Shockingly Distinct

I consider the term “culture shock” to be a generic term that describes peoples’ reactions to entering a culture different from their own. “Culture shock” often causes individuals to ask questions relative to what they know. It is the shock experienced when visiting Europe, or other "Western" cultures for the first time. It is a term used broadly and frequently. In every way, it is valid.

On the other hand, there is a type of shock that strikes a different chord. It is that shock that occurs when baring witness to the poverty that fills our world.

What does “poverty” exactly mean? According to online sources (read: Wikipedia), poverty is defined as the shortage of common things such as food, clothing, shelter and safe drinking water, all of which determine our quality of life. If a person earns or survives on less than $2 per day, that person is considered by World Bank definition, to live in moderate poverty. On less than $1 per day, a person is considered to live in extreme poverty.

Next question: is there really much of a difference between “moderate” poverty and “extreme” poverty?

Fifteen months ago, my answer to that question may have been “No,” although I would not have said so with confidence. Fast forward to today, and I can say with absolute confidence that the answer is “Yes.”

I believe this because there is no experience that distinguishes the rungs of poverty as clearly as a community visit does. Some might call that short-sighted and material. But the distinction between rungs of poverty does not come from what you necessarily see. It comes from what you feel.

It has less to do with house walls made of tarp that you would use to pitch a tent; or the aluminum roof with rocks atop to hold it in place; or the dunes of dust that creep through every crack…into your eyes…into your ears…into your nose…and into your lungs. It is has more to do with the discomfort and strain unleashed on your insides, which, with a single glance, numbs your hope and punctures you emotionally.

The shock from extreme poverty is more than a splash of curiosity or astonishment. It is questioning with desperation.

It is more than, how can someone live like this? It is why should someone live like this? It is more than how did this person end up here? It is why did he or she end up here? And, why did I end up there?

The shock from extreme poverty carries a weight of disbelief.

It is disbelief visualizing how a maze of dirt roads eventually leads to a house, and how the navigation of the land lays solely dependant on the hundreds or thousands of people who have previously navigated that land.

At the baseball field, go 200 yards down, and make a left. Then, go five houses down, and it's on the right. It’s the unpainted house with wooden windows.

The shock from extreme poverty makes you gasp in despair.

It is despair experiencing the effort required to find paved road – to see residents march kilometers at a time with baskets atop their head hoping to find a ride. It is despair to witness the filth – to see infants in diapers with their bodies cloaked in dirt. It is despair to see how hard life is, how hard it can be, and how few options there are for something different or something better. If there are any, there are few.

These shocks are distinct because they keep me from thinking peacefully. They cause me to write, and then consider whether writing about the situation paints the smallest fraction of the reality. These shocks are distinct because they are provocative, and make me wonder in desperation what else is out there:

What does a refugee camp look like? What does a war-torn country look like? What does the rest of the world, the nearly three billion people that live in this reality, look like?

Tough to know at twenty-seven years old. But there is no doubt that what's out there is distinct from what I've seen.

Crossing Borders

The “Switzerland” of Central America. That is the beloved title given to Nicaragua’s southern neighbor, Costa Rica. A coast so rich that an estimated 500,000 – 1 million Nicaraguans have settled there in search of a better life.

Sound familiar? If it does not, then it should, for crossing borders is a popular topic and political issue in our United States.

The idea of crossing borders used to be intangible to me. I could have read as many news articles as I wanted to, listened to lecturers speak about immigration or life in an emerging economy ad nauseam. I could have joined the border patrol and parked my butt on a concrete wall between Texas and Mexico with binoculars for weeks at a time. Even then, I would have never understood the significance of crossing borders.

Crossing borders is more than a generic sound-bite, and it is more than an issue that can be resolved with policy. It is more than academic study, and more than a physical presence. It is patience, it is investment, and, above all, it is survival and human life.

Between 500,000 and 1 million Nicaraguans live in Costa Rica because of one simple factor: Quality of life. What does “Quality of life” entail?

It entails earning a wage quadruple the amount that you would earn in your native land while performing the same duties; sending that extra wage back to family members still in your native land; earning an income that, by definition, may pull you out of poverty.

It entails sleeping in a structure without fear that it will crumble or leak; working in buildings that have solid walls, support services, and floors; taking transportation that is beyond a yellow school bus on its one hundredth repair; having confidence that there are available and functioning emergency services if a time were to arrive when you need them.

It entails receiving an education that teaches you how to spell correctly, how to punctuate, how to analyze and how to think; learning basic facts like how many weeks there are in a year; understanding basic arithmetic and how to read and write; being a part of a system that gives the best and brightest, and the not so brightest, opportunities to study more; believing that with the education you’ve received, you can excel in a job, assuming one is to be had.

