Med Evac

So, after spending the week before the holidays in the Peace Corps Office in Managua, I had a serious sit-down with the PCMO who was handling my file. What had started out as a day-trip to Esteli for the Va Pues magazine meeting had turned into a second round of the inexplicable rash I got a little less than a week ago. So, the good news is that it means I am probably not allergic to Cipro, but the PCMOs admit that there is really nothing else they can medically do in Nicaragua. And thus the discussion began about Medically Evacuating me home to the States to get checked out. Just to clarify, MedEvac means you are sent to DC or your Home of Record and you have 45 days to recover and get medically cleared to return to service. This protocol is meant for Volunteers in all sorts of situations, normally much more serious (broken bones, serious surgery, etc.), but the PCMOs also discussed the practicality of giving the body 100% chance of getting back to a baseline of health. And then I got another bacterial infection while here this week in Managua....which decided it.

Dad and Sean are still coming and we are still going to enjoy the Holiday Week as much as my health will allow, but I will also be packing and organizing my things in case the evacuation turns into a medical separation. The PCMOs have been incredibly supportive and helpful in getting all the information and paperwork set-up and staying positive. They have been very honest about the various moods that go along with Med Evac. The Assistant Director for the whole PCNicaragua also sat down with me and regaled me with 2-3 other stories of Volunteers who had been fine during all of Training and been completely prepared for site and their service and then could not acclimate to the new climate or for whatever reason, spent the first year of their service too miserable to be effective. "You're not the first, and you will certainly not be the last, and there is no shame in taking care of your body." Thanks Miguel!

Since Peace Corps has been my dream job since I was in high school, and even though it is just an evacuation, it's still a blow. There is a small sense of relief, knowing that it's not just me and that I used all my options available in country. There is also disappointment and a little anger that my body does not seem to be able to get used to my site when other Volunteers don't have problems (or just don't say anything). There is also anger with my site and community, as it is most likely the contaminated water and food that is playing a critical role in this whole thing. There is also overall sadness (that I am getting better about accepting) in that i was just getting warmed up to living on my own and settling into a routine while getting projects set up for later in the New Year. While these may still happen, it is like being thrown into a limbo similar to waiting for my Peace Corps post. I am also anxious that as of right now I haven't had a lot of overwhelming positive experiences in my site (in part because I haven't been in my site that often), so I don't feel I have a resounding reason to go back. However, I have probably spent equal amounts of time in site and in Managua, which is not efficient or effective for getting projects done that require building trust and personal relationships. Hard as it is to admit, Peace Corps is also only 27 months, and I would rather not damage my immune system in the long-run. And there is still the basic fact that I have no idea what is making me sick, which means that if I don't go home, I will returning to a place that I do know will continue to make me sick. That just doesn't seem very smart. But one step at a time.....

Book Review: Living Poor

Living Poor: A Peace Corps Chronicle

Moritz Thomsen

Thomsen is a 40 something Agriculture volunteer in Ecuador. After a few medical false-starts, he settles into the quaint little town of Rio Verde and thus goes the process of completing his service. As a volunteer, his projects (the size and scale) and his willingness to use his living allowance to help fund them and his neighbors astounds me. This book came at the perfect time as I am starting to see the deeper levels of relationships, both good and bad, in my own community and starting to become disillusioned by the mechanism and paradigm of poverty while also coming to grips with the dynamic and two-way  street that is development. As a Volunteer you hear stories about PCVs who were practically adopted, but this glosses over the subtle (and not so) requests for money and gifts and attempts to put a pricetag on the gringo. Thomsen describes this perfectly as the “search for a patron:” for someone who will take care of you, who will do what you have been trained to think you can’t-support yourself. I laughed and cried throughout the struggles of the chicken project, the fishing projects and the trials and tribulations of the co-op. And the eventual financial understanding of the community, where a dollar is a fortune, is heartbreaking but familiar. There are hilarious moments interspersed as well, like machete fights, miscommunications, overturned fishing boats and of course the rides into the city crammed into a truck with livestock inside and on top of the vehicle. Thomsen does make a profound difference in the lives of Ramon, Orestes, and Vinceta, his co-op corps, nit at what price? As he says, “living poor is like being sentenced to exist in a stormy sea in a battered canoe, requiring all your strength to stay afloat, living wave to wave.” We are taught as Americans and PCVs to develop, to improve, to better people. But it’s impossible to do this equally for everyone. So benefits are unevenly distributed and then the jealousy and isolation begins. Like the city kid who is shunned by his own for going to college, the corp co-op members are threatened and almost destroyed by petty rumors and exasperated fueds. The people will truly be happy when they find peace and success within their own culture and customs. Projects fail and flounder because people are afraid of change, afraid to trust, and afraid and threatened by what change might bring: the audacity of hope is crushed by the comfortable familiarity of abject, but communal, poverty. There’s no way the people in Rio Verde or Thomsen could have known the social consequences before they happened but it is heartbreaking to read how the co-op general store suffers from theft and the storekeeper can’t help himself from buying too many new things.  There is Ramon, who uses his money to take his wife out of the town to give birth in a hospital and start a life properly nourished and nurtured (Protein deprivation for the 1^st 5 yearsof life permanently destroys up to 25% of human intelligence). We are taught to think this should be the norm; that with new money, everyone will be Ramon and invest in health and education. But the truth is that the Ramons, who are the shunned city kids (to beat the metaphor into the ground), are the exception and the material luxury goods and status symbols are too tempting in addition to a lack fo experience and knowledge of how to invest and save for long-term planning. I knew development was hard and dangerous, but this 1^st hand account of a PCV stands as a warning and a guide for my own roller-coaster of feelings towards paradigm of effective and sustainable change.

