Rain, rain, go away....

Rainy season has arrived in full force in Nicaragua. The six month-long season began in May and has been making my life pretty miserable. The rain has been falling so intensely that I feel like Nicaragua is being water-boarded. This year’s hurricane season is supposed to be unusually active and a few tropical storms have already been in the area. Today we’re enjoying a rare break of hot sun and the air is thick with humidity. My backyard is saturated with water – every step brings a squish or a splash of mud up onto my ankles. Rain fell for about ten days straight when Hurricane Agatha was hitting nearby in Guatemala and Honduras. School was cancelled, people didn’t go to work, and the electricity went off and on all day long. A sink hole was even created in the middle of Guatemala City (see photo below):

During the ten days of downpour, people huddled in their homes and ran from building to building, cowering under umbrellas. Children were still sent out to buy tortillas and cheese at the nearest store, and they scampered through the puddles wearing slippery flip-flops. The ground, like an over-saturated sponge, stopped soaking up the water after a couple days and soon the water just skidded off the surface. The problem in Nicaragua is that there is nowhere for the runoff to go. Streets flood with thick, muddy water; the rudimentary “ditch” system (aka the water runs out wherever you dig a ditch in the mud in front of your house) is unable to handle the volume. Rivers swell and overflow, taking boulders, branches and roots with them – carrying them meters downriver. (below: an overflowing river and a flooded well).

My house (which my landlady advised me has the tendency to flood during hard rains) did not flood too much, mainly due to my excellent ditch-digging abilities, if I do say so myself. Before the rains came I put on my thick, black rain boots and devoted an afternoon to digging out the water’s runoff path so it could run more freely, carting buckets full of mud down the street to dump in an empty lot. Needless to say it was a hard day and made me wish my Dad was around to help me. There are quite a few things that I periodically have to do around my house: kill spiders, replace light bulbs, cut tree branches, re-hammer nails, etc. that I wish I had a “man” around to help me with. I usually suck it up, or go to my neighbors and put on the dumb-blonde act, hoping Don Silvio will come rescue me from manual labor.

After those ten days of intense rain, the first day of sun felt like a breath of fresh air. Windows were opened, days’ worth of laundry was hung up, and people finally ventured out of their houses to assess the damage. Some newly paved roads to villages had been overtaken by overflowing rivers and covered in mud and rocks. Newly planted bean and corn plants had been drowned or washed away – the complete opposite of what happened last year when we faced a drought. Some adobe homes had collapsed, or been filled with mud. I saw wells that had been covered in mud, and people were struggling to dig them out. The national news reported that several people had perished in the rains: they had been washed away in rivers or their homes had collapsed on them.

Another Peace Corps volunteer whose community is nearby mine recently had trouble getting back to her town by bus. The rains had swelled a large river they had to cross, creating strong rapids that stormed over the cement blocks that normally served as a bridge. Ten buses and a couple hundred people were stranded on either side of the river waiting for it to go down. My friend weighed the decision whether or not she would cross –she had never seen water that high and was genuinely scared. When a bus finally did make the first attempt, the water went up to the windows. It was a miracle it didn’t get swept sideways, but she decided against crossing and came back to my site to stay the night and wait it out. A good decision, I would say (below see a photo of the river and the "bridge" with buses waiting to cross, and a video of the first bus crossing).

Although I grew up in a temperate rainforest in Southeast Alaska, this rain is different. There is no escape: no warm, watertight house to run into, no gutter system, no ocean for the rain to wash away in. My town is in a valley and I feel like the rain is slowly filling it up, day by day. Well, July marks the half-way point in the rainy season. Hopefully we’re over the worst. In the meantime, I go everywhere with my trusty umbrella.

Jillian ¨loses it¨

Recently while I was sick with a bacterial infection and Peace Corps was putting me up in a hotel in Managua (aka: an air-conditioned oasis with wireless internet, hot showers and cable TV), I watched an episode of a program called “Losing it with Jillian.” Jillian Michaels, a personal trainer who got her start on the popular show, “The Biggest Loser,” is now starring in her own show, trying to change America’s bad diet and exercise habits one person at a time. Her no-fooling -around and drill sergeant style has gained her quite a reputation, and in the episode that I watched, she was on a Yavapai-Apache Indian reservation trying to mobilize the “nation” to fight diabetes.

It’s no secret that type II diabetes is a large problem among the Alaska Native and Indian population of the U.S., and Jillian seemed motivated to single-handedly eradicate it. She had started working with a handful of obese Indian women; doing daily workouts and helping them change their diet. The camera panned across a hot desert spotted with cacti, then you saw these large women come into view, trotting obediently alongside Jillian. Their faces strained in effort as they lifted heavy weights to do squats. Jillian’s strong voice barked at them, “no giving up!”
Jillian and the women organized a town hall meeting to discuss diabetes with a guest doctor who specialized in the disease. They walked house to house handing out flyers the day of the event inviting the whole reservation. When the meeting time came however, only a handful of participants were in the seats. “I just don’t know what to do to get these people to listen!” she complained.

The next day, Jillian was walking with one Indian woman who was her main “change agent,” and began to break down about how difficult her challenge seemed to be. Jillian’s goal was to first change this one woman, and then try to change the Indian nation. The Indian woman had a four year old son who was already obese. “Why are people so apathetic?!” Jillian implored, “I mean, do you even want to change?!” The Indian woman walked submissively by her side with her eyes downcast. “You’re feeding your child JUNK!” Jillian continued, “It isn’t even food! What is so hard about saying no?? Is it hard to say no to heart disease, to diabetes, to cholesterol, to a doughnut? To what?!” In Jillian’s mind, these people were voluntarily killing themselves through their lifestyles and it was like she was flashing a big red stop sign in front of them, but they were just ignoring it.

An “Aha!” moment came when the Indian woman finally spoke up. She was in tears. “I don’t know how to change!” she began. “No one every taught me. This is all I know. You need to help me, teach me. It’s hard!” Jillian finally softened her tough demeanor and resolved to help the woman and to try and help the community. They continued on their walk.

Watching this episode, the other Peace Corps volunteers sharing my hotel room and I were dumbstruck. Observing Jillian trying to effect change in this Indian reservation was so similar to our experience here in Nicaragua working in community health behavior change. We arrive with excellent tools and resources and so many ideas and aspirations; we are going to actually DO something here! We are going to change lives for the better! Then reality hits. Behavior change is hard. People may not show up to meetings, they may tell you they want to change, but they may continue their old habits. One thing is the knowledge that a behavior is wrong, but another is helping to motivate actual action to change that behavior. Watching Jillian was like watching a poor, misguided, greenhorn Peace Corps volunteer. “With an attitude like that, you won’t last long here!” my friends and I laughed as we watched Jillian fret and complain. It was also hard to see the Indian woman break down emotionally – she did have a strong desire to be healthier and change her habits, but when you’ve grown up learning certain behaviors your whole life, that change will not occur overnight or be easy.

Condom use, diet change, exercise, hand washing, cleaning habits, and common myths about diseases are just a few examples of the types of behaviors that we seek to change here in Nicaragua. The aerobics class I teach in my community was packed for the first few weeks, but then as time wore on and women saw that it was actually difficult to do exercise and lose weight, attendance tapered off. I can teach one hundred women how to cook with soy meat, but the real test comes when they’re at the corner store deciding what to make for lunch that day. After a hand-washing class, students might wash their hands regularly for a few days, but then they forget if those habits are not reinforced by their families.

At times, I also get frustrated with the slow-moving change here (but, nowhere near Jillian-level freak-outs at my community members). When you really want to make a difference, you can feel useless when you don’t see immediate results. I guess that’s why Peace Corps is two years, not two weeks.

