gathering water for the kitchen, and collecting fire wood (the family does all of their cooking over open flames, so lots of wood is needed). Three days each week she walks to a thick cloud forest about two miles away to gather fallen branches, which she piles in a huge bundle on top of her head, then makes her way back to the home and prepares to repeat the process again. Maritza, 17, has completed 6th grade, the highest level offered in the community, and is hoping to begin high school in San Ramon next year. She helps out around the house as well - collects fire wood, does laundry and sweeps. She waters and sweeps the home´s dirt floor, all of the dirt foot paths around the house, and the dirt yard. The land in this region has a high content of clay, so it packs down firmly. Sweeping the dirt surfaces, though it sounds ironic, helps maintain a very tidy living space and, more importantly, diminishes the propagatiuon of fleas! (Yes, I got fleas in the campo!) Finally, Maribel, 6, is the daughter of either Victor or Paula (I was never able to figure it out, and some things are just not worth inquiring about- many people in this community are very closely related...). She is a very sweet, curious and vibrant child, and as a first grader, the only member of the family on track to finish primary school on time.
I decided it would be worth telling you about the responsibilities of each of these people not because I think you´re particularily interested in seemingly mundane tasks, but to try to give you a glimpse the reality of life in the campo. These tasks are what these people live for: when I asked each of them about their life dreams, every family member began by responding with (and some had only one response) ¨being able to work hard all of my life.¨ Hard work puts food on the table- this correlation is direct and clear. It´s a matter of survival. Of course, this is not to say that they don´t have fun- there are a few musicians in the community who play for dances and Sunday mass and, in general, people find joy in very simple things, like the beautiful mountainous countryside, daily rain showers followed by warm and vibrant sunlight and a night sky filled with an endless depth of shining stars.
Doña Francisca and here family live in a small adobe home with a corregated tin roof (there are only a few holes in it!), and a dirt floor. They have a cement latrine and a small chicken coop. This is one of about 30 homes that make up the community of Cerro Grande, all of which are scattered throughout the mountains, never in sight of another, but nestled just over a ridge or around the bend of a hill. All six family members sleep on a low wooden table, surrounded by makeshift plastic walls. The table is about 8 ft long and 5 feet wide, and doubles as a storage space for clothing as well, because it one of the only non-dirt surfaces in the home. When it is chilly, as it often is the Matagalpan mountains, the family sleeps directly on the wooden planks and use their few blankets and towels as covers. I slept in a sleeping bag in a plastic hammock, which despite its cramped nature was luxurious compared to their wooden bed. In addition to the hammock and sleeping table, there was a small wooden table, one plastic chair, a wooden bench, an elevated fire pit for cooking, a small hand-powered mill for tortilla-making, a battery powered radio, a few dishes and spoons and about 15 old cooking oil and soda bottles that serve as water jugs. Hanging on the earth walls are socially-consicious posters about protecting the environment, voting for education and fighting against sexual abuse in rural communities, all of which represent issues the family is passionate about, and surprisingly well-informed. Specifically, despite high levels of illiteracy, there is a great deal of community organizing in rural Nicaragua, speared in part by NGOs but also by internally driven cooperative efforts. A lot of information is transmitted over the radio and local church groups and priests serve as conveyors of progressive social and environmental information. Though formal organization is limited due the necessity of spending long hours working, awareness of issues ranging from local effects of global warming to support groups for domestc violence was striking.