Book Review: Walk in the Woods

A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

Bill Bryson is funny. Let’s just get that out of the way. Ok. This travel journal recounts the exploits and adventures of Bryson and his friend, Katz, as they, like so many others, try to walk the entire Appalachian Trail. For those of you who don’t know, the AT is more than 2,000 miles long and you have to climb to the highest point in almost every state on the East Coast. Spoiler Alert: they don’t climb the whole thing in this book. But that’s not the point. I will also brag a little in that I have done sections of the AT (including the great Katahdin, which Bryson does not summit). But he has summited Mt. Washington in New Hampshire, which is still on my bucket list. But that’s not the point. It’s not the competitive athletic nature that abounds in this novel. Quite the contrary, Bryson mixes anecdotal accounts of the day-to-day, with its typical bumbles and blunders, with lesser-known information about the history of the trail and the nature and government surrounding it. Granted the majority of this information comes when both men are still invigorated by the initial days in the south, but I appreciated Brysons respect for the little towns that he stumbles upon and what they used to be.  I didn’t know about the dangerous Pennsylvania coal fire towns or that the AT was originally meant to be a string of hostels and basically vacations and retreats above treeline, which, depending on who you ask, it kind of is. But my favorite parts resound with the funny frustration of preparing for an adventure that sounds much better in your head than when you are schlepping along ridgelines; the packing list, the food, the backpack posture, the weight, where to clip things, your first time at the outing gear store with the guy who is clearly (ridiculously even) more experienced and intense and excited about carabeaners (not sure how to spell that) than you. And then there are the bears. Pardon my French, but the best line of the whole book comes as Bryson is describing what he would do if not one, but 4 bears, came into his tent: “ Why, I would die, of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. I would blow my sphincter out my backside like one of the unrolling paper streamers you get at children’s parties- I daresay it would even give a merry toot- and bleed to death in my sleeping bag.”  Bears are an issue along the AT, but nowhere near to the obsessive degree to which Bryson makes them out to be. But it’s still funny. And the characters along the trail are priceless, including Chicken John who keeps getting lost on the trail and the woman who keeps clearing her ears by snot-rocketing. But it’s the purposeful meditation that comes with putting one foot in front of the other, and becoming “a walker” that was the most powerful. Walking through nature and history is one thing, but having the fortitude and the discipline (or the lack of social life) to decide to partake in some of the most grueling walking there is on the East Coast, takes a personality that one might say is similar to that of those that would join the Peace Corps. You know what you are getting into in the outline, but not in the details, not in the day-to-day. And it is the same personality that has the ability to adapt to the daily challenges and also incorporate breaks and rewards in an otherwise punishing and awkward life decision. And most importantly, as Bryson comes to terms with not having actually completed the full length of the AT, it is about knowing your limitations and taking joy in all the accomplishments, getting a great deal more out of the experience that the start and end points. And don’t care what anybody says: if you climbed one mountain, you hiked the AT and if you lived in a foreign country for 27 months working for development, you did the Peace Corps. 

Heads Up It's a long one to update everyone since Thanksgiving

The Medical Saga that led to the Menagerie

I had heard so many stories of PCVs being gifted pets by their community or taking in strays. The Volunteer who came before me had 2 dogs. And did I tell you she had 2 dogs. By the way, as every member of my community says, she had two dogs….and she left them both here, where they cried for weeks after she left. So, my community is not so much concerned with my having pets as they are with what will happen to said pets after I finish my service. Nice. But anyway, to start, I was promised a puppy German Shepherd, Traviesa, whom many of you have seen in pictures on this blog. I made the amateur mistakes of believing the word of a Nicaraguan (this may sound harsh, but you will understand once you’ve lived here) and falling in love with an animal that wasn’t under my rood yet. I then left for IST, or Training, for the last weekend in November. This was followed shortly thereafter, with the Medical Saga of 50 Shades of Diarrhea. Needless to say, the Medical Staff wanted to check me out. Because I was in Managua on a weekend, the Bioanalysis lab was closed and the Medical Staff preferred Metropolitano, the state-of-the-art hospital that is even nicer than Porter Hospital in my hometown. It’s actually kind of disgusting and sad how developed this one little spit of land is in a country that is just one step above Haiti. But I digress….

So Metropolitano apparently can email you your test results or you can check them online with a PIN. I have never had a problem with giving blood before, but Mr. It’s-Sunday-so-it’s-a-slow-day-and-I-am-the-worst-male-nurse-ever decided to go fishing around in my arm and then had the nerve to tell me to calm down, breathe, and drink some water. I did more than 10 tests over the last 2 weeks; blood, platelets, urine, parasite, amoebas, cryptosporidium (no idea on this one), the works! I had stayed in a hotel in Jinotega for the week prior to IST because I self-diagnosed a bacterial infection and a fever. The test results in Jinotega pointed to not one but 2 bacterial infections (2 for the price of one) and it’s quite likely that at least one was the same infection from the week before.  I stayed in the hotel to be closer the lab and have a little more control over my diet (and be closer to a modern toilet and hot water). The results from Metropolitano came back with lower bacterial counts (yay for antibiotics) but a new yeast infection. Oh boy! But that came two days after the fact, because the entire hospital network was down, and the Peace Corps Office was closed on Monday. Thank God for the pool at the hotel! The PCMO I had seen most often also wanted to check me for parasites that do not show in other tests, so between walking back and forth to the office, the hotel, and the lab,  I checked my email.

 There was a general email to all PCVs titled “Cats.”  A volunteer in Masaya had found a stray cat in her house and had begun taking care of it when it has given birth to 4 kittens in the next couple of days. This poor girl is not a cat person and is about to COS (finish her service) on the 14^th of December. So she wanted to know if anyone wanted some cats. Well, in my current medically downtrodden and emotional state, I replied that sure I would take them. She texted me asking how many I wanted. I replied that they looked too young to separate and she replied that it would be best to keep them all together. Sure I’ll take them all. And, thus I spent a week in Managua as “that girl with the kittens” moving from hotel to hotel with a big cardboard box with holes punched into it. Needless to say, all the other Volunteers staying in the hotels wanted to see and ooooo and ahhhhh over Mom and kits. And a big thanks to Hotel Los Pinos for letting me keep them in their hotel while I went to appointments.

By Thursday I was more than ready to leave, and the tests had all come back negative. Still was not feeling 100%, but once the tests come back negative, there is no reason for the PCMO to keep you in Managua.  The doctor asked me how much of my current situation might be psychological………………………………yeah no not going there. She did offer to send my report to a specialist and to the Medical Office in Washington to see if there was anything a new pair of eyes might be able to get. But, with the holiday season coming up, that might take a little while. So I gathered my things at the hotel, shoved Momma Cat into the box and tried duck taping it shut with the help of Hotel Staff, grabbed the bag of worms (I was also carting worms since IST to hopefully use for vermiculture-they did not make it sadly). Momma Cat managed to escape in the taxi, but the driver helped me shove her back in before finding out that I had missed the 8AM bus to Jinotega and waiting with a very pissed off Momma in the Mayoreo bus station. The bus driver refused to let me have the box in the bus, so he loosely tied a piece of string around the box and threw it up on top of the bus. Unfortunately, after the 3 hours bus ride, I simply took the box and walked to the next station to get the bus to my site. I did not notice until it was too late, that the box was much lighter and not moving. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Momma Cat had escaped en route. Don’t know where, don’t know when, but somewhere along the highway, or in the bus station, is a very confused white cat with yellow and black splotches. Luckily, I was able to stock up on baby formula and a bottle. Based on e-How.com “How Old are Your Kittens?,” I was able to determine that the kittens were somewhere between 2-3 weeks old, since they had just opened their eyes  and ears while staying in the hotel. I was able to stay with a Volunteer en route to my site so I wouldn’t have to walk to my house in the dark. She fell in love with the kittens and we snuggled them and coddled them for hours. I got them back to my house the next day and they have become the things-to-see for all the youth in Cuatro Esquinas. The first few days were rough bottlefeeding, in part because the baby bottle teat is about 10 times the size of Momma Cat’s teat and I can only imagine how scary that looks coming at you, but once they got hungry enough, we have all become pros. Words to the wise; it’s easier to wrap them up, it’s easier to do them in turns multiple times, the little nails don’t hurt that much, they learn to pee and poop on their own within the 3-4 week period.  So that’s how I got 4 small mouths to feed. But wait, there’s more……

