junio

Correr: the 52 km
Kilometer 52 outside of Santa Teresa makes itself known quietly, a simple wooden stake standing ajar amidst the weeds, flaking red paint proclaiming its name. This marker serves as a bus stop, a resting place for birds, the occasional stray marking post, tired campesino’s elbow rest, and housing for any number of insects. But for me, it calls my mind back from the clouds to the pavement under my feet. At km 52, I reign my wandering thoughts back in from whatever mix of Spanish and English they were rolling around in and begin my jog back into town. Here I push the English aside, and intentionally line up my Spanish, massaging those parts that are tired and weary, stretching myself internally just as my external self is doing. This process is a long one, a sometimes draining effort. But as I make my jogs through the beautiful landscape of my new home, I at least feel like I am actively participating in the rite of passage I have entered. As I partner with my circumstances and realities of this path, I find myself breathing rhythmically, trusting that though this might pain me now, I know that it will be stronger in the future, when I need it to be.

Whistle While You Work
Here in Nicaragua, there is an amazing array of whistles. As someone who cannot whistle very loud, if at all, I am constantly fascinated by these sounds wailing through the air. There is the hello friend, usually passed between males walking on the street or the money collectors/drivers of the buses as they fly by each other on the highways. There is the annoyed whistle, hissing across the lips of the person irritated, usually by bad driving or behavior. Another common one serves to catch a person’s attention in order to direct their attention elsewhere. This one sounds a lot like the hello friend whistle but has a distinct purpose. And of course, there is the “hey sexy lady, check you out” – the wolf whistle. This is also very common unfortunately, but I haven’t been too bothered by it yet. And it’s done universally to chelas and morenas alike, but tends to be directed towards foreigners a lot, since we stick out. I’m sure there are a lot more types with different purposes, but these are the ones I have observed so far.

Diet Changes
What a white bread, white rice, beans, 3 vegetables/fruits, 1 meat, and coke daily diet will get you: pants that have to be taken in by your awesome Nica mama and a regular date with Metamucil’s Nica cousin, Mugasen. Como es la vida.



San Antonio
How do Nicas celebrate the patron saint of marriage? By sloughing off the branches, leaves and bark of a really tall tree, tying some bags with hygiene products, money and liquor at the very top, greasing it up with mud/oil and having 6-10 wiry Nica men climb up each other while the town looks in. Add in some loud fireworks, torritos that shoot sparks all over as a kid runs it down the street chasing people, and some cumbia music that the drunks dance-fight to, and you’ve got the San Antonio Festival. It was so fun to see such a different approach to a holiday, and though I don’t know how any of our activities really honored this saint, whom I had never heard of, it was a perfect way to spend my Friday evening. Just sitting and chatting with my two sisters, my nephew and my cousin, I felt like I was where I was supposed to be. I am so looking forward to digging into my community at whatever site I end up at.

dos lados

28 de Mayo Lo extrano

It is amusing to me the various things I miss. The obvious ones like family and friends and basic US comforts are not surprising. What is surprising is how much I miss certain words in English. For example, the Spanish language does not have a word for “hanging out”. The closest thing is pasar tiempo, literally pass time, but it is always made more specific, like pass time by talking or going shopping. The funny thing to me is that this is a people who hang out a lot. As in, this is something you do everyday, multiple times a day, and the borrachos do it all day on the corner. They need a word like hang out. Another word I miss is awkward. There a few words you could say here, like incomodo (uncomfortable) or raro (strange) but nothing like the word awkward – I miss it terribly! However, there are words here that we don’t have in English, like pena, which is a conglomeration of self-conciousness/shame/embarrassment. It’s rather unique and says a lot about a situation or a person. They also have a tense called vos (you), a very personal, informal way of speaking, including how you conjugate your verbs…when my dad here speaks to me over lunch about nica life in the vos form, I feel an amazing sense of security and welcoming. They also have funny English cognates, like estretch pantalones to describe leggings, and chorts for shorts. Basically it is the English word with Spanish pronunciation. These past couple days I feel like I have finally begun to play with the language instead of being stiff and bottled up. I was able to write a poetic line the other day in Spanish and it made me feel so much better. Exploring language is truly a fascinating venture.