While I was in the campo, I spent the mornings working and the afternoons exploring the areas with hordes of laughing children. We spent one day digging the foundation of a new home in the side of a mountain, another digging holes for banana trees, one digging an irrigation trench, and another planting coffee trees. In the afternoons I wandered along the steep grassy ridges on the outskirts of town, listened to howler monkeys, watched a sloth, treated myself to oranges and bananas, explored a lush cloud forest reserve, collected fire wood and water and made tortillas. The week was a respite from the piles of burning trash and stifling pollution of Managua, but the thick and constant smoke in the house from the cooking fire took a toll on my lungs. Most delightful about this week were the people: they have so little, yet are clearly content. They explained that they are grateful to have eachother, and indeed, family members spend a lot of time togther. Notions of personal space and privacy are nonexistant, and if someone wanders off alone (including me!) she is considered ¨afligida¨- afflicted! Of course, these people know no other way of life, so genuine contentment is fortunate. Regardless though, I cant stop thinking about how living, day in and day out, on the edge of survival must be grating. This is a notion I couldn´t quite grasp this week... It was difficult to refrain from romanticizing the simplicity, when in reality, simplicty was a facade I constructed to mask the fundamental struggle for life. Most amazing was that, despite this struggle, my family was so welcoming and so generous. They gave me large portions of food, cleaned my clothes, and, even though I protested, washed my feet! Though they were timid, by the end of the week they began to ask questions about my home and way of life. I showed them photos of many of you (which they loved!) and explained, ¨No, we don´t grow beans in New England. Nope, not rice either. Yes, we can grow corn, but we don´t make tortillas... Where I come from not everyone farms. We have markets where we buy food, and people work other jobs... teachers, doctors...¨ These concepts were so foreign to them and they clarified, ¨If you don´t work the land, where does your food come from?¨ and I tried to explain once more.
When I arrived in Cerro Grande, I brought a sack filled with campo essentials: rice, beans, cooking oil, sugar, salt, a bowl, rope, a plastic hammock, soap, candles, matches and toilet paper. Throughout the week the family used most of these items (and I slept in the hammock) but they never touched the rolls of toilet paper that I´d left on the table. As I prepared to leave, they reminded me not to forget the toilet paper and when I explained I was leaving it with them, they cried. They´ve only used toilet paper a few times in their lives- it´s a luxury of the upper class. I also left my towel, sneakers and a few t-shirts, which they accepted with teary eyes and humble gratitude. As I departed, each family member kissed me profusely, we hugged and they sobbed. My eyes welled with tears too - I was moved by their affection and sincerity - they explained that these had been some of the happiest six days of their lives.
In many ways my life is much different than that of Doña Francisca and her family, but they taught me things that are incredibly applicable to my life- the humility and generosity they embody exist on a level I apire to emulate, poverty is relative, and happiness is derived from the people you love, hard work and the beauty of the world around you. Perhaps these observations are trite, but they mean something new to me right now.
Alright, I´ve got to go to class. My love to you all! Be happy, well (and humble!)
Love,
Flea-bitten, sun-burned, very happy Emily
I´ve just returned to the city and am now beginning to deconstruct the many complicated elements of my week in the campo. I´ll begin by telling you that one could never go to a place like this with too much humility: a very simple way of life, an extraordinarily hardworking, humble, generous, loving and timid community of people, both of which are perpetually challenged by a complex web of environmental degradation, disease, politics, hunger, technology and poverty. I would return to the campo in a heartbeat, and am considering to do so for my independent study, but now I need to consider and reconsider the many life lessons I learned this week and figure out how my new perspective can be applied to my own lifestyle, which is superficially different, but (ideally) fundamentally similar to the one I led in the campo.