Once I got back to site, and spent a full day getting used to the feeding schedule for the kittens, I hiked up the hill to see Traviesa. She was still there, but Dona Coco told me, sheepishly told me that they actually weren’t selling the puppy. I begged and tried to understand why they would go back on their word and even offered to pay for her, but her son said that the pup had gotten bigger and started following him and he wanted to use her to work the cows, so no. I was literally in tears on my way down the hill. It may sound really cheesy, but  I had told so many people about that dog and had made myself believe that once I got healthy and once I got back I would get a dog and this just seemed like one more way in which I was still an outsider, out-of-sync and running out of patience. Dona Coco told me I could wait 3 months until the mother gave birth to her next litter, but I walked down to the pulperia (general store) where Dona Moncha also had a few smaller black puppies. She had not vaccinated them or given them vitamins like Traviesa had, but I was emotional and irrational and asked her if she was selling them. One for 100, she said. Done. The next day I returned and bought to bigger of the two. I had to carry her back to the house, because at 3 months, she is not leash-trained and also terrified of everything. I had already bought dog food in Jinotega on the way back to site. The first night she did what any puppy in a new place would do-she peed and pooped in the house. Thank God for concrete floors that are easy to clean. I named her Sombra (Spanish for shadow) because she is all black except for a little marking on the front of her chest. I washed her with flea and tick soap, which was exciting because she can kick and squirm for a puppy. I easily got just as soaked. I walked with her into Praderas to buy a real leash and collar and vitamins and parasite meds. Everyone in my house drinks filtered water, but God only knows what Sombra eats when she goes outside. She was nice enough to take the hint after I tied her up outside to cry for a whole morning (literally cry and howl) that she was supposed to do her business outside. She refused to leave the house to go to town, so I carried her in my shoulder bag the whole way there and then dragged her the whole way back on the new leash. She’s starting to get the idea. She will not let me go anywhere around the house though without following; latrine, kitchen, take a shower at my neighbors, etc.  She is neutral with the kittens at least. But that is how I got one more mouth to feed. Current total is 5, not including myself. And she hops into bed with for the night now that she’s clean. It’s almost like home again to have something to cuddle and talk to.

By the way, I am not turning into a crazy cat woman. At least 3 other volunteers have already claimed kittens once they are older and the volunteers come back from their vacations. Still haven’t figured out what we are going to do with the animals for when Dad and Sean come….will have to see if they can feed on their own. Fingers crossed. I do love how my community understands that I hardly leave my house now, because I am taking care of “los ninos” or the children. According to them, because I don’t have actually children of my own, these are my kids. My kids have taught me to be patient, and to expect less of my day, to take it slow and develop manageable routines. And they are also just funny to watch. As any single or new mother would admit, the days fly by when there are at least 3 feedings in them. J

Thanksgiving and Hiking in Jinotega

So we actually went hiking after Thanksgiving, but I uploaded the photos in opposite order...oops. First Thanksgiving in the Peace Corps and away from home. Had an awesome time (minus being sick) and it just goes to show that Peace Corps Volunteers always make the best of things.

Saturday went hiking with a bunch of Health Volunteers. We hiked to the Cross on the West side of Jinotega. This is the cool touristy thing to do in Jinotega: hike straight uphill up a huge flight of stairs (imagine Stair Master) to a huge cross. And you get views like this of all of Jinotega City as you walk up.

 The girls-Katherina, Angie, Anna, and Julianne. All awesome Volunteers and kindred spirits. And all of us huffed and puffed together for a couple of hours. But we did it!

 From the top you can see Lake Apanas, the really big body of water on the map in Jinotega. My site is all the way on the other end of the lake from this end......all the way over theeeeeeeeeeeeerrrree. :)

 Me on the top of the mountain. there is actually a flat part right before the cross where we hung out and caught our breath while eating oranges. And enjoyed more scenery! Definitely had some awesome parallels to hiking in New England and it's just good to get moving around after being on those buses.

 The cutest pair of kids who found and befriended us on the top. And would not stop talking-but in the cute, little-kid way. And they followed us all the way down too, taking turns holding our hands. Soooo cute!!

 Sunning on the rocks at the top with our new friends. It was super windy so we grabbed any sun we could find. The little boy definitely had a crush on Angy. We've decided that the boy is going to grow up to be Community Counterpart for the Peace Corps, because he has no problem talking to gringas.

 The top with the cross. Needless to say, this is the cool place for the youth to hang out on weekends.

 And then there are these characters who are apparently security for the cross. But it is a little daunting to see two people just walking around with rifles in the middle of jungle forest Jinotegan mountains when you're hiking. We had a lovely conversation though and he wanted to know where I learned to speak Spanish so well and if we were from the area. And he was nice enough to remind us to be careful on the mountain. Lovely.

 Angie about the walk off the abyss.Don't do it Angie! Don't do it!

 We made it! At the top! Little winded, windblown, but happy and sunny!

Walking down with the same cute kids. Here he is holding Katherine's hand "so he doesn't fall." I definitely think this shot is in the running for the next Peace Corps promotional material: Life is calling: Where will you go?

 And then there was Thanksgiving at the Ambassador's house. She has a ridiculously nice house-with a pool and lovely artwork and everything. Turns out that I got to go by accident because I was listed as being from the AG 56 ,the group that has actually been here a year longer. But I'm not complaining!

