Where the streets have no names...

Shockingly Distinct

2009-04-21T18:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-26T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-06T10:44:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-20T17:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-11T15:46:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T13:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-31T04:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Standing in Line

2008-07-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

Standing in line is a pretty simple concept.

When multiple parties vie for the same transaction simultaneously, but cannot be served simultaneously, they often form a line. Typically, one's placement in line is determined by the time of arrival. That is to say, the party that arrives first is entitled to the first opportunity for transaction. When a transaction is complete, the party just served exits the line, and the opportunity for transaction defaults to the subsequent party. That way, each party moves one place closer to the opportunity for transaction.

Most lines form in a single-file fashion. One party after the other. Sometimes they dart out from one specific focal point and cause obstruction, like the Men's bathroom line at a sports venue during intermission. Sometimes lines wrap around barriers set up by the host institution, like at the popular rides of your favorite amusement park. Other times lines are not really lines, and consist of globs of people who only form a line to adhere to a point of entry, like when the gates open at a Rock concert.

Regardless of the scenario, lines are often respected. Why? Because they create order. That´s right: Line equals order. Order equals line.

On most parts of the planet (keyword: most) the rules are universally known. You get there first. You are first to be served. You get there last. You get your rear-end to the back. There are no buts. There are not cuts. There are no dirty rotten coconuts.

Exhibit A - The Supply Store

I was standing in line at the local libreria with several folders in my hand, and was faced with the typical dilemma: To take the short line where fewer people have more items, or to take the longer line where more people have fewer items. I opted for the one-person wait, and twiddled my thumbs as the woman in front of me cleaned out the store's wrapping paper. Since my patience has blossomed healthily since arriving in this town, I didn't mind the five minute episode, or even the lousy tude of the cashier. But I waited patiently. And gracefully observed the universal law of the line.

As the gift-giver exited the line, an older man, probably in his late 60's, came stumbling forward with a cane. By this point the line behind me had grown to about four people. But the old man didn't seem to care. He marched forward unabashedly and lunged with an outstretched arm, showing-off his itsy-bitsy pen and his 5 Cordoba coin. Apparently, he believed his one item warranted a "violation of line etiquette". Having been in the situation many times before, I left the fate of this man in the hands of the cashier.

She rung him up. No smile. The man exited the line. No apology. And there I was - externally calm, internally livid. Are you kidding me?

But I couldn't tell who irked me more: The culprit or the enabler.

Exhibit B: The Grocery Store

Every day at the grocery store, I wait in the Express Line, designed for five items or fewer. It was just before lunch, during the store's peak hours, when I stepped into the line of ten people. I waited patiently, glanced at the newspaper, and wiped the sweat from my brow. As people stared at me, the Gringo, I stared right back, trying to pass time by playing the staring contest in my own warped mind.

I was two places from the cashier when I saw a 12 year-old school boy strut forward. He was in his school uniform, and looked clean-cut. He juggled two packets of chocolate milk in his hand, and evidently had no intention of waiting his turn. He tried be slick, cutting one person in front of me instead of heading straight to the cashier, but he had stiff competition. Like the moment in the supply store, I sat there quietly, leaving the fate of the violation up to my surrounding Nicaraguan community. This time, we had a few takers, as the older woman behind me showed no fear.

What are you doing? She asked loudly enough so that the entire line could hear.

No response.

Wait in the back! She screamed again.

Again. No response. But since someone else had fired the first shot, I felt secure enough join the party.

You know that´s bad manners. I said in a weak, non-confrontational lecturing voice.

I need to get back to school. He lamely conceded.

Ignoring the woman and refusing to modify his behavior, the boy carried on, and walked up to the cashier shamelessly. The cashier seemed well-aware of what happened, but appeared unfazed. As he took the packets from the kid´s hand and prepared to ring them up, he tossed the chocolate milk to the side in the abandoned item cart.

The kid did not seem surprised. He just smirked. Shrugged his shoulders. He offered no apology. He left the store.

Justice Served. I thought. And Faith Restored!