Copa Mundial

Well, looks like Nicaragua, like all of Latin America is caught up in World Cup madness – or Copa Mundial as they say here. I guess I’m a typical American – I did play soccer in elementary school, but don’t know much about the sport currently. While studying in Spain I had my first introduction to soccer and its large fan base – I remember walking home from classes in the evening and seeing old Spanish men in stylish hats smoking cigarettes and drinking vino as they watched Real Madrid or FC Barcelona play, cheers erupting from bars all over the city when goals were scored.

My site-mate Kristen is quite a soccer fan and she’s been filling me in on the basics and on the likelihood of each team’s success. Through her I learned what the little yellow flags mean, what the hottest players names are, and all about the French team’s dramatic meltdown.

Since the Copa has begun, Nicaraguans have temporarily forgotten their loyalty to baseball (it’s more popular here than soccer), and during important games, almost everyone can be found glued to their (or their neighbor’s) television or radio. Little boys have put down their bats and baseball mitts and instead can be seen kicking around worn balls on the dirt streets. Coca-Cola and various other businesses have posters featuring professional soccer players up at every corner store. On the radio, the FIFA theme songs that feature Spanish singers have been playing almost hourly, and I hear young children and adults humming the tunes mindlessly as they ride their bikes and wash laundry. Everyone has the Copa on their mind. Is it like this in the U.S.? Below a photo of Nicaraguans watching a game at a Managuan bus station. Honduras, the only Central American country to make the FIFA World Cup had the support of almost every Nicaraguan. In the finals, everyone was rooting for Uruguay (“they’re representing Latin America!”). Tomorrow’s final game between Holland and Spain however will be more controversial. I was listening to the radio today and heard the commentator say, “Now, I hear that some people are being very rude to Spain and don’t want to cheer for them tomorrow. Some people still carry a grudge against the conquistadors, but look at it this way: if they had never come over here, well then, you and I wouldn’t be here, right?” So, it seems support will be divided in tomorrow’s game. I however will be rooting for España!
Some other noteworthy things:

-I had my third intestinal bacterial infection last week. (I also read in the paper that Bolivian President Evo Morales did as well), however I did not have to be hospitalized like he did. I did feel like I was going to die and had a fever, horrible stomach cramps, diarrhea and nausea. Thank God for Cipro – as soon as I started taking antibiotics I improved greatly. I always have to watch what I eat, especially things that contain unpurified water or milk products.

-My parents and sister arrive in Nicaragua on August 3rd for a two week visit! These will be my first official visitors and I am very excited to show them my town, my house, and the highlights of Nicaragua. I’ll be writing blog updates on our travels - wish us luck!

-I got to go to the U.S. Embassy 4th of July party that was held on Embassy grounds. It was amazing! The U.S. Embassy is really like a little piece of America here: there are toilets you can actually flush the toilet paper down, a pool and a baseball field! I’ve also heard rumors that some deer were imported from the U.S. and roam the Embassy grounds… just for kicks. Eleven other Peace Corps volunteers and I got to enjoy the great BBQ, live music and fireworks! Below is a photo of the Ambassador Robert Callahan and me (note my great headwear and his cigar, dangerously close to my face :)

Abortion

Some background information on abortion in Nicaragua from a recent article I read:
“Amnesty International has accused the Nicaraguan government of "chilling indifference" to the rights of women and girls in its refusal to allow any exceptions to its blanket ban on abortion.
The Nicaraguan law means that even under-age girls who are raped or who are the victims of incest are forced to bear any child they may conceive or risk their life or imprisonment by seeking an illegal abortion. A United Nations human rights working group recommended Nicaragua should change the law, but the country has refused. The total ban was introduced in 2006. Nicaragua is one of four countries that forbid all abortion - the others are El Salvador, Chile and Malta.”

Nicaragua, like most Latin American countries, is mainly Catholic, so views on abortion and condom use follow traditional religious beliefs. Once I saw a mural on a church which depicted Jesus holding a bloody fetus with the words “Abortion is murder.” During my time here, I have had intimate contact with two women who found themselves pregnant within this culture which denies abortion, yet at the same time does not promote family planning.

During Peace Corps training, my 33 year-old host sister “Maria” found out she was pregnant. She already was the single mother of a four year old daughter, and the father of her coming baby was her current “hidden boyfriend.” Hiding a relationship is common here, where official permission from parents is not given easily. Young lovers will meet up in the streets at night, having sex in alleyways, cemeteries and underneath soccer stadium bleachers – anywhere semi-private. Maria was so worried about her mother finding out, I had to buy the pregnancy test for her at the pharmacy and for a few weeks was her only confidant. This pregnancy was unplanned – she earned just U$75/month as a preschool teacher and her boyfriend was unemployed. There was barely enough space in my host family’s current home to fit the current members, and adding another mouth to feed would stretch their very limited resources. I’m not sure if abortion was legal in Nicaragua, she would have gone through with it. We never talked about it, but I could see the panic in her eyes when she told me her test came back positive. “My mother will kill me! She’ll throw me out on the street again, just like before when I was pregnant with my first daughter.” (Yes, these are words coming out of a 33-year-old’s mouth). She says she never used condoms because she had pena (shame) to buy them at the pharmacy, and her boyfriend didn’t like to use them. I tried to support her emotionally and she eventually told the family and secretly marrying her boyfriend after I moved out of their home to my new community. The baby was born last October, and despite her initial anger, Maria’s mother has accepted the new little boy with open arms. They are scraping by, selling chicken and horse feed from their home, and my host sister has still not moved out of her mother’s house.

In my current community, another close friend, 23 year-old “Lucia” came to me in panic asking if Peace Corps had any information on abortions. I was taken aback – due to Nicaraguan laws, abortion was normally a taboo subject, and I knew Lucia came from a “good Catholic family.” When I explained to her that Peace Corps can’t give her any information and that while yes, abortion is legal in the U.S., there’s nothing she can do here in Nicaragua. Lucia and I had previously had long conversations about family planning and condoms, when she came to me in shame asking about abortions, I could see how difficult it was for her. Peace Corps warns us about this: after educating so many youth and young people on the necessity of condom use and birth control, there will still always be a few who don’t follow through and either end up pregnant or with an STD. Behavior change is a complicated phenomenon and there are many factors that can inhibit the implementation of new behaviors – in the case of family planning, culture, religion and Latin machismo being some of them. Lucia explained that she hadn’t used a condom with her boyfriend (also a “secret” relationship) since they had so much “trust” with each other, she didn’t see the need. Once again, I was Lucia’s only confidant and she was terrified to tell her family and lose her reputation.

Weeks later, Lucia came to me saying that she had investigated getting an illegal abortion at a gynecologist in a nearby city. The cost was U$300 – an unthinkable amount for her or her boyfriend to pay. She was torn emotionally and finally told her mother about the pregnancy in order to obtain money from her to carry out the abortion. I was surprised when she told me this since I knew her family was Catholic. Apparently, religious values took second place when a crisis of this nature falls upon this family.

Even after she had the money, Lucia vacillated on whether or not to carry out the abortion. I didn’t know what to say to her, and simply served as a listening board. She was well along in her pregnancy (in the second trimester I think) when she finally decided to go through with the illegal abortion. It sounded like a horrible procedure – Lucia had to take medicine to induce labor and had to “give birth.” It was a day-long affair and she returned looking weak, pale and with a vacant stare. She refused to talk about it. She started to lie in bed all day long, never having enough energy to talk or go out of the house.

When I first moved to my community, I was taken aback by Lucia’s vibrant personality and her passion for life. She studied in the university in Managua, traveling back and forth bi-weekly. She was uniquely independent for a Nicaraguan woman, didn’t like to tie herself down with a “serious boyfriend,” and liked to travel around the country meeting new people. I felt like she was the one Nicaraguan woman that I could relate to; we would sit and chat about traveling, dancing, and politics. She had a mind that was thirsty to learn about the world. After her illegal abortion however, she slipped into a deep depression. She was weak and listless and ended up dropping out of the university, of which she was in her last year. A few weeks after the abortion, she suffered a hemorrhage which made her even weaker. I was worried about her health and her refusal to talk about what had happened to her. It was the elephant in the room; everyone knew what had happened in her family and I did as well, but we never discussed it.