 Especially not with food like this!! All the fixings and the trimmings. I won't lie- I went back for seconds and easily ate my body weight. It was so good!! Apparently they sell everything at PriceMart Nicaragua- I didn't even know they had a PriceMart here. And sweet potatoes and corn scallop and turkey and mashed potatoes---and I'm drooling again. :)

 And the best part was the decorations! The Ambassador, who is one sharp lady, had all these squeaky bath duckies, all different thanksgiving characters: native american ducky, pilgrim ducky, turkey ducky, all of them.

 One very happy Peace Corps Volunteer! I also got to talk to several Embassy families and staff, one of whom talked to me at length about applying for the Foreign Service after Peace Corps....hmmmmm.........

 And then Saturday we had a get-together of just Jinotegan Volunteers at Harry's house, a Small Business Volunteer. Here are a whole bunch of the girls enjoying the amazing potluck dinner; rotisserie chickens, broccoli, squash, apple crisp, malanga-and drooling again. Needless to say, in the Peace Corps you slowly begin to resort back to college years when all you think about is food.

 And somehow Johanna found this incredible little guy-waddling turkey. We let him hop around for five or six minutes and then needed the batteries. But we did get quite the laugh. And Harry said he came with the house.

 Sunset over Jinotega from Harry's house. Gosh this is such a beautiful place! And what a better way to pass the time after digesting copious amounts of food?

And the next holiday is already right around the corner...or across the street from Harry's. :) Happy Holidays!

The New House and the RASH

The Great Rash of 2012

Ok, so now that the crisis has passed (knock on wood), let’s get the adventure out.  Last Saturday I got back to my site from Managua with Cipro for a bacterial infection, when I started breaking out in welts and huge red splotches at around 7 at night. Since I am only allergic to zythromax and I could visibly watch the splotches move and get bigger, I called the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), who immediately stopped the Cipro and recommended Benedryll to get it under control. Side note: the Peace Corps Office is technically closed on the weekends and the coming Monday was Veterans Day. Yeah! After  moving into my own house and another 48 hours of lots of Benedryll (and even more suggestions and home remedies from all of my neighbors), I walked into Praderas and hopped the bus to Jinotega and then Managua to get into the office first thing Tuesday morning. I love Dr. Maria Auxiliadora, my doctor of choice, because her lovely reaction to my situation reassured me that I had a right to worry. Her exact words were, “It’s not the worst I’ve seen, but it’s more than mild.” She sent me to a specialist at the big, fancy Metropolitano Hospital (bigger and fancier than Porter Medical in Middlebury- see concentrated medical resources in one of most impoverished and malnourished countries in this Hemisphere). The dermatologist gave me stronger prednisone (which I had been taking for a few days after getting it in Praderas from a very drunk gringo pharmacist). I also got Allegra and Benedryll and was told to follow-up in 4 days on Friday. And told to not eat (deep breath)-fish, pork, milk and cheese, fried foods, things with condiments, pineapple, apples, strawberries, seafood, etc. Oh-and the Gender and Development Training Workshop was going on at the same time-so I was a zombie while working on empowering women! And let me go on the record saying that there are only so many things you can do in Managua before going crazy and/or broke. I easily just walked back and forth from the hotel to the PC Office to reorganize my backpack at least 3 times in one day. Good side- TEFL and Environmental groups were COSing (close of service).  Peace Corps Nicaragua has a tradition that every volunteer gets to ring the bell in the middle of the office to the applause of all the present office staff. There are smiles, tears, hugs, and even one engagement proposal!! It was a mental pick-me-up! Another good side was that almost all my roommates in the shared hotel rooms were Health Volunteers who offered their concern and expertise about the Great Rash.  It was a little amusing that the breakfast staff at Hotel Brandt’s knew me by a first name basis by Wednesday and asked about my “condition.” Thursday was my first spot-free day and then got the ok from the dermatologist to go back to site after Friday! And we still don’t know what actually cause this lovely adventure! The PCMO thinks that it may have been stress and/or a reaction with the Cipro. But, like the number of licks to the center of a Tootsie pop, the world may never know…. But here’s a picture to give you an idea of the things the tropics can do to you.

The Rash Day One Hour One (don't think you want to see more)

The New House
These are not going to go up on the blog for very long per Peace Corps security protocol (don’t need people knowing where I live in detail, especially since all the youth who really want to know just have to walk down the road.) There are 4 rooms: bedroom, kitchen, shed, and middle entrance room. There is electricity inside and enough doors and windows with bolts and heavy duty gym locks that I will lock myself in and out at least once before X-mas. I took the pictures of indoors as I was unpacking, so forgive the mess and Witness Protection look. It’s a little better now. Already transplanted my tomatoes, spinach, and  strawberries that I had been raising in recycled plastic bottle. I live next to the CICO, an abandoned preschool building. There is a washing board and faucet there that I share with the mom, Heysi, who lives on the other side of the CICO. That’s when there is water. Granted, Pantasma rarely has water shortages, but it was just coincidence that I left with the Great Rash of 2012 there was no water and when I returned a few days later, there was no water again. Thank God for the generosity of Nicarguans, I was gifted water buckets and some food to tide me over until I could get my own. Similar to how Vermonters can agree to talk about the weather for the first 15 minutes of every conversations, my neighbors started every conversation with the water update. is water. Granted, Pantasma rarely has water shortages, but it was just coincidence that I left with the Great Rash of 2012 there was no water and when I returned a few days later, there was no water again. Thank God for the generosity of Nicarguans, I was gifted water buckets and some food to tide me over until I could get my own. Similar to how Vermonters can agree to talk about the weather for the first 15 minutes of every conversations, my neighbors started every conversation with the water update. “Hay agua? Vino el agua?” or the worst “Se fue” (It went). My neighbors to the other side are the wonderful family of Don Oscar and Dona Marlene. Marlene is very quiet and 6 months pregnant. She loves to sing in the morning and the afternoon.  Oscar plays on the baseball team on Sundays (he’s the catcher) and is a carpenter and engineer for the Hydroelectric project up the mountain. He’s the one who installed the entire new roof for my house and has offered install a shower or help make any other projects during my service. I am currently looking for wood to make a box for lombrices-vermiculture!! Still cleaning and organizing, and figuring out where the ditches are, but I would relate it camping. It’s what you make of it. I spend a little more time working on the basics (latrine, water, food prep without refrigeration, etc). And there is a team of bats with whom I am sharing my clothes dresser.