I also miss: quiet, firework absent atmospheres [I have awakened the past 7 days at 430 to loud explosions and the band in celebration of corpus cristi], dark chocolate, pasta, numerous fruits and vegetables at my disposal, whole grain bread, cinnamon lattes from the roasterie, parks with grass, clean feet, depth of conversation, and quality music other than from my laptop. Such is life .

[It really is hard to explain just how much I miss certain foods. Almost a physical pain. Rather odd.]

Esperanza: 1 de Junio
Today’s La Prensa, the national newspaper, had a story about the 14,000 people who will be out of a job when Hanes leaves Nicaragua. They are pulling out because of the current president’s stance on the textile factories. [I do not fully understand all the details of how this works, so I won’t pretend to explain why this is happening.] What is apparent to me is the heaviness of poverty. There are already too many people without jobs. Gas prices continue to climb and the strike will recommence tomorrow. That means that many more people will not be able to travel to their jobs and the families of the transportistas will go without. For me, it is simply an inconvenience, something that makes my time a bit more uncomfortable, since I can’t leave my site and our resources become slightly strained. But for many others, they will listen to their rumbling stomachs and peer out at a seemingly impossible situation. There are people here who live to day to day eating nothing but tortillas made from a grain given to animals, no water, no electricity, no way to get out of their situation. This inhumanity demands my attention. This is part of why I am here. Jesus said that the poor will always be with you, and as Shane Claiborne explains in his book Irresistible Revolution, this is not because poverty cannot end but because the poor will find rest and a place within the church. But how many poor folks are in your church today? I know for my church back home, not many, if any at all. Now, what I am NOT suggesting you do is go round up some homeless people to appease your conscience. The fact is that the Church is not a building or a program, but us - people who have been restored and invited along by Jesus. For this reason, I am asking us to consider what we, as the body, the Church, are doing. Are there parts of us that are gangrenous from hunger and disease? Leprous with despair? What are we going to do? It is no longer enough to feel sorry for these people, or even to sport a t-shirt that gave part of the proceeds to a random charity [Has that ever really been enough…]. What is necessary, I am coming to believe, is exactly as Claiborne and others have said…to join them. To take our place next to our brothers and sisters, believing Jesus wasn’t kidding when He said what you do to the least of these, you do to Him. We, as the Church, are to go to them, to mourn with those who are mourning and rejoice with those who rejoice. This is not just stereotypically poor people either – there are very rich people who I believe are completely impoverished of spirit. There are middle-class families impoverished of love. Poverty has many faces. As I look into my two years here, I am overwhelmed by the implications of this kind of living. I don’t really know how to do it. But rather than give up my esperanza (hope), I will do my best to get to know my brothers and sisters here. Who is the woman who makes my pan dulce? What is the reason the man on the corner goes barefoot? What makes my younger sister here get excited? It is not about creating massive relief programs, but rather getting to know my neighbor. That way, when I love them, it’s because I know their name and who they are…a genuine care and concern in the lives of those around me, not a generic “Christian” love that leaves people faceless. And you don’t need to live in a third world country to do that.

PS: I realize, in retrospect, that some of the things I throw out there are rather raw. They might make you uncomfortable. Please understand that none of this is in judgment or manipulation…these are just things that I am facing here for myself and I want to invite anyone who is interested to come along.

PPS: And in all of this, the only possibility of doing any of it is His grace. Trust me. There is not a single thing I could do here with kingdom impact without His help. I am not out to be some righteous do-gooder. But I do want to follow Him better, and that involves asking some tough questions.