When I moved to my new house, I stopped having much contact with Lucia and we didn’t see each other much. Last week however, I heard a rumor that she was pregnant again. I went to investigate and saw a noticeable bump under her shirt. She was seven months along. She got pregnant in the same year she had the abortion and this time was keeping the baby. The father was the same boyfriend. I didn’t go into details with her; she was visibly ashamed to break the news to me of her new pregnancy. She knew that I worked every day to promote contraceptives and here she was - one of my close friends, pregnant right after an abortion.

I’m not sure why she decided to keep this baby. Maybe she didn’t have enough money for another abortion. Maybe she couldn’t emotionally go through with another. She is due in a few weeks. She has no job and her boyfriend does seasonal work on a delivery truck. She says that he wants her to move in with his family in their house nearby. I struggle to talk to Lucia these days. Whenever I look at her, all I see are lost opportunities. I see the exuberant girl that I met in my first days in my community, the girl who knowledgably told me everything about Nicaraguan idioms and her university life. The girl who seemed so sophisticated – she didn’t belong in this small town, I had thought. Now, Lucia will end up just like her mother and her older sister – a young mother with no education to support her children on her own. She will rely on her family or her boyfriend’s family since he is deciding to “recognize” the child as his own, as they say here in Nicaragua.

I am not pro-abortion, but I do favor a woman’s right to choose. The fact that Nicaragua makes all abortion illegal is a roadblock to this country’s development. When girls and women cannot make their own decision about whether to give birth after an unplanned pregnancy, or even rape or incest (both common here) – they often fall deeper into the cycle of poverty. Their children grow up in single-parent homes and struggle through life. Women may sell their bodies or take their young children out of school to work instead. As I learned through Lucia, even though abortions are officially illegal, women will always find a way to get them done, and an illegal procedure often means a dangerous one. While Lucia’s hemorrhage didn’t prove serious, other women might not be so lucky. While the Catholic Church opposes abortion on the premise that all life is sacred, I believe that God wants children to come into loving homes that plan for them, and if family planning can facilitate that, then the church should be supporting rather than banning condoms.

I hope the Nicaraguan government will stop wishful thinking and realize that allowing legal early-term abortions is a step towards guaranteeing the human rights and preventing poverty that the subjugated female population of this country so desperately need.

Illegal Immigration

There’s a new fancy house being built on the next block, someone is adding a few bedrooms onto their existing home, my neighbors have bought a new pick-up truck, a new restaurant is being constructed, and my friend Alba just started classes this year at a nearby private university. What do all of these events have in common? They are all being funded by remittances: money sent back to Nicaragua by relatives living abroad, mainly in the United States, Spain and Costa Rica.

This money is a type of “unofficial development assistance,” that the U.S. inadvertently gives to hundreds of countries around the world. According to a book I’m currently reading, Forgotten Continent: The battle for Latin America’s soul by Michael Reid, more than 25 million Latin Americans are thought to live outside their own country. “People have become an important export for some Latin American countries: remittances totaled some $62 billion in 2006…This figure exceeded the combined flows of foreign direct investment and official development aid to the region.” I’ve observed that most Nicaraguan families who are well off, own businesses, have nice homes, or own vehicles, have a family member sending them money from a developed country.

Above: a typical Nicaraguan home in the country.
Below: a home being constructed by a family with remittances from the U.S. Notice a difference??

Husbands and brothers usually make the journey abroad to work for a few years; leaving wives, girlfriends and/or children behind while they go mojado (illegally) - (literally, mojado means “wet.” The saying come from the idea that when clandestinely crossing a border made by a river or other body of water, you would get wet). They work in whatever they can; cleaning boats in Louisiana, milking cows in Michigan, childcare in Florida, waiting tables in California, cleaning office buildings in New York… I hear the stories of these illegal immigrants from their family members as I talk with my neighbors. It seems surprisingly easy to get into the States illegally, and once there, they will work in anything for very little money. Going legally is often out of the question; the time consuming, confusing and competitive American visa application process deters many Nicaraguans who barely have enough money for the bus ride to Managua to visit the U.S. Embassy.

Most people go abroad for 2-5 years without any visits home. In my community, I see children growing up without fathers or mothers, only recognizing the face on the web camera when they video chat with their parent at the internet café once a month. The wives men leave behind usually remain faithful; overseeing construction of the new house they will share when their husband returns, and taking care of the children. These men, on the other hand, usually find girlfriends abroad and when they return, may bring back an STD or HIV/AIDS – if they return at all. During their stay in the States, they rarely learn English, choosing not to enroll in classes or socialize with Americans to avoid risk of deportation. They live in constant fear of being caught and their lives consist of little more than work and sleep. While it may be surprisingly easy for them to get to the States, once there, the policies are not in place to help integrate them in to American society: teach them English, give them temporary work Visas (most only want to work for a few years to build up money to build a house and then go back to their native land), and make them taxpayers or even American citizens.

While the Nicaraguan leftist President Daniel Ortega warns against the ills of capitalism and the United States’ evil ways (most recently criticizing Arizona’s infamous immigration reform and the BP oil leak), paradoxically, thousands of Nicaragua’s residents flee their native land in search of economic prosperity in capitalistic, democratic countries. Even loyal socialist Sandinistas will gladly accept money sent from relatives in the States.

Growing up in Alaska, I saw little of the volatile immigration debate that is currently gripping the U.S. Immigrants in my community mainly came from the Philippines and were there legally. I can’t imagine how some illegal immigrants must live and the prejudice they must put up with in order to give their family a better chance. The money they send back funds university educations, better homes, and food for their families. I live comfortably in this country for about U$250/month, so it doesn’t take much. Many Americans are willing to donate money to non-profit and relief organizations to aid developing countries, but when that “aid” comes from illegal workers in the U.S., the attitude suddenly changes. It seems like an odd situation: we can either give a developing country money with no real payment in return through “official development assistance,” or we can give people from these countries temporary work visas and at least get something out of our economic exchange – their work.

Everyone wants to ignore the fact that immigration exists: that the leftist government of Nicaragua is still highly critical of capitalism, and the U.S. refuses to reform immigration and acknowledge the existence of these illegal immigrants, many of whom fill important roles in our economy, all without paying taxes.

I know I’m not an expert in immigration policy, I only know what I see on a daily basis and what I read in the headlines while I’m at the internet café. I hope that future U.S. immigration reform, if it comes to pass, will take into account the opinions of both American citizens as well as legal and illegal immigrants. Here in Nicaragua, I see the families on the other side of many of those illegal immigrants – the human side of those dark-skinned men and women you see doing yard work, cleaning homes and washing dishes. They have families to care for just like everyone in the U.S., and they are searching for the American dream just like our ancestors did.

Clase de Cocina

When I heard there was a free cooking class being offered Sunday mornings at a local restaurant, I didn’t hesitate to sign up. My site-mate Kristen and I showed up the following week, and along with 12 other generously proportioned Nicaraguan women, we began to learn some basics. The class is very informal and we’re loosely following a booklet that the teacher used when she took the class at the nearby university. There is a focus more on foods that you can prepare to sell: jams, pickled foods, candied fruits, sauces, etc. We have made mango and guava jam, pickled chili onions, candied orange peel, tomato sauce, vegetable juice, and sangria! (I got pretty excited about that last one, but it turns out they make it more with red soda pop rather than wine…hm…)

It’s been a nice group to be a part of. The ladies have lots to share, and since I’m a chef-in-training, I’m soaking it all up. Although we’re not making real “food,” I’m looking forward to using these recipes in the future (can’t wait until my mango tree ripens and I can make my own jam!) The ladies are also interested in learning some things from me. I’m going to show them how to cook with soy and also how to make peanut butter. Today in class, the women started talking about how happy they were that they signed up, how much they’ve learned, etc. One of them went off rambling about how, “Some people say they hate the kitchen! There are so many women out there that just don’t like to cook, but they need to learn! What a barbarity!” (In Nicaragua, everything is a ¨barbarity¨) I ducked down a little bit when she started saying that since I am a self-proclaimed “non-cook.” Being around all these cooking queens can make me a little nervous sometimes, but they are always eager to help and teach me.
The best part about the class is the matching aprons, hair covers and MASKS that they all have! Yes, masks… It looks like I’m hanging out with a bunch of middle-aged, portly gangsters. See photo below, oh so cute. It’s even better that the apron color is magenta.