Oscar and Marlene have two kids, Oscar Junior and Oscary (she’s a girl). They are both adorable and very curious. They and Isabel’s son, Engel, take turns just walking into my house and following me, watching everything I do. The Oscars are much more talkative, and try to update me on all the pertinent information of their lives. I think they are just wildly happy to have someone to talk to who is interested in doing projects. They are super creative and like to tinker. Engel is much younger, and currently is getting over pneumonia. Everyone is sick actually. The climate change, however small it may seem in comparison to New England, does a number on the community of Cuatro Esquinas. Everyone has grippe- which encompasses all flu-like symptoms. This is in part due to the slow damp end of rainy season and the entrance of chilly, uninsulated nights and mornings as we change to dry season. Jinotega is more mountainous and higher up, so dry season requires a sweater until March unlike the rest of the country. My fellow PCVs in Leon and Chinandega could not believe I even had a sweater when I came to the Office.

There is definitely a change in routine towards more independence, but also a scary sense of losing momentum as I shift to living on my own schedule. This also comes around the 3 month mark and I’ll admit that I certainly thought I would be knee-deep in projects and community activities when I looked at this point in my service from the perspective of a Trainee. Thank God for Dona Marlene and Dona Marta. As they say, “You are just starting.” We are so fixated on results and production as Americans, that I can physically feel my heart beating faster as I think about nutrition charlas, youth soccer games, cooking classes, latrines installed, ovens made, things built, things done. One of the local guys walked in on my conversation with my host grandmother and just offhandedly mentioned how he liked me better than the last volunteer because “you’re like us-you placticar y pasear (chat and pass time).” I was flattered and relieved these conversations were helping build social reputation and capital. Thank you for having a big family and the 20 Questions Olympics at Thanksgiving and X-mas. But the difference now, is that people are coming to visit my house to see me. They are placticar-ing with me about my security and giving me their phone numbers for whatever I may need. I’ve read about this generosity and sincerity of Host Country Nationals, but I will admit that I have never lived in a community long enough to just live in it (there was always sports and school, etc.). But here, it is my job and to the better of my experience to integrate, acclimate, adapt and reciprocate. I am getting better about not having to think about it or be culturally sensitive. But, I still have to remind myself, daily if not hourly, that development is a slow process. One volunteer once told me, “They were here before you got here and they will be here in 2 years when you leave; you have to find the balance between being the driving force and one of the guys.”  Another volunteer who is about to extend her service offered, “It’s not about the flashy projects. More often than not, it’s balancing just living in your site with your basic job requirements. Just be ready for the opportunities when they come, but don’t force them. Your community should not suffer simply because you’re fighting boredom.”  And lastly, “It is important to integrate and blend a little with your community, but don’t give up parts of yourself. You are what got you into Peace Corps. It should be a mutually beneficial and additive process;  you don’t  have to compromise to be a good volunteer.” While it is the best advice to keep you service individual and not compare to others, at the same time fellow PCVs are by far the best resources for coping and just sharing the moments.

My Room

                                                              The Chill Out Hammock Area

                                                                       The Kitchen

More Book Reports: a lot of time on the bus

The Glass Castle: by Jeannette Walls

This is an incredible memoir with the same tenacious and objective spirit of writers like Frank McCourt. I inhaled this book in less than a week (and a few bus trips to Managua-10 hours round trip). Jeannette is one of 4 and you follow her and her unique family from state to state. Her father is brilliant, a story-teller and hard worker-when he’s sober. Her naïve childhood innocence holds out longer than the average person, through the pickled fights and the broken dreams and piggy banks. The title comes from the blueprints for an actual castle her father uses as his trump card whenever he requires a good show of faith from his ever-faithful but eventually faltering family. He incentivizes the creativity of his children to hang on and believe in him a little bit longer, just one more time. This is with the backdrop of several struggling parts of the U.S.-New Mexico and California ghettos to long-gone coal mines of West Virginia and then the homeless corners of New York after all the children have left the deranged nest to find their own lives in the Big Apple. I found myself appalled, intrigued, amazed and awestruck and also laughing, sometimes at the same time. You just can’t believe that this all happened to one person, but the genuine tone and honest narrative makes it not just possible, but inspiring.  From eating out of garbage cans to fighting at school because they are the dirtiest students, I see the same spirit and infallible desire to play in the children in my site. They may be hungry, malnourished, with family webs that confound the imagination, but they still want to play soccer and braid hair.

The Good Doctor: by Damon Galgut

Did not leave as much of a lasting impression, but still a good quick read. In essence, South Africa after apartheid with a small clinic in the middle of nowhere and there is one doctor who has been there longer then the newly, fresh-off-the-jeep rookie who has come to change the world and start clinics, etc. Again, some parallels to the inevitable disillusionment of Peace Corps service with the search for personal relationships across drastic social political, and economic differences. The doctors clash over everything from ideology to what is change and what is their purpose and what are reasonable expectations given the living conditions and strife.  It’s short and bitter, but had a few too many introspective moments with not enough background information for me. However, it does bring to light the importance of the composition of the volunteer or the development worker down to the very last detail. Your character and makeup is just as important as the community you are working with and it’s not just a give and take. They are relationships and they are messy. J

Moving in and Dealing with Learned Behaviors

Moving in

So the goal for November was to move in to my own place to have a little more privacy and control over my diet and schedule. November seemed like the perfect time because I only had IST (Peace Corps in-service training) at the end of the month. Then I got sick, then I got nominated to the gender and development (GUIA) committee, and I also signed up to spend Thanksgiving with an Embassy family. All of these are great events (except for getting sick), but they have turned the moving schedule into week-long spurts. Good thing I have had so much experience moving! Hopefully, after getting back to site today, the plan is to blitz-pack everything and move into my house tomorrow before heading back to Managua Monday for the GUIA conference. I just feel like if I keep putting it off it’ll never happen. I think a small part of me is reluctant to move despite all the obvious health and sanity benefits because there is a comfort level in not having to worry about food and security with a host-family. This will also be new territory for me. I have lived on my own in college, but that doesn’t count and I have lived with people who were not in the house too often so I got a significant amount of independence, but this will be the first time I’m cooking for just one person. Everyone in my site knows that I like dogs, so I have a feeling company won’t be a problem, but there are so many little things that you just don’t think about until they happen and my Type-A is trying to think of all of them at one time (usually when I’m trying to sleep). If anyone has suggestions (recipes, strategies) from their own experience during this stage of life, more than welcome. Anxiously looking forward to it, but also expecting a lot of pasta. J