The family I lived with were the salt of the earth- deeply humble and unassuming and endlessly generous with their limited food supply and living space. They have lived in the campo all of their lives, never travelled beyond San Ramon, a small town about a three hour walk away, are largely illiterate and, when they´re lucky, they eat rice, beans and tortillas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Doña Francisca, the mother, is 52 years old, very overweight due to illness, and nearly toothless due to decay. Her husband passed away about 15 years ago and nearly half of her children still live in her one and a half room adobe home. She spends a lot of time cooking each day, and, unlike many of the campo mothers, has a wage job at a birthing center in San Ramon, where she lives for two week intervals. The life expectancy in the campo is 60, so Francisca is considered a very old women by their standards. Victor, 33, the only son living at home, is about 5 ft tall, also toothless and very shy. He works at a coffee plantation in a village about an hour and a half walk away, so I didn´t spend much time with him, but when he was around, he tended to the family´s corn crop and banana, orange, coffee and mango trees, dug irrigation trenches and repaired tools that frequently broke. Paula, 32, is the oldest daughter living at home, though there are three others in the community. She has beautiful black hair half the length of her body and she spends all day, every day, making tortillas and cooking rice and beans. The tortilla-making process is incredibly time consuming and labor insensive, and includes collecting corn kernals, which are either purchased or removed from the cob (depending on the time of year), soaked and cooked for hours, milled into a dough, milled into a finer dough, pounded one by one into the individual tortillas and heated in a pan over the open fire. As the staple of the campo diet, tortillas are eaten at every meal so it is necessary for one family member to make them regularly throughout the day. Socorro, 23, is completing 6th grade at the community´s public school, which runs from 8 AM to 12 PM daily. Her responsibilities at home include, washing the family´s laundry by hand at a spigot that sometimes releases water - quite the task, especially during mud season - gathering water for the kitchen, and collecting fire wood (the family does all of their cooking over open flames, so lots of wood is needed). Three days each week she walks to a thick cloud forest about two miles away to gather fallen branches, which she piles in a huge bundle on top of her head, then makes her way back to the home and prepares to repeat the process again. Maritza, 17, has completed 6th grade, the highest level offered in the community, and is hoping to begin high school in San Ramon next year. She helps out around the house as well - collects fire wood, does laundry and sweeps. She waters and sweeps the home´s dirt floor, all of the dirt foot paths around the house, and the dirt yard. The land in this region has a high content of clay, so it packs down firmly. Sweeping the dirt surfaces, though it sounds ironic, helps maintain a very tidy living space and, more importantly, diminishes the propagatiuon of fleas! (Yes, I got fleas in the campo!) Finally, Maribel, 6, is the daughter of either Victor or Paula (I was never able to figure it out, and some things are just not worth inquiring about- many people in this community are very closely related...). She is a very sweet, curious and vibrant child, and as a first grader, the only member of the family on track to finish primary school on time.
I decided it would be worth telling you about the responsibilities of each of these people not because I think you´re particularily interested in seemingly mundane tasks, but to try to give you a glimpse the reality of life in the campo. These tasks are what these people live for: when I asked each of them about their life dreams, every family member began by responding with (and some had only one response) ¨being able to work hard all of my life.¨ Hard work puts food on the table- this correlation is direct and clear. It´s a matter of survival. Of course, this is not to say that they don´t have fun- there are a few musicians in the community who play for dances and Sunday mass and, in general, people find joy in very simple things, like the beautiful mountainous countryside, daily rain showers followed by warm and vibrant sunlight and a night sky filled with an endless depth of shining stars.
Doña Francisca and here family live in a small adobe home with a corregated tin roof (there are only a few holes in it!), and a dirt floor. They have a cement latrine and a small chicken coop. This is one of about 30 homes that make up the community of Cerro Grande, all of which are scattered throughout the mountains, never in sight of another, but nestled just over a ridge or around the bend of a hill. All six family members sleep on a low wooden table, surrounded by makeshift plastic walls. The table is about 8 ft long and 5 feet wide, and doubles as a storage space for clothing as well, because it one of the only non-dirt surfaces in the home. When it is chilly, as it often is the Matagalpan mountains, the family sleeps directly on the wooden planks and use their few blankets and towels as covers. I slept in a sleeping bag in a plastic hammock, which despite its cramped nature was luxurious compared to their wooden bed. In addition to the hammock and sleeping table, there was a small wooden table, one plastic chair, a wooden bench, an elevated fire pit for cooking, a small hand-powered mill for tortilla-making, a battery powered radio, a few dishes and spoons and about 15 old cooking oil and soda bottles that serve as water jugs. Hanging on the earth walls are socially-consicious posters about protecting the environment, voting for education and fighting against sexual abuse in rural communities, all of which represent issues the family is passionate about, and surprisingly well-informed. Specifically, despite high levels of illiteracy, there is a great deal of community organizing in rural Nicaragua, speared in part by NGOs but also by internally driven cooperative efforts. A lot of information is transmitted over the radio and local church groups and priests serve as conveyors of progressive social and environmental information. Though formal organization is limited due the necessity of spending long hours working, awareness of issues ranging from local effects of global warming to support groups for domestc violence was striking.