They also thought it was hilarious that I was cleaning up after our messes. “Oh, your mother would be so surprised to see you cleaning!” they giggled. Hah! Little do they know that’s all I DO at home! They insisted on taking a picture of me mopping to prove to the folks back home that I was working down here in Nicaragua. Notice the stylish apron and head scarf they let me borrow.

Trash talk

In a developing country with a struggling economy, people are always looking for ways to make a buck. One of the most common ways a family will make a few cordobas to buy their daily beans and rice is by selling street food. You can find middle-aged, portly women selling snacks and beverages on every street corner, on buses, at businesses, and walking around town with carts or with the food stacked on their heads, calling out in a sad singsong voice “Rosquiiiiillllaaass!” or “Tamaaaallleesss!” (Two typical foods made from corn).

They sell soda, water, fruit juices, coffee, fried chicken with tortilla, tacos, enchiladas, corn on the cob, candies, marshmallows, cornbread crackers, fruit, potato chips… Most of these foods are served in plastic baggies, including the drinks. You might ask, as I did when I first arrived here, why all the plastic baggies? I recently read a book (“Blood of Brothers” by Stephen Kinzer) which chronicles the civil war in Nicaragua in the 1980s, and during the early years of leftist Sandinista rule, when they were trying to implement socialism. During this time, imports were severely limited. People had to make do with what they had and whatever was cheap and/or local. Plastic bags fit the bill, and Plastinic, a Nicaraguan plastics company served the population, turning out plastic tables and chairs, dishes, buckets, and baggies. You will not find any Nicaraguan home without plastic lawn chairs being used as living room furniture. As for plastic baggies, they were one of the only things available to hold food when disposable plates and other containers were cut off. The habit still continues today despite the availability of other packaging methods. Drinking out of a plastic bag is an acquired skill. You have to bite a hole in the corner of the bag and suck out the contents. If you´re in a ¨fancy¨ place, they just might give you a straw, too! It actually proves to be quite a successful technique and is useful for “on the go” traveling. Food is also served in plastic baggies – everything from chicken and tortilla to potato chips or mango. Plastic is also the material of choice to start a fire on the firewood stove. Yes, I realize those fumes are horribly toxic, Nicaraguans insist that it just burns better than wood! I try and leave the kitchen when they start torching the plastic bottles and bags...

Another downside to all the plastic: thousands of empty plastic baggies litter the streets of every Nicaraguan town, since Nicaraguans are not only notorious street food eaters, they are also litterers. If you were to ask most people if it was “right” to toss their empty water bottle out the window of the bus, they would reply “no,” but that doesn’t stop them from doing it every day. Peace Corps environment volunteers are working every day on behavior change in this area, educating young children in schools and promoting the “I don’t throw trash” campaign with bumper stickers and t-shirts. As Peace Corps volunteers, we lead by example, throwing away our own trash and encouraging others to do so, and often work with youth groups to undergo local cleaning campaigns and increase awareness. Although, when I return to the States, I think I´ll take back the habit of storing food and drinks in plastic baggies – very convenient.

On a similar note, I snapped this photo the other day because it made me laugh. Spanish people frequently confuse "b" and "v" when they are writing since phonetically they sound the same. Someone wrote a handmade sign and they wanted to write, "Littering prohibited" ("Prohibido botar basura"), but instead they wrote, "Prohibido votar basura." Translation: Prohibited to vote for trash. Haha... Although they messed up, the double meaning is great. And something that Nicaraguans should keep in mind for the upcoming elections in November 2011...

The Great Vaccination Campaign Take II

Since I have officially passed the half-way point of my two years of Peace Corps service, I am now beginning to get into familiar rhythms of yearly events. This April marks the annual national vaccination campaign. You might remember my blog entry about this event last year, one of my first blogs in-site. This year, I’m participating for the second and also last time. This year I bring a different perspective and although it’s the same villages, many of the same kids, and the same nurses, I now feel a greater sense of belonging and understanding in my community.

If you didn’t read my blog last year, here’s the gist of the campaign: country-wide, all the health centers send out teams of nurses and doctors to each surrounding village for two weeks straight to vaccinate all young children against polio, DPT, DT, MMR, etc. They also administer Vitamin A and anti-parasite medicine. It’s a well-organized event that most nurses carry out with efficiency and experience that I found astounding last year. How can they remember all these kids’ names? How do they not get lost trekking around the mountains looking for that lone house with the unvaccinated child? How do they know just how to grab a screaming and kicking child to make him sit still for the shot?

An unsuspecting child waiting his turn.

This year, I’ve been taking a more active part in the campaign and as a consequence have been spit on, bitten, cried on, hugged, ran away from, and stared at by hundreds of kids as I administer anti-polio drops, Vitamin A and anti-parasite medicine. (The nurses tried to convince me that they should teach me how to inject –“It’s so easy, really!” – but I politely declined). A child who doesn´t want to take his anti-parasite pill.

When we go to a village, we set-up our vaccination central “camp” at the house of the local health volunteer. The conditions vary extremely; some of the volunteer’s houses are immaculate and you can tell the family is “well-off” (relatively speaking): they own chickens, ducks, pigs, a dog, have lots of fruit trees, multiple bedrooms in the house, and maybe even running water and electricity, or at least their very own well. Others get by with the bare minimum. They give us a few battered plastic lawn chairs held together with twine and we position ourselves under a scrawny tree nearby for shade from the hot sun. We set-up the China-donated cooler to hold the European Union-donated vaccines, organize the Canadian-donated syringes, and get out the American-donated Vitamin A drops. Thank you international community. Ready to go. Our first victims start to arrive in the arms of their mothers. Some come willingly; others have tear-stained faces which attest to the battle of wills that must have taken place at their home minutes before, ending in the child being forcefully dragged or carried to be vaccinated. “It’s just drops in your mouth!” we call encouragingly to those who seem hesitant – for most, it is (see photo below).For some unlucky ones though, they have to face THE NEEDLE. In this case, everyone present gasps in excitement and anticipation, craning their necks to get a good view. Much attention and care is taken to commenting on whether the child looks scared, whether he or she will cry, or how big the needle is compared to previous needles that those present have had plunged into their skin. The needle goes in; the child’s cry goes off like an alarm. All the mother’s present proceed to coo and stroke the child, the children in their arms with eyes as wide as saucers. The poor victim, scarred for life, sobs and glares at the nurse, its torturer.

More kids arrive – mother’s holding babies shuffle in and out of plastic chairs. The yard is full of babies and mothers, and chickens – some women breastfeeding absentmindedly, others shifting uncomfortably trying to hide behind their child, wanting to avoid a possible tetanus shot we may give them. Some women are still dripping water from their hair from their recent bucket shower. A few have had their toenails recently painted and their babies are wearing Sunday dresses. Other mothers are in worn corn and bean-stained clothes with tired looks on their faces; they have laundry waiting at home and lunch to cook. How long is this going to take anyway? No one complains though – the socialized medicine system here may be frustrating, slow, and inefficient, but these people have grown to expect these services and they will wait any amount of time to receive what little they can.