Behavior Modification

I have discovered that I rely too much on the same behavior modification strategies that normally work on American students and children. In my site, there isn’t really the typical reward for good behavior and punishment for bad behavior. This is in part because after a certain age, the kids are working members of the family and have an enormous amount of independence. The reason I am writing about this in particular is that my youth have taken to not showing up consistently to practices and have taken to only being interested in the friendship bracelets that I sell off of my water bottle. They are so fixated on the instant satisfaction of buying something I have shown them how to make or just playing with the ball rather than doing drills or talking about exercise that I oftentimes wonder if I am just not on the same playing field as them. If they goof off in practice or fight, I make them run, but no matter how many times they run, they always complain and then keep doing it; they don’t associate the behavior with the consequence. This has caused a lot of frustration on my part, but it has also caused me to look for other options. I now understand why volunteers talk about losing interest with their own projects because the participants are inconsistent or don’t seem interested in the objectives, just with the activities, etc. I think there is also some frustration knowing that part of this dependent behavior is learned from years of working with gringos in developing agencies who take pity on the cute little Nicaraguans and give them things. My youth keep asking me when they are going to get uniforms and when I am I going to give them bracelets or other things as gifts. The concept of earning something rather than having it given to you or buying it for the instant satisfaction is less appealing and, I am beginning to think, even foreign. You also run the risk of becoming the gringo who just gives away free stuff with no link to a purpose, you are the gringo who has everything (or at least more than the people), you fill the stereotype.The constant struggle as a volunteer is to make activities interesting enough without just freebies that the people genuinely want to participate. But, if you think about it, how many activities or events have we participated in in the States because we knew there would be free stuff?

More Pics and Reading

So this is a sample of what a world map looks like. There are two schools in nearby communities that already have maps and the volunteers before me used them for geography lessons and global connections with pen pals. I am hoping to raise enough money here (or at home if you are open to ideas) to cement smooth one side of the school in order to chart using a graph method the map and color code and paint it. Please let me know if you or anyone or any group you know is interested in this project. It is incredible how many students here don't know where Nicaragua or the United States is on a map. 

 My new roommate, the lizard-gecko thing. I found him hiding in my shoe when I got back from Managua and the Gala. These little guys usually scurry around the walls and make little chirping noises. they even run across the tv and eat critters up in the light, little sillohuettes in the soap opera frame. He's got character and I'm hoping he hitches a ride to my new house. He needs a name though....

 This is the welder that I wrote about last time. Everybody, meet Don Totto. He is making a bumper for my host-dad's car for everyone to use to hoist themselves into the truck. Needless to say, we don't really believe in safety gear here. He is like that handyman grandpa that can do anything and everything and he always sits down and talks to me in a way that is not creepy.

 This is Traviesa, the new puppy at Dona Cocos house. She is the CUTEST thing ever!! I have been pushing really hard for her to come live with me. Her parents and grandparents are awesomely huge, german sheperd guard dogs. But she is soooooo cute!! And she lets me rub her belly and pet her.....awwww! Yuri, Dona Cocos older son, has told me he'll trade me the dog for my blue sunglasses. Doesn't seem like too bad a trade.

 I just thought this looked cool. Was walking back as it was getting dark and came upon a typical garbage burning. We burn everything from plastic to brush to whatever else people just don't want to see lying around anymore because there is no official trash collection. Burning smell....yummmm

 And then this was just funny. The cats at my grandmother's house were looking for a snack. And they were willing to work really hard, and look really silly for it.

 And the soccer boys. These are just some of the boys of the Cuatro Esquinas soccer team. They have the greatest spunk. They love playing in the rain (mud slinging and sliding makes it that much better).

 Eliar Geobani- one of the smartest and sharpest of my kids

 Jose Santos. One of the young ones who keeps up with the older boys or ties trying

 The same lizard-gecko guy shedding his skin on my deoderant stick. He's clearly making himself at home.

 Jose Santos helping out with this week's project: tree nursery! Me and about 5 youth chopped up some dirt at the CICO (preschool building) and filled the Nica baby plant holders aka plastic black bags for the tree seeds and tree cuttings that they collected. And they had no qualms about getting down and dirty! Most of them help their farmer parents plant coffee nurseries in the same way. They were way more knowledgeable than me and had no issues with carrying cow manure to mix too.

 Other youth, Gilver, helping load the bags with our manure and macheted-dirt mix.

 Engel, Isabel's son. Isabel is one of the leaders for the Community Bank and a brigadista (travelling nurse). Engel was only about 3 or 5 when the other volunteer was here, but he follows me around and always wants to help out. You just have to ask him, because he hardly ever talks...

 Jose Luis, the most energetic and extroverted of the tree group. He did the tree nurseries with the Jessica, the volunteer before me, and his sisters were part of her youth group. He knew everything to do and how to do it before I said anything. And he loves to say "Es cierto..." So now I find myself saying it all the time.

And the final product (note the tree clippings in the close corner) with the other Gilver looking on. We finished just as the rain started.

More Reading List

The Broken Cord by Michael Dorris

 Wow. A powerful true story about a father who adopts a child with FAS (Fetal Alcohol Syndrome) and experiences a very different parenthood. I’ll admit I actually had to put this book down after the 1^st couple of chapters because I wasn’t ready to see the familiar New England names like Dartmouth, Sunapee, Claremont, Hanover, and White River Junction. Dorris also has an amazing skill for weaving images of the beautiful landscapes of the Dakotas and New Hampshire (again made me miss home to read about Northfield carnivals and whiteouts) with a synthesized academic and anecdotal account of his struggle for the thing every parent of a special-needs child never achieves: reliefe and acceptance of the child in front of you. As a sibling of a different special need sibling, I was startled to read the same expressions of confusion, protectiveness and anger and challenge to keep pushing the unknown limits and potential of a struggling individuals’ abilities. We are so fixated on reaching the assumed ultimate success story of a parenthood: an employed, educated, and independent individual. What angered me was that this book is from the 80s/90s and FAS treatment and prevention has yet to make huge progress since. We still don’t know exactly what causes Autism, so we treat symptoms and vocationally prepare adults who are still very much children. Many told me this was a sad story and it is and will continue to be as long as we don’t react to research, as long as we ignore anectodal evidence. I decided not to follow a degree in psychology or special education for the same conflict of interest Dorris notes as he goes deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole of study groups, published manuals and legislation: you can never shake your too personal account, never shake your sobjectivity. Today’s society still shuts out thos who have the most to lose when deciding things like treatment and vocational programs or early diagnosis services. Whether it’s FAS or Autism, they both cost the federal government billions and the powers that be are still reactive and not productive. I thank God everyday that high-functioning Aspergers individuals have the ability to learn from their mistakes, but the incessant structure Dorris mentions as the infallible key to his son’s limited success is true too for Aspies, as well as their need for supervision and vulnerability to bullies and abuse. As an older sibling, I understand how difficult it is to conceptualize and accept different set of life goals and not intuitively identify it as a failure somehow on your part as the nurturer, the elusive progress never ends. None of the involved parites are happy until you appreciate the child in front of you, for all of his quirks, successes, and struggles. There are lots more coming, but he is unique, and like Adam, mine has conditional love too (despite those angsty teen moments).