And thank you to all who have been so encouraging and supportive of my writing…it really is humbling to have people tell you that what you write connects with them. I cherish being able to share this with you all and have you receive it.

va pues

Lluvia

The air is pregnant with waiting. Clouds loom and my spirit is weary, aching for the water to finally break through and calm the dust beneath my feet. Listlessness rumbles along the streets and we all watch expectantly. Lightening flashes and all hold their breath, hoping. Finally, finally, the pinging overhead begins. Slight and soft at first, then increasingly faster, forcing everything out of its path. As I sit on this little bench underneath the overhang, I breathe a sigh of relief. All day I have been waiting for this release, and as the water rushes by below my chacos, I am surprised by how much the environment here affects me. There is this silent dialogue passing between my being and the land I am inhabiting. It’s as if he knew I was heavy with this task before me, as he was weighted with the rain overhead. And in midst of the downpour, I found myself letting it rest awhile. By far the most refreshing rain I’ve experienced in a while.

Loss

There is an inexplicable sadness that comes with straddling two language spheres. I’ve never really experienced this before, as my times of immersion into a foreign tongue were temporary. Think about the past hour. How many times did you interact with someone? Maybe not in full sentences, or even with words, but there was this ability to communicate your intentions and be understood. When you are living in a language other than your own, the chances of you getting to experience this kind of interaction are slim to none. These kinds of interactions take few if any words, but that is because below the surface dwells an entire world of language, idioms and shared experiences that enable the absence of spoken word. Here there is inevitable lack of language and an inherent stiffness from living within this new garment. Then there is the distance of new relationships, only furthered by my inability to connect. On top of all this, there is the desperate clawing to hold firmly to this new language, only to find it as water, fluid and ever-changing. As I sat in my Spanish class today, I felt this sorrow rise up, a heart aching to connect on a deeper level than my new friendships in English and developing relationships in Spanish. When I speak my mother tongue, I feel like I’m cheating myself out of a chance to further my Spanish relationships, yet not finding the satisfaction that comes from conversations with old friends. When I speak my new language, I often feel small and unsure, aware of my limits and hungry for them to expand. People of course are patient and helpful towards me, but there is this invisibility that comes with learning a new language. I do not have the words to convey much of myself, nor can I fully understand and engage these new friends I am making. The hardest part of this is realizing that my ability to succeed here, to become a part of a community and gain relationships that give rise to development, depends on my ability to communicate. And this is a slow and winding road. Frost said he took the road less traveled, and that made all the difference. What he did not speak of was the fear and doubt that dwell in the shadows of that path, nor the weariness that accompanies a trip into the wild unknown. But it is this bigger “all the difference” that I came for and I knew that days like this would come. I decided a while ago to embrace all that came my way, the lovely and the foul, to be grateful for all that I was allowed to experience. So as I sit in this grey place of vacant language, I will remember the beautiful conversations I have had in the past and look forward to the days that my speech is colored brilliantly in Spanish.

Affection

When you don’t have much else, there remains the love within you can offer. I am searching for how to love in this new place. It looks different than I thought it might.



Typical

This is me, on a typical weekday night. Spanish music playing on my laptop. Numerous Peace Corps assigned books strewn across my lap and tabletop. Full calendar dictating my every move this week. Drying clothing hanging overhead waiting to be ironed. Chinelas on my feet. And yes, my green fleece sweatshirt. I must be adapting.

fin de semana

Andando: 12 de Mayo

Today was a day of firsts. My first Spanish class. My first tour of the city. My first non-host family self-directed conversation. My first day using the internet café [at 80 cents an hour, or 15 cordobas]. My first day feeling like this city could become partially mine. And though I was tempted to be frustrated with my Spanish class or feel worn out by the heat or uncomfortable with the food situation [without transportation, the markets selling fruits and vegetables are closed]…I found myself that much more grateful and adjusting. When the time driven self objected to the content of our Spanish class, my aspirante self said “poco a poco”…remembering that this journey comes little by little. And in taking this poco a poco, I met a new couple that I will eat lunch with tomorrow, had time to play uno with my little friends, laughed about the wheelchair named Chele (whitey) after those who gave it to this boy, ate cookies and Coke with a quarter of the town at a wake and simply lived among my family. Nicaragua is a country where there is not only the space but the invitation to wade knee deep.

Maestras: 12 de Mayo

I have found that the best place to learn a language is with those at least 10 or more years younger than you. As I have played game after game with my sister and nephew and various cousins, I find myself slipping in Nica Spanish….the dropped s’s, the various phrases, the rhythm of this beautiful language. And the best part? This practice has been attuning my ear to where I am able to understand at least one stream of Spanish around me, albeit with much concentration. So gracias a Dios for Carlitos y Athzyris. They stand as the cornerstone to my Peace Corps service.

Fea: 14 de Mayo

The fascinating part of living in another culture is that inevitably parts of you will collide with parts of it and become messy. For example, I do not live well “poco a poco”. A lifestyle that makes sense here does not come intuitively to me. And in this process, I keep discovering parts of myself that are a bit ugly. The funny part to me is how much pena [embarrassment/shame] it brings me, even though those parts did not just appear in Nicaragua. Rather, Nicaragua has laid parts of me open, and here I find those things which I wish were not there. All day today I wanted to get upset and frustrated by it all, to let it consume me, either the emotions themselves or the shame I felt from experiencing them. But as I rode back to my pueblo listening to the other aspirantes around me, I felt this calmness about just being human. Why do I insist on this perfection, this unattainable standard? I don’t want to live that way. So I’ll drink my Coke and listen to my gringa music and remember that tomorrow is a new day. It might end up just as ugly as today felt, but the hope is that nothing stays ugly forever. [Except cockroaches. I think those will be ugly always.]

Mosquitera: 16 de Mayo

I woke up this morning slightly chilled…not to the point of being uncomfortable, but when the skin is cool to the touch. My lovely mosquito net wafted around me as the wind blew through it from my tiny window, twirling with the roosters cries and the murmur of a pueblo waking up. I was actually sad today when training was held in an air conditioned room. I’ve come to the conclusion that we really weren’t meant to live in an artificial space. Sure, I have lots of bugs visit me [mosquite bite count up to 14]. Sure, sometimes it is really too hot. But in all of this there is this connection to each other through your environment. While in the States, we shut our doors and windows and lock ourselves from the elements, here they open all possible airways and let it all flow together. Consequently, the human interaction is very different as well. In the States, you don’t know many, if any, of your neighbors. You don’t call to passer-bys or have unannounced guests. You definitely don’t spend a majority of your time chatting with those outside your house or workplace. But here, people aren’t as territorial or rigid about their space. As their windows and doors open, so does their idea about who is welcome. It is not secluded to those within the house or even people you know. Every person receives a buenas or an adios or a como le fue. The space people dwell in is very fluid, winding from house to street to patio to another house. To some, this sounds very messy and uncomfortable. And it certainly can be. But I’m finding that the threading together of a people through this exchange is way more important than having an orderly domain. Sometimes I wonder if our “keeping out the elements” is really “keeping out other people”. We have all been in that space where someone left a mess in our lives. And none of us really enjoy that experience. But I’m becoming convinced that as painful as some of that might be, the truth is that I was made to be in relation with those around me. I believe that my ability to be fully alive comes from sharing in experiences with others. Try it. Spend an evening on your porch and call out to all who pass. Sit in the park for a while and connect with those around you. It may feel awkward and scary at first, but I think you’ll find that you like it.

series

BAUTISMO:

My mind is a dance of English and Spanish, the English leading while the Spanish moves swiftly to come to the forefront. My family and I are sitting near the doorway, listening to the firecrackers and distant thunder. It appears there is a parallel between the natural and our creations. Finally, it is time. Prayers echo out of the speaker on top of a slow moving car, the nearby church attendees all holding candles and singing praise. It is the procession of Santisimo, the celebration of the host and the miracle of the Spirit’s indwelling. We weave our way around other faithful and begin walking in step with the nuns. I can’t quite catch all the words, but I recognize Jesus’ instructed prayer and I feel at peace, knowing that my faith translates across language. As we round the blocks and past the church, it begins to rain. Just slightly. By the time we find ourselves back home, the rain begins to pour. And as I laid underneath the heady mosquito net listening to the pounding on the tin roof, I find strange identification with the procession we just had and the soaking rain above my head. While my townspeople were celebrating the miracle of the Spirit’s indwelling in one part of their faith, I felt like my Father was infusing me with His Spirit once more, baptizing me and reminding me that He goes with me. And that was enough to set me at peace and draw me into restful sleep.



LAVANDERIA:

I awoke this morning to the clattering palomitas on my roof and the rising heat wafting into my upstairs window. Climbing out of bed, I realized I have a ton of laundry. Now, there are no washing machines or press the button type chores. Everything is dependent on your own muscles, your own creative devices. As I drank café y picos with my Nica mama, I asked her if she could show me how to wash my clothes. She smiled widely and took me to the backyard. In 30 seconds, she had my skirt tumbling across the cement ridges with a teal soap brick in her hand. Watching her, I thought, this will be no problem. I can handle this. And then it was my turn. I don’t know how anyone could feel uneducated doing laundry, but I certainly did. My hands awkward and timid, water and clothing spreading across the countertops, with a certain humility and appreciation swelling in my chest. It took me a good 3 minutes to wash my first t-shirt. But Dona proved so patient and kind, she allowed me to continue washing and did not insist on standing over me or doing it for me.

With my clothes dripping in a colorful array across our cement backyard, I smiled and thought to myself, si se puedo. I can do this. I might falter and slip and make huge errors, but there is something within me that is adapt to growing in these kinds of unfamiliar places. I began to think of the day when laundry washing and making gallo pinto will be second nature. And the fact that this is my path gives me great hope for the coming two years.

PS: I even ironed all of it tonight. How bout that?!?

SIENTASE:

This is something offered to me multiple times a day – the invitation to sit. I’ve only been here two days, but already I can tell there is so much more to sitting than sitting. It is not just the action of placing your sweating self into the proffered rocking chair or plastic silla. It encompasses being a part of the community around you. People are coming and “sitting” all day. I know that right now my experience is only two things: invitation to sit and rest or sit and participate, but I am excited to perfect the art of sitting with people. It was something I had begun to explore back home, particularly with my pals Sara and Lauren, but here, this is what you do. There is not much else, especially on the weekends [and DEFINITELY during a transportation strike], and there are at least 3 hours of the day that demand you to sit – to do anything else results in major fatigue and buckets of sweat. My American self is rather worn out by all the sitting and missing chunks of language, but my global soul is excited to learn this ancient art of loving people by just being with them. I’ll keep you posted on how it goes.


Mosquito bites: 5
Sunburn: 0
Parasites:0
Crying fests: 2 little bits
Massive Bugs: 0

I can handle these counts…let’s keep hoping they stay this good.

(buenas tardes to everyone...i have an internet cafe in my town, so these will be coming once a week or so. much love!)

ojala

well. i'm here. :)

nica hugs you the minute you get off the plane. the hot air just engulfs you and spanish winds its way into your ears. palm trees and gorgeous flora line the open air walkways between rooms. and the people. i can't explain the comraderie you feel in peace corps...the staff, from the country director to the admin officers make you feel like you could talk to them about anything....this being a very valuable trait considering these will be the people i call when i find myself in a jam. the trainees and i have been enjoying great food and posh rooms and a pool. the surroundings make for a good place to unwind and get to know each other better after the long day of training.

having current volunteers here has also helped immensely...there is something about looking at someone who has done it for a year or two years that quiets all those irrational fears. it's been a great beginning to what i hope to be an amazing viaje.

tomorrow we have 3 hours of language training to further determine our levels and place us in our training town groups. Then its off to tour managua [supposing the transportation strike is over...] and saturday we meet our host families. I am so stoked! more later when i get internet again....let me know how you are!!

predetermined

my mother just brought me this jaggedy, blue bic pen drawing of a orange laden tree in a grassy field. on it, it says "I'd be a Floride orange tree, so I would always be warm and I'd give people vitamin C." on the back, Sarah, age 12, Dec 96.

well. i'm not an orange tree, but i am going somewhere warm to help people. quite the appropriate gift for my last day in the states...when doubts begin to surface and fear begins to rise.

i am ready for this.