One nurse devotes herself to tabulating all the numbers. She looks up names of children in a large battered notebook from the health center records, writing in pencil the date of the vaccine. Each family here also keeps their own vaccine records – at birth the baby is given a vaccination card onto which all dates and appointments are written. Depending on the care that card receives by its owner, on vaccine day, we are handed some that are illegible, stained, ripped, and often lost. You can tell a woman is a new mother when you see a bright, white and clean vaccination card that she stores in a plastic bag. Squinting as we try and make out the writing on the older cards, “Does that say 1996 or 2006?” “Was this child born in 2005 or 2006?” (That one is often met with a blank stare by the mother with a ‘how should I know?’ look). Many children move around frequently due to their family’s migrant lifestyle – perhaps the mother lives in the U.S. and sends money back. One year the baby will be living in Managua with an aunt, the next year moving to Estelí to stay with their grandmother, and maybe, years down the road they’ll move in with an uncle in Jalapa and grow up knowing him as their father.

The day continues. We calculate ages, months since the last booster shot of dpt, tetanus, mmr… Pens and pencils are stuck into ponytails just as quickly to be grabbed out again, brows furrowed, erasers move erratically back and forth over the paper, shavings blown away. Cell phone calculators are whipped out to avoid confusion on birthdays. It is customary here to state your age in an approximate value, rounding up or down. Many women tell us they are 20, when after looking at the records it turns out they are 23 (it surprises them as much as us). Calculating exact ages is not too important here and something that people are not used to. I once spent three minutes trying to convince the nurse doing record keeping that no, a boy born in December 2008 was not yet two years old. She had trouble understanding that although we were in 2010, December had not yet passed.

I was often in charge of taking care of the MEF (mujeres de edad fertile) – women of child-bearing age. This means I had to look up every mother’s name who came to the vaccine post and see if she was up to date with her tetanus shots, and record new women who weren’t already on file. This was particularly difficult for me since it meant I had to spell a lot of Nicaraguan names, which are not your typical traditional Spanish names like Maria or Esperanza. It got quite frustrating. How do you say that name again? Spell it for me? What was that again? “It’s Hairy… H, A, I, R, Y,” one answered me (pronounced “Hi-ree” in Spanish). “What?!” I replied, “Are you sure??” Good thing she doesn’t speak English. Poor thing, hopefully she never moves to the states; she’d never hear the end of it. Here are just a couple of the odd names I’ve encountered down here – a mix of English and Spanish, European and make-believe: Milady (My Lady), Lubby, Mayerling, Maycol (when pronounced phonetically in Spanish sounds like Michael), Duglass (pronounced like “Dooglas” – a Spanish version of Douglas), Yelsin, Sindi, Harol, Daysi, Yessel, Jeniffer (yes, two F’s), Furry, Moni (pronounced like “money” in English), and Visitación (means “visitation” in Spanish)… Oh well, I guess I shouldn’t poke fun, my name is arguable just as funny.

On a few days, we finished vaccinating earlier than expected, and the nurses got anxious to go out and explore a bit before we went back to town. “Don’t we have to get back?” I asked, wondering if the health center director would appreciate us joyriding around in the health center vehicle conducting unofficial business. “Oh, we have all afternoon!” they’d insist, “Come on, let’s check out this coffee cooperative nearby, I’ve always wanted to go.” Okay – you’re the boss… Upon entering the large co-op, we are treated to a grand tour of the facility (one of the largest in the country). It is coffee processing season here, so we see the women sitting outside under a wooden tent structure “picking” the coffee beans, and sinewy men hauling 50 lb. sacks of finished coffee beans into large trucks, from which they will be transported to markets in China, Russia, the U.S., and Europe. We are treated to coffee samples and free promotional calendars featuring a half-naked Nica girl lounging on motorcycles (what that have to do with coffee, I’m not sure). An hour after we had entered, the nurses and I left the cooperative happy and caffeinated, each with a couple pounds of coffee under our arms. But the nurses weren´t done exploring yet! We then proceeded to visit an isolated rural vineyard and enjoyed a tour of the farm by the old man who owned it. When he saw our vehicle pull up to his cement home, we saw him jump into a shirt and some boots and rapidly dry-shave his stubble using the rearview mirror of his broken-down motorcycle in order to be presentable. I’m sure not too many people from “outside” come to buy grapes there, much less a bunch of nurses with a blonde gringa. He treated us all the grapes we could fit into our bellies. All together, we left with about 50 pounds of green, purple and black juicy grapes, at $0.75/lb. Sadly, he had no wine on hand, but promised that if we came back, he’d have a few liters set aside for us. Nice outings to finish hectic days. I guess there’s always time for coffee and grapes…

Above: nurses enjoying the grapes. Notice the sexy coffee calendar in one nurse´s hand.

This year, I feel more comfortable in these rural villages. The extreme poverty that used to scare me: children as skinny as broomsticks with faces and bodies so dirty you can’t tell their skin color, clothes so worn that they take on a transparent quality, and villages and homes so isolated I begin to doubt if they’ve ever even heard of the internet. Despite the poverty, they are often happy and generous with what little they have. I will gladly accept the mango juice they offer me, even though I know they have so little and it will probably give me parasites. I will be thankful for the dirty, roach-filled latrine that they let me use – it’s better than none at all. I will enjoy the shade of this sparse mango tree, even though I’d much prefer an electric fan. I’ve learned to be thankful for the little things, and to take time to smell the coffee roasting.

(Below: my neighbor´s baby and I. I held the poor thing down while they gave him a shot in his leg).

San Juan River

Although I didn’t fall in love immediately with Nicaragua, it was love at first sight with the San Juan River.

For my Holy Week vacation (the week before Easter is a national holiday here), six other Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs) and I headed down to that rugged, little known and slightly wild place known as Río San Juan (San Juan River) in the south of Nicaragua. The river starts at the enormous Lake Nicaragua (Largest Lake in Central America) and snakes along to the Atlantic coast, forming the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. It is one of the most isolated areas in the country and therefore, one of the most intriguing. The river was used by Aztec traders beginning in the 1200s and has since been the battleground for Spanish conquerors and pirates. During my days there, I became enamored with the river, the scenery and the people – I would transfer my site down there in a minute if I could!

However, transportation there and back is a different story. To get there, we took a tortuous 15 hour ride on a small ferry that was holding about three times as many people as it should have been. (If you’re from Southeast Alaska and are familiar with that Alaska Marine Highway System, then imagine riding on something half the size of the LeConte with the passenger load of the Columbia). We camped out, spreading out sleeping bags and hanging up hammocks outside to try and sleep during the overnight ride (see photo below). We made one brief stop on Ometepe Island, the famed hourglass shaped island with two volcanoes (one of them is currently erupting!) and dropped off/picked up passengers, as well as piles of green plantains and a tangy small fruit called jocote. Like my hometown in Southeast Alaska, most foodstuffs arrive by boat to the Rio San Juan. We arrived groggy, but excited at 6 am in San Carlos, Rio San Juan – the department capital.

From there, we visited a volunteer named Jill in her amazingly quaint town down the river. It has 1,000 people and only is accessible by water (there may be a road, but apparently it’s too beat up to want to use). We enjoyed hanging out with her and seeing the “Casa Materna” – a boarding house for pregnant village women to come live at right before they give birth to reduce complications. Jill is working on a project there to start a women’s cooperative where they sell earrings and handicrafts and have tourist information. Several tourists pass through the little town on their way to start the trip down the river. Starting a little business there would benefit the women by providing extra money to help buy nutritious food. Most of the time they subsist on rice and sometimes beans.

After bidding Jill farewell, the seven of us went to a town called El Castillo (The Castle). Positioned directly on the banks of the Devil Rapids, it is named for the Spanish fortress that overlooks the town. The fort was built between 1673 and 1675 and used primarily to attack pirates, who were forced to slow their boats as they navigated the Devil Rapids. One of Nicaragua’s dearest heroes, Rafaela Herrera, led a successful attack on a British fleet from the castle in 1762, when she was just 19 – becoming a feminist legend in the country. El Castillo is beautiful and arguably the friendliest Nicaraguan town I’ve ever been in. Tourism is just beginning in this area – most of the hostels are just a year or so old and the local charm has not been lost. If I had to pick another town in which to live in Nicaragua, this would be it.