Quality of life can work both ways, however. It can work against you when you are resented by the community you have crossed to, where you are the excuse, the scapegoat, the one to blame; when, even as you perform the tasks and do the jobs that nobody else wants to do, you are held in lower regard; when your family or loved ones are far, far away, and the only person you have to depend on is yourself.

During my latest excursion to Costa Rica, it became clear to me why crossing borders is a common practice of Nicaraguans. While it is certainly not Switzerland, Costa Rica is a pot of gold compared to its northern neighbor. With a civil war settled sixty years ago, and peaceful, prosperous regimes that have poured resources into education, Costa Rica has reaped the benefits. Did I mention that they have no Armed Forces?

Cars look wholesome, and not like they will far apart when they strike their next pothole. Construction is contagious, as if there are too many things to build and not enough people to build them. Restaurants are diverse, offering a variety of cuisines, and are filled with customers. The atmospheric vibe is alive, not apathetic, and the upbeat spirit of the people reflects that. Tourism is flourishing in every corner of the country, and offers affordable hotspots to Gringos and Europeos alike. In so many words, and simple comparisons aside, Costa Rica lives up to its growing reputation.

While the distinctions are plentiful, something still remained unclear to me after my mini-excursion to the rich coast: how could two worlds in proximity to one another, be so far apart in everything else? Furthermore, why do our discussions related to crossing borders revolve around how to keep people out, instead of what would it take for others to believe in their country the way I believe in mine?

By no means am I an expert, but at least I know better than to cast a soundbite.

Tough by circumstance

Imagine not having your car, a subway or a metro, and not being able to afford the bus. You’d be forced to commute by making use of the limbs you were given. You’d be forced into walking, into biking, into hauling stuff on your back, over your head, or over your shoulder. You’d be challenged. You’d be expending energy. You’d be working overtime. By circumstance, you’d probably be pretty tough.

Nicaraguans do not appear to be the fittest people in the world. A very low percentage of them work out at a gym. None of them jog. Their diet is characterized by bubbling oil with some food sprinkled in. Their greatest pastime includes sitting on stoops in plastic chairs staring at people as they walk by. It is not unusual to see the same person in the same position in the same chair at the same house at the same hour every day.

As you walk the streets and witness the coping mechanisms for this transportationally-challenged atmosphere, however, the preconceived notion that Nicaraguans are unfit quickly disintegrates. Though their work is not formal, nor their exercise in a gym…Nicaraguans are expending energy…and they are working very hard. They are tough in ways inconceivable to many of us. Take a look at what I mean:


















My home-country gringos have spent decades and decades perfecting the vehicles through which they optimize time and convenience. This wave has yet to take place in Nicaragua, where very few people own cars, where there is no subway or metro, where those in poverty are on an economic rung below affording the bus, or a horse buggy for that matter.

As a current member of the Nicaraguan community, and a lifetime member of a gringo culture inundated by technology and convenience, I spend little time wondering what is better or what is worse, and a lot of time wondering what can be learned from these distinct realities.

For example: How much would America benefit with regards to health and environment if its citizens were forced to walk or bike instead of taxi, metro, or drive? Would Nicaragua’s work-related efficiency, production, and output improve if less time was spent in manual transit and physically expending energy ?

I suspect that we share similar responses to these questions. And while these responses offer a balance between “convenience” and “work overload,” I have realized from walking the brutally hot streets of Masaya, for a measly twenty-five minutes a day, how tough the Nicaraguan population is. How dependent I used to be on convenience. And how we often don’t know how tough we are until cornered into a situation with few to no options.

My Best Friends

Let’s face it. You need that comforting interaction the same way I do – that last bit of nurturing before you fall asleep.

For some of you it comes in the form of an animal, a roommate, a family member, a spouse, or a friend. For others it comes in the form of the radio, a book, a computer, or the television. On the other hand, some of you require nothing but silence. Boredom never strikes you.

For me, it started with my computer and my pad. I would jot down notes and punch my keyboard until my eyes finally closed. But then my computer broke.

With my flashlight resting atop my head, I turned to reading, pages upon pages until my eyes clamped down. Then, I burned out. Too many books too fast.

Finally, I found the solution, which is where I met my best friends. The friends that talk me to sleep and never give me grief. The friends that humor me, tell compelling stories, and keep me interested. The friends that are at my beck and call.

Alone, in my cube-shaped, isolated room in Masaya, these friends never let me down. They drown out the noise from the bellowing infant next door. They distract me from the wind that sprays debris onto my roof. They keep me from pondering, and comfort me after a long day’s work.

Confession: my best friends are television characters. Friends I have never seen in person. Friends I have never spoken to. Friends I have never met. They speak when I tell them to, with the simple flip of a switch. I control how loud they speak to me, how long they speak to me for, and which story I want them to tell. If I like their story, I demand a repeat. If they bore me, I cut them off and start anew.