While I was in the campo, I spent the mornings working and the afternoons exploring the areas with hordes of laughing children. We spent one day digging the foundation of a new home in the side of a mountain, another digging holes for banana trees, one digging an irrigation trench, and another planting coffee trees. In the afternoons I wandered along the steep grassy ridges on the outskirts of town, listened to howler monkeys, watched a sloth, treated myself to oranges and bananas, explored a lush cloud forest reserve, collected fire wood and water and made tortillas. The week was a respite from the piles of burning trash and stifling pollution of Managua, but the thick and constant smoke in the house from the cooking fire took a toll on my lungs. Most delightful about this week were the people: they have so little, yet are clearly content. They explained that they are grateful to have eachother, and indeed, family members spend a lot of time togther. Notions of personal space and privacy are nonexistant, and if someone wanders off alone (including me!) she is considered ¨afligida¨- afflicted! Of course, these people know no other way of life, so genuine contentment is fortunate. Regardless though, I cant stop thinking about how living, day in and day out, on the edge of survival must be grating. This is a notion I couldn´t quite grasp this week... It was difficult to refrain from romanticizing the simplicity, when in reality, simplicty was a facade I constructed to mask the fundamental struggle for life. Most amazing was that, despite this struggle, my family was so welcoming and so generous. They gave me large portions of food, cleaned my clothes, and, even though I protested, washed my feet! Though they were timid, by the end of the week they began to ask questions about my home and way of life. I showed them photos of many of you (which they loved!) and explained, ¨No, we don´t grow beans in New England. Nope, not rice either. Yes, we can grow corn, but we don´t make tortillas... Where I come from not everyone farms. We have markets where we buy food, and people work other jobs... teachers, doctors...¨ These concepts were so foreign to them and they clarified, ¨If you don´t work the land, where does your food come from?¨ and I tried to explain once more.
When I arrived in Cerro Grande, I brought a sack filled with campo essentials: rice, beans, cooking oil, sugar, salt, a bowl, rope, a plastic hammock, soap, candles, matches and toilet paper. Throughout the week the family used most of these items (and I slept in the hammock) but they never touched the rolls of toilet paper that I´d left on the table. As I prepared to leave, they reminded me not to forget the toilet paper and when I explained I was leaving it with them, they cried. They´ve only used toilet paper a few times in their lives- it´s a luxury of the upper class. I also left my towel, sneakers and a few t-shirts, which they accepted with teary eyes and humble gratitude. As I departed, each family member kissed me profusely, we hugged and they sobbed. My eyes welled with tears too - I was moved by their affection and sincerity - they explained that these had been some of the happiest six days of their lives.
In many ways my life is much different than that of Doña Francisca and her family, but they taught me things that are incredibly applicable to my life- the humility and generosity they embody exist on a level I apire to emulate, poverty is relative, and happiness is derived from the people you love, hard work and the beauty of the world around you. Perhaps these observations are trite, but they mean something new to me right now.
Alright, I´ve got to go to class. My love to you all! Be happy, well (and humble!)
Love,
Flea-bitten, sun-burned, very happy Emily
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Esteli, a crazy week of classes and the southern pacific coast!
Greetings from Nicaragua!