From El Castillo, the seven of us rented two kayaks and two canoes to start the big river trip to the Atlantic Coast. We were planning to do it in three days. We rented our boats from a local guide named Miguel who is AWESOME, check out his website at www.firststepecotours.com Miguel lived in the U.S. for a while, so his English is great and he is quite a character… He showed me crocodiles at night (their eyes glow red!), made me some beans and rice, and treated me to some dark Nicaraguan rum mixed with coconut water from trees in his front yard. Try it - delicious.

Due to a variety of reasons that I will refrain from going into in this blog, mostly because of space (but trust me, it´s pretty hilarious), we didn’t up doing the entire trip all the way to the Atlantic coast. We did one day of paddling and then decided to hang out on the river the rest of our vacation. I was happy to just sit and watch the water go by from our hostel in El Castillo. It was nice to be around water again. It rained every day we were there. Rio San Juan is full of life. The rain forest, lush jungle, rivers and islands are part of the Rio San Juan Biosphere Reserve that harbors macaws, toucans, hummingbirds, parrots, great blue herons, egrets, giant river shrimp (they have huge crab-like claws and can easily weigh a few pounds), turtles, crocodiles and bull shark (!) Also, lots of mosquitoes. Unlike the mosquitoes in my site that are used to me and refrain from biting, on this trip my legs and feet were covered in red bites.

At the end of our very relaxing Holy Week trip, we took an 8-hour night bus back to Managua. I took a sleeping pill and was passed out the whole way, unpaved road and all. I’m already thinking about when I can go back to the river. I can still hear the water rushing in my head…

Reflections on my Cell Phone

What would we Peace Corps Volunteers do without cell phones? Although Nicaragua is still a developing country, it has been able to make one of those infamous “technology leaps,” as it goes from having limited to no phone service immediately to cell phones, skipping the land line phone in-between. You see leaps like this with internet as well: the country has no internet whatsoever, and then the next day you see someone has a Netbook laptop and wireless connection in their house. No slow dial-up modems here! Developed countries did all the dirty work and now technology is cheaper and faster, making it accessible to the masses.

Probably nowhere is this more evident in Nicaragua than with cell phones. Just about every Nicaragua, rich or poor, young or old, has a cell phone. When phones start at about $10, they’re not too expensive, even by Nicaraguan standards. Every Nica teen can be found chateando – sending text messages back and forth to friends, in their spare time. Often you’ll see a person who looks otherwise somewhat poor (used clothing with stains and rips, the hardened look of someone who works in the field, strong calves from hauling water)… but then you notice that, Hey – isn’t that a $100 camera phone in their hand?? Nicaraguans place great importance on their cell phones.

Although cell phones have arrived in all their glory, sadly cell phone etiquette has not. Here are few informal “rules” that Nicaraguans like to follow. 1. Whenever your phone rings (and yes, you will always hear it ring because it is NEVER to be put on silent mode or turned off), you WILL answer it. No matter if you are at work, teaching a class, in a doctor’s appointment, riding a horse, driving a bus or in a meeting with the Director of Peace Corps: that call must be answered. And if possible, answer it while you are still in the room in which the meeting is taking place – just ask everyone’s pardon and try and make your conversation short, but of course don’t lower your voice. The person on the other end of the line might not hear you! 2. As mentioned before, driving while talking or texting is perfectly acceptable. One’s social life doesn’t wait! 3. It is perfectly acceptable to ask to see a friend or even a stranger’s phone and search through their text message history. You don’t have anything to hide now, do you?? 4. Whenever you are without music (out in the villages, in a car without a stereo, on a farm…) you must play the songs stored on your cell phone at full volume. Background music here is a must, no matter where you are. And you must strive to have a well-rounded music selection: ABBA, Air Supply, the BeeGee’s, bachata, salsa, meringue, reggaeton, and of course, the Titanic theme song.

One of the annoying things about the cell phone companies here (there are only two, “Claro” and “Movistar”), is that it is very expensive to have a cell phone, compared to the U.S. Here, cell phones work on a pre-paid system. You go to any corner store, restaurant, grocery store, etc. to put some dollars on your phone every week. Calls to other Nicaraguan cell phones can cost up to $0.25/minute! Sometimes there are “promotions” where you can send 500 text messages for $2 or something, but I usually end up spending quite a bit on my cell phone every month. All Nicaraguans understand this, and the constant complaint you’ll hear is, “Ay, no ando saldo!” “Dang it! I don’t have any cell phone credit!” This is often a lie; since the person is probably just being pinche (cheap) and wants you to make the call for them on your phone (you’re a gringa right? That means you have lots of money, yes?) Also, phone calls are made very short to the point of almost feeling rude. Both parties in the conversation know that time is money and only the important details are shared before the conversation is rushed to a close. Here is a sample conversation between the Head Nurse at my Health Center, Hileana and I (she is calling me):

Me: “Hello?”
Hileana: “Hello Penny – you know what? The pregnant women’s’ meeting today has to be cancelled. There’s an emergency here at the Health Center…got to go. Talk later.”
Me: “Uhh…okay? I’m out here in the middle of the village waiting for you… Are you alright? What happened??”
Hilean: “Adios Penny!”
Click.

Hm… Well, it looks like if I want to find out what happened in this story, I’ll have to call her back. Tricky little devil – she’s not going to get me to use my credit! It goes without saying that the person who is making the call has complete power over the conversation: what the topic is, how long it lasts and who does the talking. It’s their money after all!

In Peace Corps, we use cell phones as our main mode of communication to the main office, the safety and security officer, and of course to other volunteers. Since text messages are much cheaper than making an actual call, we usually communicate by texting. Some of the texts we send and receive I’m sure would be quite confusing and/or hilarious when seen by someone who is not in our inner Peace Corps Nicaragua circle. Here are some variations of texts that I have sent and received:

WAS JUST WOKEN UP BY A BAT FLYING AROUND MY HOUSE. CURRENTLY COWERING UNDER MY MOSQUITO NET. DO THEY SUCK HUMAN BLOOD??!!

JUST HAD 7th BOWEL MOVEMENT OF THE DAY. NOT NORMAL, RIGHT?

NO RUNNING WATER FOR THREE DAYS. SILVER LINING: DON’T NEED TO WEAR SUNSCREEN ANYMORE SINCE I’M FORMING A PROTECTIVE LAYER OF DIRT.

JUST SAW AN OLD WOMAN ON THE BUS WITH A USED T-SHIRT THAT SAID “I LOST MY PHONE NUMBER…CAN I HAVE YOURS??” NOT SURE IF I SHOULD TELL HER WHAT IT MEANS OR NOT.

OMG-JUST FOUND OUT THAT TIGER WOODS HAD AN AFFAIR! DID YOU KNOW THAT??
(Five minutes later….)
OH WAIT…I GUESS THAT HAPPENED LIKE 2 WEEKS AGO…

JUST GOT PUKED ON BY A BABY ON THE BUS…GREAT WAY TO START THE DAY.

I’M GOING TO BE LATE TO THE MEETING; I’M BEING HELD HOSTAGE IN MY HOUSE BY A STRAY DONKEY THAT IS BLOCKING MY DOORWAY, EATING PLANTS IN MY FRONT YARD.

WHAT’S THAT RHYME ABOUT POISONOUS SNAKES AGAIN??? IS IT RED AFTER YELLOW KILLS A FELLOW? RED AND BLACK, OKAY JACK?? TEXT BACK QUICK!

JUST SLAUGHTERED AND DEPLUMED BY FIRST CHICKEN. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TODAY??? :)

Well, that’s all for now. A new blog entry will be coming soon about my Holy Week vacation which starts tomorrow. I’m planning to canoe the San Juan River which separates Costa Rica and Nicaragua with a group of friends. It’s like Nicaragua’s mini-version of the Panama Canal. Should be beautiful!