So, who are these friends? In character, they are known as Charlie, Jed, Leo, Josh, Sam, CJ, Toby, Donna, and Abbey. In reality, they are known as Dule, Martin, John, Bradley, Rob, Allison, Richard, Janel, and Stockard. They are The West Wing.

The funny thing is I was never much of a Television watcher. In fact, you could call me limited to Seinfeld and the evening news. Upon arrival to this corner of the world, however, I stood front and center with the reality that most Nicaraguans face - idleness.

At times I ask myself: What am I doing here? Alone in my room with a DVD? What kind of fun is this?

But then I remember where I am, in a land where family is life, and where sedentary is a way of life. I consider the possibility that even if there was more to do, most of those living here could probably not afford to do it. I understand that passing time means being entertained. I accept that life in Nicaragua is just plain simple.

Despite the poverty, it is more common than not to see two things in a Nicaraguan home: Stereo and Television. Why is that?

At first I didn't know.

And then I considered that my life, in the world that surrounds me, is just plain simple. It is often confined to that cube-shaped, isolated room, tucked away in the back corner of my Nicaraguan home. My best friends – my “go-to” people - are my source of my entertainment. They are my family. They are my solution to this sedentary life.

Tip-Top

On a recent trip to Managua, I took one of our becados to a Hotel Training Institute where she applied for an intensive scholarship. In typical Nica fashion, we were told to arrive at 11AM, and then found out that the entry exam would not begin until three hours later. With time to spare in the middle of the day, there was one logical thought that crossed my mind: Lunch?

I left the destination up to our becado.

“You’re the one taking the exam. Where would you like to go?”

“Tip-Top,” she replied.

I politely obliged.

For those (or all) of you who don’t know, Tip-Top is a fast-food fried chicken chain located throughout Nicaragua – a genius idea considering the entire population adheres to a fried-only diet. To draw a better parallel - Tip-Top is a Nicaraguan version of our beloved Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s fast…it’s cheap…it’s finger-lickin good.

As we entered the restaurant and scrolled through the menu, a series of "peculiarities" suggested that our becado had never ordered at a restaurant before. Suggestion numero uno entailed our becado picking the cheapest meal on the menu, to which the waitress quickly pointed out: That’s the child’s meal. Order changed to the adult size.

Suggestion numero dos took place when our server brought out the food, and our becado stared at it as if it was a piece of art. I wasn’t sure if she was overwhelmed by the portion (two pieces of fried chicken, french fries, cole slaw, and a roll), or was simply relishing this moment.

Suggestion numero tres occurred when our becado finally picked up the utensils, but was reluctant to dive in. Instead, she poked at the chicken, as if checking to see whether it was dead or alive.

Once our becado took the first bite, her delight indicated that she’d be going the distance. Still, her demeanor piqued my curiosity.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Very good, thank you.”

“Have you ever eaten here before?

“Once, when I was little.”

“What do you usually eat during the day?”

“Well. In the morning I eat gallo pinto (fried rice and beans). And for lunch I usually eat plain white rice with some cooked beans. I usually don’t eat dinner. Only my Mom and Dad do.”

Monologue: I have lived in Nicaragua long enough and met enough people to recognize and, on some level, understand the economically-driven dietary limitations. When the price for a pound of rice and beans increased by twenty cents in 2008, for example, food became tight. I read about the rations, and heard about the hunger. Ten cents here, ten cents there – think what you want but it all adds up.

From my lens Tip-Top is fast food. The cheap stuff. Nothing but fattiness. Too lazy to make dinner. Too greasy. Too salty. A roll on the belly. “Cheating” on a healthy diet. A reward for a tough day.

For our becado, however, Tip-Top was a dream. A meal on the town. A meal that did not resemble rice. A meal that did not resemble beans. A meal where someone waited on her. A meal that was paid for by someone else. A meal that contained a piece of bread. A meal that contained a piece of meat. A meal that sparked a smile forever tattooed into my brain...

A reward for many tough days.

Liquid Soap

As much as I wanted to, I could never get passed it. I could never believe that this little blue bar of soap, used by dozens of people and residing on this dirty pink-colored sink in the open Nica air, could provide the bacteria-free cleanliness I desired.



Sure - you could argue that any form of soap serves its purpose. But before you do, let me make my case.



I know it has happened to you: You open a box and pull out a fresh bar of soap, feeling a sense of relief that the bar is whole - that it is solid - that you can run it up and down your body. You have little concern that it will slip from your hands, that it is covered with mysterious hairs, or that it has fallen to the floor. You are not frustrated by the fact that it has broken into pieces, or disintegrated to a point where you are hanging on to its last, remaining scraps, desperately trying not be wasteful.

In Nicaragua, the situation is no different. That bar becomes slick. It falls. It breaks. It disintegrates into little tiny scraps that you just want to throw away, but don't have the heart to. This is what we use to wash our hands - that "bar" - with no liquid soap in sight.

I could never understand why my office uses a bar of soap when liquid soap is readily available in nearly every store. Is it a money issue? Does liquid soap cost more? Do people even know that liquid soap exists? Or, do people just prefer using a solid bar of soap?

I opted to conduct an experiment: I would buy a container of liquid soap, and monitor its rate of consumption. I would see if people actually preferred the bar of soap, or if they had simply never experienced the benefits and joy of its dispensable liquid rival.

After several weeks of experimentation, the answer was clear - liquid soap won out. But now that it won, and, consequently, ran out, I wondered how its existence could be sustained. Would I be responsible for replenishing the liquid soap every time it ran out? Would those who enjoyably consumed it catch my drift and buy some on their own accord?

I decided it was not my place to purchase and sustain this idea. If a bar of soap is preferable to liquid, who am I, a foreigner, to mandate that my preference be heard?

Nearly two days after my container of soap was finished, I approached the bathroom mid-morning, and to my pleasant surprise a container of liquid soap had reappeared. The best news: I had nothing to do with it.










This might not seem like a big deal to any of you, but you have to realize something. Part of development is exposing others to something new - to something different - to something that could potentially enhance quality of life. More often than not, your attempt to "expose" lands you in same exact place where you began, only with a few more gray hairs.

So, who am I to say that a type of soap matters to anyone but me? Nobody. But still it makes me wonder:

How much of "the way we live our lives" is a result of what we choose versus a result of not knowing any different?

Living in the second poorest country in the America's, I have my guess.

Rampant Ranges

One year ago I started this blog. And, as most of you know, I have left it vacant for quite some time. While I will spare you the boring details for my five-plus month absence, I apologize to those of you who kept up with me consistently for the first seven months of my life in Nicaragua.

This past year there was a shift in my life. It is a shift I failed to understand before I left, but now understand better than I could have anticipated. It is a shift that has led to many twists and turns, highs and lows, many smiles and even some tears. It has lead to questions and answers, to belief and doubt, to clarity and confusion, and above all faith and hopelessness.

That's right. If you've read those last two sentences, their multiple contrasts, and their ambiguity --- you'll notice two things: unpredictability, and a rampant range of emotions.

At times I think my experience is unique, but then I remember why it is anything but. Over half of our world (over three billion people), lives in poverty. That means that half of our world is surrounded by the same conditions and realities that I am surrounded by in Nicaragua. Because I live in a house with four solid walls, running water, and a roof that withstands 30mph winds, I'll go out on a limb and say that I am in a better situation than most of the three billion people. Consider my education level, my upper-middle class background, and the fact that I possess a passport, and I know I am better off than the three billion people.

At times I consider my work an adventure, but understand that for three billion people it is not. It is not a stint that they can tend to and leave as they please. It is not an option that they have chosen. This is life – filled with twists and turns, highs and lows, some smiles and some tears. It is a life that has many questions and limited answers, lots of belief followed by magnificent doubt, some clarity and some confusion, and above all faith that is countered by hopelessness.

About three weeks ago, I was interviewing a candidate for our scholarship program, when the rampant range of emotions came front and center. I asked my standard questions:

1) How did you hear about the program?

2) What motivated you to apply to the program?

3) What do you want to do?

4) Do you have any questions for me?

As the words that make up Question #2 left my lips, the candidate suddenly could not answer. She could not speak. There was a dangling silence. Followed by uncontrollable streams that ran down her face.

Question #2 seemed innocuous to me. But afterward, I thought a little harder about the question, and the profound trigger of emotions it may have caused.

What motivated you to apply to the program?

She may have been thinking…

What motivated me to apply to the program? Well, how about the fact that I have been abandoned all of my life by my mother and father. I live with an angel who has taken me in, and cared for me like nobody has before. Even with her care, I live on dirt floors, on little food, and no money.

Nobody has ever, EVER, offered me anything in my life. And now you people are here offering me a chance to study. Overwhelmed? That is one lame word to describe how I feel. Opportunity? Since I've never had one, I'm not really sure what that means. I am angry, happy, thankful, and confused. These tears don't represent happiness. They represent the culmination of excruciating defeats that have made up my life.

I feel like a fool for having cried here. I hope I don't lose this chance because of it. I hope I am not abandoned again, as I have been throughout my life.

As my "born-again" audience, I ask you not to judge me for trying to understand the meaning behind the tears of this candidate. I am not a mind-reader, nor will I ever know what she was thinking. What I am doing, however, is offering you a glimpse as to how we operate in this world, in our line of work, and with Nicaraguans in need.

Without this mindset, this attempt to understand, my work would be impossible. In some ways it is already impossible – in that I will never know the struggle that Nicaraguans, along with three billion others worldwide, have endured throughout their lives.

The only certainty I know is that I will never know.