This past week has been a whirlwind, filled with some adventures, a few papers, lots of rice and beans, daily bucket baths and more amazing speakers. As I mentioned in a previous post, two weekends ago a few of my firends and I ventured up to Esteli, a laid back town in the northern Nicaraguan mountains. Some of the most violent battles of the revolution took place in this region, which was a Sandinista stonghold in the 80s, and remnants of the violence and political strife remain: vibrant, complex murals depicting battles, attemps at reconcialiation, and Sandino line the city´s streets, banners marking the 30 year anniversary of the revolution decorate the central park, and a museum of heroes and martyrs, filled with photographs of the region´s brave youth, is a bleak, but historically-revealing tourist attraction. I spent the weekend exploring the city, taking a respite from gallo pinto (Nicaragua´s ubiquitous fried rice and bean dish), breathing fresh air, and walking through farms and over foot hills on the outskirts of the city, searching for a supposedly breathtaking waterfall. We returned to Managua on Sunday night, and I awoke at 4:30 on Monday morning to Nicaragua´s Happy Brithday song blasting (It was on repeat for about an hour!). Indeed it was my host mom, Doña Eva´s, birthday, and Nicaraguans love to celebrate! She cooked all day long, and when I returned from classes in the evening the house was filled with people, food, music and dance. Great aunts danced with grand nephews, mothers with sons, and children with grandparents. The festivities lasted for hours and even la abuela held her own - I suppose she´s had 103 birthdays to practice! The rest of the week flew by and I spent every last moment reading, studying and preparing for an oral exam. All went well and on Friday afternoon I undertook my most ambitious activity yet: travelling with 9 other tall, white Americans to southern Nicaragua. While going to a tourist-filled surfer-friendly beach was not my first choice, the group wanted to attempt a weekend adventure together, and that was the preferred destination. The beach was beautiful, and, in fact, unlike any beach I´ve visited before- fine white sand and flat, expansive rock formations comprised the beach, enromous waves made up the surf and steep, cactus-lined cliffs took the place of the dunes I´m accustomed to. I found a deep, shiny cave carved out by the ocean in a cliff wall, and in the distance was a spectacular rock formation jutting out of the sea like an enormous shark fin. Though travelling with a large group is exhausting, the beauty of Madera was invigorating! We returned to Managua on Sunday and had two days of classes. Today we are going to an international poetry festival in Granada, where there is going to be a funeral procession for ïntolerance¨and ¨injustice¨ (casket and all), and tomorrow we leave for ¨el campo¨, farming communities in rural Nicaragua. I´ll write about this when I return in just more than a week, but here´s what I know so far: I will be living in a one room adobe hut with as many as 10 people, there will be no electricty, no running water and few, if any, latrines. I´ll be working in the fields with the men- they grow coffee which is exported to the U.S. (they receive almost no compensation), collecting water and cooking with the women, herding animals and playing with kids. I will also be practincing ethnographic research methods we´re studying. These people are among the 40% of Nicaraguans who live on less than $2 per day, making Nicaragua the second poorest country, after Haiti, in the Western hemisphere. This experience will be challenging, though I am really excited to live very simply for a week - to truly subsist, to have very few possessions, and to catch a glimpse of a lifestyle so common in many parts of the world, yet ignored by many others. Ok, off I go! My love to everyone! Please stay well and be happy!
Em
This past week has been a whirlwind, filled with some adventures, a few papers, lots of rice and beans, daily bucket baths and more amazing speakers. As I mentioned in a previous post, two weekends ago a few of my firends and I ventured up to Esteli, a laid back town in the northern Nicaraguan mountains. Some of the most violent battles of the revolution took place in this region, which was a Sandinista stonghold in the 80s, and remnants of the violence and political strife remain: vibrant, complex murals depicting battles, attemps at reconcialiation, and Sandino line the city´s streets, banners marking the 30 year anniversary of the revolution decorate the central park, and a museum of heroes and martyrs, filled with photographs of the region´s brave youth, is a bleak, but historically-revealing tourist attraction. I spent the weekend exploring the city, taking a respite from gallo pinto (Nicaragua´s ubiquitous fried rice and bean dish), breathing fresh air, and walking through farms and over foot hills on the outskirts of the city, searching for a supposedly breathtaking waterfall. We returned to Managua on Sunday night, and I awoke at 4:30 on Monday morning to Nicaragua´s Happy Brithday song blasting (It was on repeat for about an hour!). Indeed it was my host mom, Doña Eva´s, birthday, and Nicaraguans love to celebrate! She cooked all day long, and when I returned from classes in the evening the house was filled with people, food, music and dance. Great aunts danced with grand nephews, mothers with sons, and children with grandparents. The festivities lasted for hours and even la abuela held her own - I suppose she´s had 103 birthdays to practice! The rest of the week flew by and I spent every last moment reading, studying and preparing for an oral exam. All went well and on Friday afternoon I undertook my most ambitious activity yet: travelling with 9 other tall, white Americans to southern Nicaragua. While going to a tourist-filled surfer-friendly beach was not my first choice, the group wanted to attempt a weekend adventure together, and that was the preferred destination. The beach was beautiful, and, in fact, unlike any beach I´ve visited before- fine white sand and flat, expansive rock formations comprised the beach, enromous waves made up the surf and steep, cactus-lined cliffs took the place of the dunes I´m accustomed to. I found a deep, shiny cave carved out by the ocean in a cliff wall, and in the distance was a spectacular rock formation jutting out of the sea like an enormous shark fin. Though travelling with a large group is exhausting, the beauty of Madera was invigorating! We returned to Managua on Sunday and had two days of classes. Today we are going to an international poetry festival in Granada, where there is going to be a funeral procession for ïntolerance¨and ¨injustice¨ (casket and all), and tomorrow we leave for ¨el campo¨, farming communities in rural Nicaragua. I´ll write about this when I return in just more than a week, but here´s what I know so far: I will be living in a one room adobe hut with as many as 10 people, there will be no electricty, no running water and few, if any, latrines. I´ll be working in the fields with the men- they grow coffee which is exported to the U.S. (they receive almost no compensation), collecting water and cooking with the women, herding animals and playing with kids. I will also be practincing ethnographic research methods we´re studying. These people are among the 40% of Nicaraguans who live on less than $2 per day, making Nicaragua the second poorest country, after Haiti, in the Western hemisphere. This experience will be challenging, though I am really excited to live very simply for a week - to truly subsist, to have very few possessions, and to catch a glimpse of a lifestyle so common in many parts of the world, yet ignored by many others. Ok, off I go! My love to everyone! Please stay well and be happy!
Em
Sunday, February 8, 2009
P.S.
Please forgive my typos- the computers here are very slow, some keys don´t work and the is no spell check!
Saturday, February 7, 2009
One week in...
Holas Todos!
It´s been just over a week since my arrival in Nicaragua and already there is so much to share! After meeting my group last Friday, we had a few days of orientation and moved in with our host families on Tuesday. I´m in Esteli, a northern Nicaraguan city, right now, spending the weekend with a few friends and scouting out a possible location for my independent study project. So far my time in Nicaragua has been exhilerating, exhausting and inspiring... here are a few fun stories...
Last weekend we spent a lot of time discussing program details with our academic director, going over safety precaussions, taking Spanish placement exams, and figuring out how to navigate the busy capital city. Managua is unlike any city I´ve visited before. Almost all of the homes and buildings are a single story, people sell everything from fruit to watches in the middle of three lane highways, the heat is stifling, sidewalks are indistigiushable from dumps, theft is pervasive, catcalls are endless, tropical trees are abundant, and Nicas are some of the most welcoming, friendly and passionate people I have ever met! One fundamental component of all SIT orientations is a ¨drop off¨which took place on Monday. We woke up early and took a bus to Leon, a colonial city in northwestern Nicargua. Upon arrival, our academic director Aynn asked two people leave the bus. She handed them an envelope, and the bus drove on. Student pairs continued to depart the bus at random points around the city, and eventually, when my turn came around, I took an envelop and began a journey with my partner Manual. In our envelope, we were asked to gather information about Nicaragua and specifically Leon, including local folklore. We had heard about a museum of Leonese legends, and after asking for directions from an array of street food vendors, we finally made it to the museum (addresses don´t exist in Nicaragua... a specific place is always described in relation to another, so if you don´t know the latter, it is very difficult to get aywhere!). Unfortunately the museum was closed, so we decided that our next best option was to talk to locals! We came across two women sweeping the sidewalk in front of their home and we asked them to tell us a Nicaraguan legend. Excited by our interest, one women described a story about a boogieman as the other retreated indoors. She emerged with a book of legends, suggested we make a photocopy of our favorites and explained that her son would guide us to a nearby copy shop... Legends in hand we continued to explore the city!
The next day we met our host families and, believe it or not, I am living with a 103 year- old grandmother! She is tiny and very sweet, though suffering from dimentia- I´ve been reintroduced to her a few times... In addition to la abuela I am living with a mom, dad as well as their son and nephew. I am the youngest member of the family by about 10 years, which makes for an interesting dynamic- they all look out for me, and try their best to ensure that I´m well-fed, well-rested and comfortable. Unfortunately, it is difficult for these things to coexist in Managua- water runs only from 2 AM to 6 AM, the city is hot and dusty and almost all of the food is fried! Nonetheless, I am happy and very charmed by thier generosity and kindness.