Riding in trucks with Nicaraguans

Today I went to the nearby city of Estelí, “The Diamond” of the north of Nicaragua. It’s one of my favorite cities in Nicaragua. There are a few nice restaurants that serve some good gringo treats like wheat bread, homemade yogurt, and my personal favorite; a cucumber and celery juice drink (it’s amazing!) I was running the usual errands – going to the bank, getting my hair cut, shopping at the market, etc. when I ran into some neighbors from my site – Don Silvio and his wife Doña Yelva. They too were running errands. Their family owns a successful restaurant/pool business and they also have a fritanga where they sell fried food like tacos, enchiladas and plantain chips every night. They go to Estelí weekly and fill their pick-up truck to the brim with groceries to supply their little business. People who own vehicles in Nicaragua are rare, at least outside of Managua. There are not too many cars and trucks in my site and everyone knows who owns one. Most people who own a vehicle have a family member who works in the U.S. and sends money back, which is the case with Yelva and Silvio. They’re wonderful people to have as neighbors, always giving me free tortillas and juice. I sometimes watch telenovelas with one of the younger daughters in the evening, getting my fill of Spanish soap opera drama.
I chatted with my neighbors a bit on the street in Estelí– it was mid-morning and they were just beginning their errands, as was I. I was tickled that I actually recognize some people on the street. I’m realizing that I recognize more and more people now as I walk around town, in the classrooms when I give classes… I guess it’s a sign that I’ve been in my site almost a year. Don Silvio and his Doña Yelva offered to give me a ride back to town that afternoon in the back of their truck. I agreed wholeheartedly. Anything is better than riding in the crowded, sweaty, and slow old school buses that we use here for transportation (you may recall a previous blog about it).
At 3 pm I met up with Silvio and Yelva again. By this time their weathered but cared for pick-up was weighted down with large sacks of potatoes, tomatoes, melons, mangoes, onions, cucumbers, watermelon, papaya, pineapple, ground meat, chicken filets, paper towel, straws, paper plates, and eight 5-gallon buckets full of cooking oil. I wasn’t sure there was going to be room for me in the back of their truck with all their loot, but they managed to squeeze in a plastic chair for me to sit on. As we started down the road, I felt like I was in a county fair parade – sitting high atop all of these fruits and vegetables as we slowly passed people staring at me in the street (no matter what I do in Nicaragua, I’m stared at).
Travel in the back of pick-up trucks is very common here. I’m pretty sure that Peace Corps doesn’t allow volunteers to officially do it, but that doesn’t stop anyone. If you didn’t ride in the back of a pick-up, you simply wouldn’t get anywhere. Ironically, for my work at the Health Center here, that is our main mode of transportation. When we go on visits out to the remote villages, up to 15 nurses will cram in the back of the poor old Ministry of Health pick-up, hanging on for dear life as we jolt up and down over rocky roads and through rivers.
I’ve really grown to enjoy rides in the back of pick-ups, and it’s been a while since I’ve had “the pleasure.” As I settled in for the 45 minute ride back to town, I took a bite of the sweet mandarin orange that Doña Yelva tossed me as we took off. She’s a nice motherly type – constantly in the kitchen cooking with an apron on. She always has a smile for me and is always game to try whatever I’ve tried my hand at cooking or baking. She especially liked the banana bread I made a couple weeks ago. She and her family have built a mini food empire in our little town and make most food for meetings, luncheons and social events.
The wind is refreshing due to recent rains, which is odd since it’s the middle of the dry season. Nevertheless, everyone has been enjoying the temporary fresh feeling in the air and the lack of dust. The weather is cool, probably in the low 70s in the shade. I tied my hair up tight in a bun to avoid the agony of combing it out later after a thorough brushing by the wind, and stuck my sunglasses on to protect my eyes. Bugs were flying into my cheeks like torpedoes.
The wind was strong and carried back to me the scents of the cargo we were carrying. I caught whiffs of pineapple and mango. The cooking oil next to me started to slosh back and forth and through a leak, some oil found its way onto my shoes. Darn it. Hand washing clothes is one thing, but I hate hand-washing shoes.
As we moved farther away from the city and into the mountains, I shifted my gaze outward. In a crowded bus, you don’t have the luxury of a view, so some of the landscape looked foreign although I had passed it uncountable times before. Because of the lack of rain, the small mountains were dry and dusty. Shades of brown speckled the scenery, the monotony being broken at times by a lush green tobacco farm. The north of Nicaragua is known for many crops: coffee, corn, beans, and tobacco. Tobacco farms are some of the most luxurious – the big bucks the crop pulls in allows the owners to have vast plantations and pretty buildings. The large green tobacco leafs looked out of place among the dry expanse of dust.
As we sped along the Pan-American Highway going north, more smells came to me. Manure from cows, the smell of burning trash, burning plastic, burning firewood, burning leaves… My nose for burning materials has grown rather keen in Nicaragua. We drove through the smells of pigs, horses, and truck exhaust. As soon as I smelled one thing, it disappeared only to be replaced by another. We curved around the sinuous highway, winding our way up into the mountains.
Many other trucks passed us with passengers in them like me, hitching rides in the back. Their heads were covered with towels or scarves and they tucked down into the bed of the truck. When we passed through a shaded area of the highway, the temperature did drop quite a bit. Wait a second, were those goose bumps on my arms?? No, false alarm. It’s not that cold in Nicaragua. I stuck on my sweatshirt anyway to cut down on the wind.
As we neared our town I began to see all the usual landmarks; restaurants, bus stops, and churches that lined the highway. We had to slow down or swerve to avoid missing dogs who wandered onto the road or the occasional cow. Finally, we reached the turn-off for town. As we drove the few kilometers to reach the house, Silvio and Yelva started to recognize people. Honks of greeting were exchanged as were yells of “¡Adios!” We pulled up to our street and I hopped out. Safe and sound, and in record time. “Did you watch all the food?” Don Silvio asked jokingly. “Don’t worry,” I replied, “nothing flew out.” I didn’t mention that just as we had taken off, a large bag of fried pig skin had been picked up by the wind and smacked me in the face. A small price to pay for a scenic ride through the mountains.

Cooking with Soy

For those of you readers who know me personally, you know that I’m not a great cook. I do enjoy baking, but growing up with a super-Mom who was an amazing chef sort of hindered my cooking abilities. You’d think that this would have caught up to me before now, but living in the U.S. on my own during college, this was never a problem. There were always fresh vegetables available to throw together a good salad or pre-made food at Fred Meyer (one of my favorite stores). In Peace Corps, now that I’m no longer living with a host family and I’m officially “on my own”, my lack of cooking knowledge can be frustrating. I’m learning some basic staples, slowly but surely: beans, pasta sauces, stir fry, etc.

I’ve also been sharing my baking knowledge with some friends here who are lucky enough to own ovens. We’ve made banana bread, cakes, cookies… I’ve introduced them to the novel concept of wheat flour. They’re slowly coming around, but prefer their white bread for now.

In return, Nicaraguan women are always eager to teach me how to make Nicaraguan food. I’ve made corn pudding, tamales, soups, pasta dishes, tacos, fruit juices and even pizza with them. A Nicaraguan woman (or 13 year old girl for that matter) is a thing to see in the kitchen. In Nicaragua, as in many Latin countries, the kitchen is still mainly the woman’s domain. They are groomed from about the time they can walk to run errands, cut vegetables, pick out meat at the market, fry rice, bake beans…Each household has a certain ways of peeling oranges, certain rules for cooking (no eating Nacatamales - a traditional dish - before sleeping), and no citrus when you’re sick (!)