End of October and Current Reading List

Went for a hike on one of my days off with Julianne, a Health Volunteer in Jinotega capital. She knows all the best places that aren't in the book. And then there was this lizard on the trip into the mountains...

And we found an old fort (note the cool spikes!) with downtown Jinotega in the foreground and the moutains with green coffee shades to boot.

Me in the fort

 The were the most massive spiders I have ever seen on this mountain! We almost walked into them at least 4 times. Julianne says they are nice and actually one lived in her room and she tried to feed it, but it didn't like gallo pinto.

One of the mountain barrio neighborhoods surrounding Jinotega city.

Two of my youth girls making pan de guineo, or banana bread, with me! It's a big hit here!

Current Reading ListTwo 

Confessions of an Economic Hit-Man

Not great, but not terrible. Better than the first time I read it, but that was for school. The book is sadly already beginning to seem dated as there are several NGOs and individual whistleblowers who have pulled the corporate conspiracy curtain away in the day of blogs and Internet. It’s much harder to hide but the real question is why the general public still stands for it? I also think as a Peace Corps volunteer I am at the wrong end of the development spectrum. My commitment and ones like it are limited by the technical knowledge and financial support imparted by the same politicians and companies that want the raw materials to have the same prices and people to stay illiterate. Nicaragua is a little different because it’s in bed with the United States and Venezuela and yet still can’t feed itself. John Perkins looked for philosophical and political solutions, but what about the family in the developing country? What about the community right in front of me? What do they do? They can’t pick up the phone and call their congressman. Do they continue to let others make decisions for them, by simple advantage of geography and money, continuing to react rather than chart their own plan of action? I also don’t see the projects of Peace Corps making a significant difference in the long-run in the greater picture, which makes me a little skeptical that I’m just window-dressing, a guilt assuage for corporations and the government. This is not a new feeling; I’ve read and written several papers on similar feelings amongst Volunteers throughout the Corps existence. It does bring to mind the problem of scale and perspective. The trick in Nicaragua is that the people are very much educated and aware of political happenings, but there is an understandable confusion in the carrot of aid programs followed by the sticks of cutting projects and refusing to renew waivers for debt.

Linda Brent: Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

Not a book you would think of reading in a developing country, but I picked it up out of curiosity in a lending library in a hostel in Matagalpa and found myself finishing it before I got home. This is a relatively authentic historical narrative of one black woman in the South. Linda (not her real name) is surprisingly literate and an excellent storyteller. Her voice and style pull you in-she is genuine with her diction and cadence of a self-taught slave whose primary source of reading material is the Bible. It was a little difficult to keep track of all the family members and their relations (much like Nicaragua). Linda is a house-slave who never actually experiences the typically horrible fieldwork with overseers and whips, but you still sympathize with the harassment she suffers by her master, including when he tears her family apart. It is hard to believe, but there is still a time in history when one race considers itself above others and believes it is by design. You can still see this today.

The Blind Side

I really liked this one, proven by the fact that I finished it in less that a week. I watched the movie first (which was also very well-done) and I was impressed by how sports media is mixed with the individual story of Michael Oher and the overall philosophy of the left tackle in the NFL. I’m nowhere near a football fan, but even I was able to follow along and enjoy the historical and statistical banter. As an athlete, I also enjoyed reliving those moments of time measured by seconds on the field, before the play, after the hit, making split decisions that seem to take minutes but are actually less than seconds. I only wish it didn’t take famous athletes, or dead could-have-beens, to draw attention to the public school system and continued racial discrimination.

Also read…War by Sebastian Junger (same guy who wrote Perfect Storm), Lady Knight and the whole Protector of the Small Series by Tamora Pierce (blast from the past)

But you Know So Much…

It’s all relative. In one world, you need certificates, diplomas, and degrees to be an expert. Classes and practicums to get a piece of paper saying you know what you are talking about. In another world, my nationality and the stereotype of prosperity is immediately linked to expertise, of knowing everything. It’s exhausting, terrifying, and dangerous. It was funny in college, but here it puts you on a precarious pedestal with only half the balance. I was talking to one of the mothers in my community, sharing my experience as a babysitter feeding and caring for young children and caring for my little brother when she exclaimed, “Meghan knows so much about children and health!”

I’m not a nurse or a doctor; I have babysat a lot of kids and have gotten plenty of scrapes myself. But when you are considered an expert, you are responsible for those who look up to you for “the answers.” And heaven forbid you don’t know or get it wrong. Then you fall from grace, if you want to call that grace. No, no, no. I am not an expert. It’s all relative. I don’t know firsthand what it is like to have kids of my own, or to make rice and beans, or make tortillas without burning my fingertips, or hand-wash all the soap out of clothes. I have not actually had my own family or built my own house or farmed my own land. In this, and more, you are not the expert either, for there is someone who knows more than both of us. It’s all relative and it means relatively nothing. Working as equals, complementing each other is far less stressful and much more enjoyable. Let’s do that.

An example of modern-day colonialism…Banana Bread

Aside from the fact that there are something like 20 more varieties of bananas, or guineo, than the one golden yellow Dole that frequents the markets states-side, you would think that all Central America knew this recipie or that perhaps, banana bread even came from the same region as the number one ingredient. Turns out no. Turns out this recipie makes me look like Julia Childs and everyone wants me to visit their kitched for a special. The people have guineao, tons of it! They have eggs, oil, sugar, and you can even buy basic baking soda and baking powder in the pulperias in little rolled paper tubes that look like funny cigarettes. And yet nothing happens without the recipie; the ingredients stay separate. And not just the recipie-the experience. With something like a 50% literacy rate, learning by doing is the essential way to go. There is an incredible capacity for memorization as a coping mechanism in the wake of this illiteracy. So I simply stand to one side and read the directions aloud. They know how to cook; they do it at least 3 times a day. They have the equipment and the raw materials, but lack the developing step, the mechanism that changes one stage into the finished product. Sounds like something I read in my American History textbook in 3^rd grade, about how one group had all the raw materials, and the other had all the knowledge and machines. And with one oven and one recipie, an added-value product enters a new market, a group is enlightened even in just a culinary sense and a door is opened. Connections are made and trust is gained. And it’s high in potassium too.