My classes started on Wednesday and I have Spanish for 3.5 hours every morning and the Revolution, Trasformation and Civil sociaty seminar for 2 hours every afternoon, except for Monday, when I have a field study methodology course for 3 hours. There are only three students in my Spanish course which is FANTASTIC! I´m absorbing a lot, learning local expressions and meanings, and increasingly able to have complex conversations. For the last hour of class two days each week we meet up with university students, our conversation partners. The student I´m working with, Noelia, is a advocate of womens rights in Nicaragua and very politically engaged. She inspires me a great deal- she´s very intelligent, well informed about social and political issues and devoted to making her country more just and peaceful... Every Thursday our Spanish professors bring us on a field trip, and this past Thursday we toured the National Palace and met Eden Pastora, the leader of the Sandinista group that took over the National Palace in 1979 and held the U.S.-trained National Guard hostage for two days. He is a legend and hero here in Nicaragua and we had the opportunity to talk with him for a few hours! Similarly, our afternoon classes are taught by an array of famous political figures and professors, including, so far, the president of one of Nicaraguas most prominent political parties and an acclaimed and incredibly brave Sandinista guerilla, also part of the group that held the National Palace seige in 79. These classes are fascinating and charged with passionate political energy, strong conceptions of justice, disparate views of how and why the revolution took place, inspired accounts of the role the U.S. has played in Niacaraguan politics, and projections about Nicaragua´s future. I feel so privileged to talk with such passionate and accomplished historical and political figures- AMAZING!!!
On Friday after class my friends and I left for Esteli... more to come on this adventure soon!
I hope you are all happy and well!
Love,
Em
The next day we met our host families and, believe it or not, I am living with a 103 year- old grandmother! She is tiny and very sweet, though suffering from dimentia- I´ve been reintroduced to her a few times... In addition to la abuela I am living with a mom, dad as well as their son and nephew. I am the youngest member of the family by about 10 years, which makes for an interesting dynamic- they all look out for me, and try their best to ensure that I´m well-fed, well-rested and comfortable. Unfortunately, it is difficult for these things to coexist in Managua- water runs only from 2 AM to 6 AM, the city is hot and dusty and almost all of the food is fried! Nonetheless, I am happy and very charmed by thier generosity and kindness.
My classes started on Wednesday and I have Spanish for 3.5 hours every morning and the Revolution, Trasformation and Civil sociaty seminar for 2 hours every afternoon, except for Monday, when I have a field study methodology course for 3 hours. There are only three students in my Spanish course which is FANTASTIC! I´m absorbing a lot, learning local expressions and meanings, and increasingly able to have complex conversations. For the last hour of class two days each week we meet up with university students, our conversation partners. The student I´m working with, Noelia, is a advocate of womens rights in Nicaragua and very politically engaged. She inspires me a great deal- she´s very intelligent, well informed about social and political issues and devoted to making her country more just and peaceful... Every Thursday our Spanish professors bring us on a field trip, and this past Thursday we toured the National Palace and met Eden Pastora, the leader of the Sandinista group that took over the National Palace in 1979 and held the U.S.-trained National Guard hostage for two days. He is a legend and hero here in Nicaragua and we had the opportunity to talk with him for a few hours! Similarly, our afternoon classes are taught by an array of famous political figures and professors, including, so far, the president of one of Nicaraguas most prominent political parties and an acclaimed and incredibly brave Sandinista guerilla, also part of the group that held the National Palace seige in 79. These classes are fascinating and charged with passionate political energy, strong conceptions of justice, disparate views of how and why the revolution took place, inspired accounts of the role the U.S. has played in Niacaraguan politics, and projections about Nicaragua´s future. I feel so privileged to talk with such passionate and accomplished historical and political figures- AMAZING!!!
On Friday after class my friends and I left for Esteli... more to come on this adventure soon!
I hope you are all happy and well!
Love,
Em
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Still in the US...
Family and Friends,
I'll be in Nicaragua from January 29th until May 14th! Rather than send long group emails as I have in the past, I will post accounts of my experience to this blog. Please pass along the link to anyone who might be interested. I'll be eager to read your comments!
Peace and love,
Em
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