In my quest to learn how to cook for myself (since tomato and onion salads and oatmeal can get a little old, even I’ll admit), and in an effort to improve nutrition practices with local mothers, I’ve started cooking with soy. Soy is nothing new to my food vocabulary – I am a vegetarian – but in the U.S. I always bought pre-made soy milk, tofu and soy meat. In Nicaragua, you’ve gotta start with the actual soy BEAN. I guess I knew they existed: edamame, roasted soy nuts… But I never thought much about how the bean was changed into the milk, the meat, or into soy sauce. I first learned about cooking with soy through Peace Corps – many volunteers teach local women how to use soy beans to add protein and omega-3 fatty acids to their diets. Soy beans have twice the amount of protein in them than red beans and they also have the same type of fat (omega-3) that salmon does. Soy also contains no cholesterol and is rich in fiber, iron, vitamin B and calcium.

Needless to say, it’s a great food, especially in nutritionally inadequate Nicaraguan diets. And it’s cheap (even by Nicaraguan standards), $0.50/pound. When red beans can often rise radically in price depending on the season, soy beans can be an economical substitute.

So, how do I get all that good food out of this hard little bean, you ask? Well, after putting together about ten soy “workshops” with various groups in my site, cooking with soy is one thing that I do feel pretty comfortable with. I’ll walk you through the steps. Below is a group of ladies making soy that I worked with. They´re all mothers of special needs children. 1. Buy one pound of soy. Clean the soy beans, picking out any twigs, rocks and dirt that come with it. Wash the beans with water, rubbing them with your hands, changing the water three times or so.

2.Put the beans in lots of water to soak for 12 hours.

3. Wash again, rubbing with your hands to take off the outer shell of the bean (although this is optional).

4. Grind the beans at the local mill (if you’re in Nicaragua), or with a hand mill, or even using a blender with water. Mills are everywhere in Nicaragua – a fellow volunteer once equated the number of mills here the prevalence of Starbucks’ in downtown Manhattan. They are mainly used for grinding corn for tortilla and for coffee.

5. For every pound of beans, add one gallon of water to the ground beans.

6. Using a cheesecloth or fine strainer, strain the ground beans from the water, saving the water in a separate container.

7. This liquid you now have is the SOY MILK! The leftover ground beans are SOY MEAT! So easy, I know…You can understand why I like doing this.

From here, you usually boil the soy milk, constantly stirring. Some people like to add vanilla extract, sugar, cinnamon, etc. to give it flavor. Nicaraguans like to add Maizena which I think is like a cornstarch, to make a pudding. You can also blend the milk with bananas to make a smoothie. Or mix it with rice and sugar to make Arroz con leche. Others use the milk to make flan, or yogurt. To make soy yogurt, add ¼ cup of yogurt bacteria (or just plain yogurt) to every liter of milk. Heat the milk and yogurt mixture slowly until it’s the temperature of “blood” (gross, I know). Take it off of the heat and put it in a clean container and cover with a towel for 3-5 hours until it takes form. Refrigerate. You can add fruit or other flavorings to make it tasty. Above is the group of mothers enjoying the soy food we made.

Using the soy meat, you can mix it with spices and vegetables to make “sausage.” You can also make fried soy cakes by adding an egg, some flour, veggies and spices and forming little round cakes. Another recipe I have calls for adding a few bananas, an egg and sugar and cinnamon to the soy meat and then frying the cakes to make a sweeter treat.

Last week, during my “volunteer visit” which I wrote about in the previous blog, we made soy chili, which is by far my favorite soy recipe. We added the soy meat to sautéed onion and garlic, lots of tomatoes, tomato paste, chili powder, green and red peppers, and some water and cooked (probably for about 40 minutes). (The soy meat takes a while to cook – otherwise it turns out a bit crunchy). Then we added a few cups of cooked red beans. YUM!! I’m sure it would be good with some cheddar cheese on top, but of course that’s not available down here except in Managua.

In the future, I’m planning on making soy flour, soy cheese (aka tofu), and one of my favorite snacks, roasted soy beans. It’s pretty fun making something from scratch. I also have plans to make my own peanut butter, and maybe even my own chocolate. I get inspired by other volunteers who have cooking classes in their sites and are experimenting. Peanut butter is a “value added” product that some Agriculture volunteers are trying to promote in communities that produce peanuts.

Above is my aerobics class group enjoying the soy milk we made (also in the photo, second from the right, is my site-mate, Kristen, a Small Business volunteer). I’m sorry I don’t have more photos of making soy, when my computer was stolen in December, a lot of my photos were lost. I encourage you to try making some soy – the beans are available in the bulk section at most stores. I found it in my small hometown in Alaska while I was home in January, so it should be available pretty much everywhere.

That’s all for now. I’ll keep you updated on my cooking adventures!

Learning the ropes

So, I guess I am officially a “veteran” in Peace Corps Nicaragua. I’m almost halfway through my service (14 months left!) The new group of Community Health volunteers arrived in the country in January and are in training until they will be sworn-in in April, just as I was.
I have been involved in helping out with some training sessions for the new group and it’s fun to have some new faces in our little Peace Corps community. Last week, for three days I had a trainee visit me in my site. Each trainee was assigned to a different volunteer to see what “real” Peace Corps volunteer life is like. When you’re in training, it sometimes feels like you’re in an isolated bubble with Peace Corps babying you every step of the way. There is little freedom and you often wonder, “What will Peace Corps really be like?” The “volunteer visit” is supposed to help clear up questions trainees have about service and help them visualize volunteer life.
I hosted a girl named Katie. We got along really well – we’re both optimistic and outgoing. I planned a full schedule of events for our days. We had a youth group meeting, did some surveys in the health center, gave a Malaria/Dengue talk to the waiting patients, gave classes in both the elementary and secondary school, gave a training on HIV/AIDS to a pregnant/lactating mothers group, and made soy milk and soy chili from soy beans. Yum!! Here is a photo of our group, my site mate, Kristen, a Small Business volunteer also helped out. They put in a little too much chili powder for these Nicaraguan ladies' mild tastes, but we thought it was great! She also accompanied me to the aerobics class that I teach and sweated along with the ladies and we made some good meals together in my kitchen. It was nice having someone around for a few days and it was fun to introduce her to things in Nicaragua that were completely new to her; new foods, fruits, words, concepts… I didn’t realize how much I had learned until I started sharing with someone who had just arrived in-country. In the past year I have come a long way. I’ve adjusted to all the things that turned me off at first and I have adapted to living in a small town in Nicaragua.
I remember how I was last year on my “volunteer visit” – all wide-eyed and inquisitive. Everything was so new and exciting. I was also super motivated and a little over-eager – that toned down after the first few months. I wanted to be a “super volunteer” – building clinics, single-handedly wiping out AIDS in Nicaragua, eradicating Malaria and malnutrition... After a little while though, reality sets in and you realize that you’re just one person and two years isn’t really that long. There is so much you have to learn in order to be successful; it takes about a year just to be comfortable with your counterpart relationships and how things “work” to actually get real projects started. You’ll also be let down a lot – adjusting to the work style here and the pace of life is a big part of adapting. Accepting the fact that not everyone will love you is also hard. That’s especially relevant in a country like Nicaragua with a rocky past with the U.S.
As this new group of trainees prepares to begin their service in April, the Community Health volunteer group who arrived the year before my group will be leaving. It’s going to be sad to see all those familiar faces leave. I know it won’t be the last time I see many of them – it’s not like we don’t live in the same country – however it will mean that our shared experience of Nicaragua living will come to an end. I’ll especially miss Matt and Jess – a married couple who lived in my departmental capital. I always remember going to their house and being greeted by their huge white dog, Astro (see photo of them and Astro above). They also adopted a cat here and both animals will be going back to the U.S. with them. Matt and Jess both had lots of experience and did some great work in their two years. I really admire them and will miss their advice and their open and friendly personalities. I am often jealous of Peace Corps married couples – they always seem to be doing amazing projects and working together. It makes sense – you have someone to bounce ideas off of and two people are more creative than one. So, bon voyage to “Nica 46” (the outgoing group”) and welcome to “Nica 52” (the newbies)!
The volunteer who visited me, Katie, and I: