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
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 3rd 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 1st 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!