No School

There are 3 classrooms at the local school; one for preschool, one for grades 1-3, and the other 4-6. They each have at least one day off a week and these aren’t frequent holidays. The teachers have families, someone is sick, there are meetings or community commitments conflict, or whatever. There are even weeks when it’s the opposite and there is only one day of school. Any American kid would jump for joy and any administrator would cringe at the inevitable gaps in learning. But the school is local, so there are no busing or lunch issues. The kids walk to school all polished, wait or play in the front yard until 8, and then run home or loiter with their shirt untucked and backpacks flung to one side. And when there is no school what to do in Nicaragua? Watch telenovellas, play with cellphones, or play pick-up soccer. Very American. Or work hard in the fields to help your family scrape by, carrying more than your body weight in firewood or bags of corn. Because you don’t know or it doesn’t matter that somewhere in the world there are learning standards and United Nations Millenium Goals for Education or child labor laws. The family’s gotta eat. And when all else fails, we can always watch the gringa. And maybe she’ll give us another word search or other strange math and writing games. There are 4 kids sprawled on the ground outside my house all working on English sopa de letras (word searches) because they are all bored out of their minds.

Ode to the Chinela

For reference, chinelas are the plastic slap-on sandals that every Nica worth their salt has for housewear.

You can quitar the chinela in emergencies, like an itch or the ever-annoying and painful ant bite. They are sturdy enough you can leave the house in them, but they won’t do your arches any favors over any length of time or distance and they have no traction in the rainy season mud (trust me).

They are plastic, plastic, and more plastic, coming in blue, green, orange, and pink, in case you ever have trouble finding them or your feet. But for hanging out, peasearing tiempo in the casa or the hammock, cooking in the kitchen, or half-drowning your bottom-half while doing laundry, there is no better choice. Kids wear them until they walk out of them, and then they keep wearing them. Teevas and Chacos got nothing on these.

Totto the Soldadura

So I needed a solderer for the improved ovens my community wants to do. There is a soderer in Cuatro Esquinas, but he only does lamina. Apparently, there are different types of solderes. But, he knows a guy who knows a guy. Totto. I immediately think of Dorothy and red shoes, but I follow my guy, Don Sergio, into town.  Everyone knows Totto. Well I don’t and you’d be surprised how many people will change their names to Totto just to talk to the gringa for a few more seconds. We walk down an alley close to the Centro de Salud, my home away from home. We almost pass a huge truck, but Sergio stops and says we’ll wait until he’s done working. There is someone under that thing?! He pulls himself out from under the truck and walks around to us, smiling confidently and greeting Sergio like an old friend. I didn’t know the human body could hold that much grease and oil. Work makes it impossible for me to tell his age but he has an interesting seafaring mustaches. Totto, or Cristobal if you want to be formal. I reach to shake his hand, and while trying to wipe his hands with an even dirtier rag, he offers his wrist as an alternative. After a short explanation of the job, he asks briefly if the oven looks like this, pointing to a barrel in the abck of his workshop (a shack of wooden slats and boards). That’s exactly what they look like. Perfect. He offers 300 cords per oven and I could kiss him; it’s one-third what the other guys in town asked for. I ask him to sign the price recipt. No he saysand I can’t tell if he’s kidding or yanking my chain in front of his fellow grease-buddies. I ask again and again he says no and looks around the shop with eyes that seem say and smimling at the same time. I’m flustered and ask why, thinking I’ve missed something. I have-he doesn’t know how to write, he says, and doesn’t want to get my paper dirty, calling one of his cleaner friends over. Together they figure out how to phonetically spell his name. Welcome to a developing country.

Echar Tortillas

My boss informed my that women here are not able to marry until they can echar (do/make) tortillas. Granted, this is the staple to all the meals of the day, but he didn’t really have to prick my competitive personality and womanly pride to encourage me to integrate even more. This is a two-day process. The night before, the less-than-sanitary water is boiled (the color changes-it’s interesting) then the corn from the field or the silo is added and pushed around with a long wooden paddle, soaking for several hours. There is a musty corn-husky smell to the kitchen as the pot is emptied into another container which is topped off with cold water to cool and further absorb overnight. Early (like dark early) someone takes the corn to the Molino where it’s ground into masa or dough. Depending on the desired size (I have been told I will be working small until I can handle it) you take a decent size glob of masa, and using both hands like a pot-maker, you form a disc with a dimple in the middle. This is then placed on a pre-cut cellophane page and then the rhythmic beating begins. Pat-pat. Pat-pat. The sound echoes through the house and even out to the street, with the slight swish of the moving cellophane. One hand pats, and the other expertly (unless I’m doing it) keeps the circular shape. I am getting better at this part, thanks to my familiarity with ceramics. The next step is to flip the paper so the tortilla is in the palm of your hand, using your other hand to peel the paper away carefully. The paper likes to stick or hold bits of my tortilla, and the tortilla also likes to cave-in between my fingers. Quickly, the tortilla is palmed between both hands and placed from front-to-back on the comal, or a ceramic cooking-disk. It doesn’t matter how many times I watch these incredible women deftly put 50 or more tortillas on a comal, the anxiety that the tortilla will cave or the heat of the stove or my nerves over my fingers make it impossible for me to complete this final step. I honestly think, and several volunteers agree, that Nica women have burned the feeling out of their fingers with the practice of picking up and flipping the tortillas with their bare hands. It’s a source of pride and somewhat of a competition of will and pain for the women within a house and the community. But today, Dona Martha told me to try again. The 1^st one she placed on the comal for me, giggling that my hands were so debil (delicate). After wetting them (trick for newbies) I made a big tortilla but it crumpled like a bad turnover when I practically dropped it on the comal, to the laughter and tsking of all the women now watching in the kitchen. Start small, she says, as she scrapes the one that se dano (sickened/died). I have the last one of the morning, small enough to almost completely fit in my hand. I hold my breath and gently slide both hands under the edges, gliding the pressure of the dough circle from my pinky to my thumb, putting the tortilla on the rest of the comal. I did it!!  Fist pump and little shout of joy, to the delight of my fan club. Now flip it, they say, grinning. Oh God! They take pity on me and let me use a knife to get started. After a split-second hesitation, they worry it will burn and stick to the comal and they offer to help. No. I can do this. The independent woman in me shouts inside. I hold my breath again and quickly grab the edges with my fingers and flip. It all lands, right-side-up, back on the comal. And the bottom is just tan, just cooked. I did it!! They shout for me! Oh God. Ow. Ow. Adrenaline wears off and my fingers remind me that I have many more mornings of this before I can deftly do it without thought for my fingertips or the inevitable A&D ointment…but I still did it. Best-tasting tortilla yet!