Exhibit C: The Bus to Matagalpa

Several months ago I took my first bus journey to the Northern Mountains of Nicaragua. It was my first time at the bus stop, el Mayoreo, and I was quite confident in my ability to navigate around the premises. I approached the Matagalpa bus as it was about to depart, took one look inside at the crammed, standing room only, and decided to wait for the next one. 25 minutes...I could manage.

From my initial impressions, I was in great position for my choice of seat. I was one of four people waiting patiently for 25 minutes. As the clock ticked, the people gathered. And it became clear that whatever line had existed amongst the four of us no longer had merit. Instead, it looked like the rock concert scenario, a glob of people prepping for a mad rush to hop on board. I still felt secure though, because I was firmly standing my position where the entry point would supposedly be.

As the bus pulled up to the curb to dock, however, mayhem erupted. Nicaraguans jumped up to the windows and hung on as the bus kept moving. People shoved and shoved with no regard to humankind. I crashed into the woman behind me, almost knocking her down. Most noticeably, my calm demeanor accelerated into a classic fight or flight.

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. The chaos resembled nothing of civilization. Prison riots, stampedes, and celebrity sitings flashed through my mind. I held my ground, apologized to the woman, and then caved, shoving my way through the crowd so I could get on board.

At one time I was the fourth person in line. And now I was barely getting a seat for my two hour journey.

This is what it would be like without laws.

Conclusion

Do we blame the old man for being a poor role-model? Do we blame the cashier for enabling behavior? Do we applaud the cashier or woman for taking a stand? Do we blame the Mayareo bus station for not having a system? Do we blame the culprits themselves for their violations? Can we even assess blame at all?

These questions, I cannot answer. Trust me, I've tried. But one thing is certain - there are a million reasons and a million interpretations. I know this because I still have mine: Standing in line is a pretty simple concept. But ultimately a concept's simplicity depends on those who live with it to keep it that way.

Rainy Season

2008-06-09T07:52:00.000-07:00

Rainy Season in Nicaragua equals one of two seasons. That´s right…two seasons. The seasons in the tropics are dominated by the movement of the tropical rain belt, which oscillates from the northern to the southern tropics over the course of the year, thus causing the dry season and the wet season in turn. The tropical rain belt lies in the southern hemisphere roughly from October to March, and during this time the southern tropics experience a wet season, in which rain is common. From April to September, the rain belt lies in the northern hemisphere, and the northern tropics, like Nicaragua, experience their wet season.*

Rainy season in Nicaragua equals colder weather. Let me qualify that – colder according to Nicaraguan standards. We’re talking about a midday temperature in the 80’s, and a nightly temperature in the 70’s. It is not unusual to see Nicaraguans in sweaters at night. I, on the other hand, am absolutely relishing the moment, sticking to my shorts and T-shirt, praying that this cool air somehow becomes permanently cemented to my body. In the beginning, adjusting to 90-something degree weather without air conditioning was quite the challenge, but I’m starting to learn that comfort with temperature, like most other things, is relative. I find myself sleeping more soundly than ever, even abandoning my fan at times.

Rainy season in Nicaragua equals big fat drops of rain. The rain pounds my aluminum roof, generating such noise that it drowns out the falling branches and fruit I normally hear during the night. Most of the time, I find it quite soothing to listen to the variety of cadences. But my actual room bears the brunt of what my sleep does not. For example, I never knew I had a leak in my roof until rainy season started. Luckily, the leak is in my bathroom, far away from my sleeping area. Otherwise, I’d have a real problem. The water that builds up and drips along the side of my wall, however, is a bit puzzling. But here is my question: If it is not affecting anything in my room, most specifically me, is there really a cause for alarm?

Rainy season in Nicaragua equals insects. Lots and lots of insects. More often than not I am spastically reactive, slapping my legs, feet, and back to kill the ants that gnaw at my body. You know that feeling – when something mysterious is crawling on you. On a brighter note, I have done a decent job of fighting off the onslaught of Palmetto roaches, and sometimes even find myself reasoning with them. At first I was taking these rodents out left and right…for how could one possibly go to sleep while giant rodents roam around the room? But after so many incidences, I started feeling bad for taking out these innocent creatures. I know it sounds crazy, but there are only so many insects, roaches, or worms one can kill before some sort of sympathy kicks in. Just last week I actually found myself sweeping out some worms that had built a home on my wall. The roaches, meanwhile, are gradually earning my sympathy.

Rainy season in Nicaragua equals flooding. During my first experience in the rain, which lasted approximately five minutes while I was in a video store, the water level on the street noticeably rose to a point where I was forced to lift my jeans to keep them dry. And this was from a five minute storm. Luckily, my street does not appear to have draining problems thus far. In fact, it passed a major test during last week’s tropical storm. But the surrounding areas, unfortunately, are not so lucky. Most people find themselves trapped inside their homes, surrounded by knee-to-waist water levels, unable to exit. That is assuming the water has not spilled into their homes already.

Rainy season, generally speaking, equals danger for many in the emerging world. Just consider the infrastructure alone, and the ability to combat natural disaster. It all seems simple when you’re tucked away in your house, and you are certain your walls will hold. Fortunately, I have the comfort of my cement walls and aluminum roof to take cover. But upsetting to think that those who don’t have that comfort aren’t but a few blocks away.

*Factual Information in Paragraph 1 quoted from Wikipedia.com

Yo Si Puedo

2008-05-26T17:16:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t been to La Villa Betañia in about five weeks. And the doubts raced through my mind. What if the youth group has fallen apart? What if the kids have lost interest? Were they willing to continue the group without my presence? Will we have to start from scratch? What if the government official from the illiteracy program never followed through?

There was only one way to find out. I visited La Villa the Sunday I returned, in the mid-afternoon timeframe when our meetings usually take place. The taxi dropped me at the standard exit point, and as I strolled along the dirt path my thought process quickly resorted to the old. These roads are unreal. I don’t know how a car can even drive on them. Avoid the puddles. Avoid the puddles. Ah, there are those people again. We’ll see if they stare me down today. Why must people always stare me down? Is my Gringo skin all that different from their Nica skin?

I halted at the meeting grounds, la casa de Eyling, and extended the standard Nica greeting towards the house. Eyling, the president of the youth group, emerged and greeted me warmly. We covered the “hi, how are you” basics and then proceeded to the meat of my visit.

“Eyling, is anything happening with the illiteracy project?” I anxiously inquired.

“Actually, we started the program about three weeks ago.”

"You mean that you and the group went through the training, and started teaching to the residents three weeks ago? That’s great! How did you do it?”

“Well, Alejandro from Yo Si Puedo called, and he set the whole thing up for us.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That the kids, on their own initiative, went through training and launched the project we had been planning for several months. And they did it all without me around. Without my support. Without facilitation. Not only that, but the local rep from illiteracy programs followed up as scheduled.

Of course, I trust people when they tell me too good to be true news, but I felt compelled, for my own peace of mind to verify the news and attend a class taught by the group. So the following night I entered La Villa Betania to witness the project in action.

I arrived at Eyling’s house around 6:10PM, and only intended to stay for about 15 minutes, to get a sense for the program. Oddly enough, as many times as I had been to her house, this was the first time I actually went inside. Normally, I find myself outside on the square concrete slab out front, plopped in my plastic chair, waiting for the group to arrive.

The house is no different than the others in the community. The entrance feeds into the living room, where everyone parks their TV and stereo, the two main sources of entertainment in Nicaragua. A slight turn to the right and there is usually a small room or two sectioned off by a curtain. Cooking and bathroom duty is performed outside in designated areas. Since most of the houses are so small, and often consist of anywhere between three to eight family members, many residents construct “additions” to their homes. It is not an addition as we would commonly think of it, a construction project that turns an old room into something new and improved. Instead, the addition is usually scraps of wood nailed together until sturdy enough to support aluminum or tarp, which serves as the roof.

As I entered the home, passed through the living room, and walked into the addition, I could see the kids setting up the TV and VCR loaned by Yo Si Puedo. The classroom, consisting of wooden tables, dirt floors, two students, two teachers, one dry-erase board, and muchisimo insects, served its purpose – it provided a place to learn. Like every other experience in development work, nothing is ever predictable. So I can’t say that I was surprised when the electricity outlet (hanging from the ceiling), did not work. The kids resorted to traditional blackboard teaching.

Even though there were only two adult students in the class this evening, there was a light-hearted, uplifting aura that filled the room. To watch two teenagers spend an evening teaching their adult neighbors how to pronounce the letter “M” and identify it in sentences, as simplistic as it sounds, was a sight to see. The teenagers we re attentive, relaxed, and patient. The adults were enthusiastic, engaged, an d most importantly – they were learning.

Two, ten, however many students the final count reads, I am proud of the teens for executing their plan. The community is proud of them. And they are proud of themselves. As they should be. For in development work, where the range of certainty graphs like a mathematical sine wave, small victories go a very long way.

Movie Going in Masaya

2008-05-19T15:39:00.000-07:00

It was my first Saturday night back in town, and with the ongoing saga of the transportation strike, my mobility was quite limited. After reading a book and watching about 7 episodes of West Wing (Season 4), I decided it was time to get out of the house. Earlier in the day, I had met my Program Coordinator at a local smoothie joint called Fruity Fruity to shoot the breeze and pass some time. As we walked back towards Central Park, she informed me that a movie theatre had recently opened in Masaya. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing…A movie theatre in Masaya? Could this be the solution to my entertainment roadblock?

I decided to verify this claim before I got my hopes up. Sure enough, she was right, and the listing showed Star Wars: 3D viewing at 8:00 PM. What better way to spend a Saturday night? Watching a 3D version of Star Wars and flailing my tentacles around as objects appear to be crashing into my face. And for 2 dollars, how could I go wrong?

While there was absolutely no conceivable or logical rationale to arrive early, I had to because my American blood pumped with excitement. This would be my first movie in Nicaragua, it would be on a large screen, and best of all, it would be shown in a room with Air-Conditioning. I arrived about ten minutes before Showtime, eager to purchase my ticket. I walked up to the booth, lowered my head to the opening, and took a look inside.

Nothing but pitch black! My hopes appeared shattered, my evening ruined. I stood there wondering if someone was actually working this booth or if the show had been cancelled. A minute later, a young man pleasantly appeared through a curtain and sold me my ticket.

After a few more minutes of time-wasting, I found myself in that dilemma that every person with a small bladder deals with, should I go the bathroom before it starts? Since we operate on Nicaraguan time, I figured I had a few minutes to spare. I ran to the bathroom around the corner, spent about 30 seconds searching for a light, realized there was none, and then moseyed back to the theatre to make sure I didn’t miss a beat.

8:00PM finally struck and I, along with another family of three, continued to eagerly wait outside the theatre. The ticket guy opened the door, appearing to invite us in. But instead of an invitation, he delivered a message – the current movie would be over in approximately ten minutes. Typical. I tried to suppress my boredom for a few minutes by sending text messages to random people, pathetically boasting that I was about to step into a movie theatre in Masaya.

Ten minutes went by.

My boredom was escalating, my excitement diminishing, and my sweat from standing outside in the 85 degree heat accumulating. What the heck is going on? I circled the top floor a few more times to kill some time. On my final lap, the little five-year-old came out in me as I pressed my face against the theatre window to catch a glimpse inside.

Another twenty minutes went by.

I looked down at my cell phone for the umpteenth time – and the survey said – 8:30PM. A half hour late! And I’m still standing outside waiting to be seated. Finally, after not seeing him for a half hour, the ticket booth captain opened the theatre door once again, and this time delivered a telegram.

“This is running a little longer than expected. Would you like to come back tomorrow?” He asked.

“Tomorrow? But I want to see the movie tonight.” I responded.

“Well, I don’t know when this will be over.”

I was in disbelief. I thought to myself…Just look the video box…that’s how you’ll know!

I resisted the urge, however, and instead found myself quite amused.

“Actually, if it’s alright I’d just like my money back.” I said.

And that was that. No movie for me. No money for him. And no getting those 40 minutes of my life back. I reflected for a second about how this would play over in the United States. A night ruined…a demand for free tickets…a call to the manager! Maybe even a…I’m never coming back to this theatre again!

If I’ve learned anything about living in Nicaragua though, where customer service is a distant cry from mediocre, it is that when plans go awry, the best thing to do is raise your arms, shake your head, and chuckle. Yes. I said chuckle. For if you get upset about every tiny detail that doesn’t meet expectations, you’d be entering or living in a constant state of depression.

The Return

2008-05-12T09:18:00.000-07:00

After 3+ weeks of recuperation at home in Miami, I finally received medical clearance and returned to Nicaragua. Unsurprisingly, everything was pretty much the way I had left it three weeks prior. But for some reason I felt a little different.

As I exited the plane and made my way through customs, I felt very at ease. I recalled my first time off that plane in late January, joined by my now-departed peer, and waiting anxiously for about an hour until we reached the yellow line. I remembered all of the question marks, the uncertainty, and the excitement. This time, as I stood in line for about 5 minutes with my $5.00 visa fee handy, the anxiety never surfaced. I was as comfortable as could be.

I grabbed my backpack and headed for the airport exit, expecting to hop into a taxi and head to Masaya. Only there was one small problem: almost all of Nicaragua was/is on a transportation strike. Gas prices are too high, and the people want the Government to step in and regulate. Apparently, the Government sees it differently, so Ladies and Gentlemen, we officially have a standoff.

Fortunately, I am wiser than I appear, and checked with my friends before heading back down about the feasibility of convincing a taxi to haul me to Masaya. It will probably just cost you double the normal rate, my friends told me. As I approached taxi after taxi, however, the rejection started to magnify. We are on strike…it’s too dangerous…we are on strike. Well, isn’t there any way I can get to Masaya?

Apparently, my wisdom had worn out its welcome. And the anxiety that was absent 5 minutes before started getting the better of me. The taxi rejecters obviously sensed my growing concern, as one of them kindly directed me to a group of Americans waiting for a shuttle. To my great fortune, or dumb luck, there was a family of three on my flight who always calls a shuttle to pick them up at the airport and drive them to their home in Granada. For 15 bucks, the driver was nice enough to pass through Masaya and drop me at my doorstep. Even in the face of a strike.

During the drive from Managua to Masaya there really was no cause for alarm. The “riots” I had heard about were nonexistent. The police I had heard about were not to be seen. Even the roads had a healthy number of cars on them. Perhaps the most uncharacteristic aspect of this drive was my comfort level, my familiarity with the place. You see, the family consisted of two parents and one son. The parents, who visit Nicaragua three times a year to do volunteer work and vacation, engaged me in conversation and seemingly had no urge to observe their surroundings. I, too, found myself drawn to our conversation more than the burning trash, dirt roads, and wooden houses that surrounded our path to Masaya. The son, on the other hand, was making his first visit to Nicaragua. He had little to no part of our conversation, for his eyes fixated on the side windows, carefully taking in the world that probably pales in comparison to his college grounds.

I glanced at him sporadically during my conversation with his folks, and realized I knew exactly how he felt. During my first week, I remember our Micro bus driving through the dirt roads of local villages in extreme poverty. There were the kids that walked around topless with dirt smeared all over their bodies, the wooden and aluminum scrapped walls that appeared as fragile as to topple from a gust of wind. Above all, there was that gut wrenching feeling – that disbelief that these images paint the picture of one-third of our world.

As I stepped out of the shuttle, extended my graciousness to the transportation saviors, and strolled to my front door, I couldn’t help but analyze the distinction between me and the first-timer. Have I stopped looking around? Since when did I stop looking around? Then I entered my home, greeted my family, wandered to my room, and shut my door – a routine similar to the one I practice in Miami. I haven’t stopped looking around, I decided. I just happen to be living instead of looking.

The Moaning Contest

2008-04-15T08:10:00.000-07:00

It started immediately after the drop off of my family at the airport on April 5. Two hours in the heat-ridden cab with a running fever did me no good whatsoever. The Gatorade I lunged for at the local gas station on the way back was way too little too late. As I rolled into my house in the late morning heat, my first instinct was to get the heck out of there and find some A/C to cool down. I trucked my way back to the internet cafe, where I bought myself two hours before hitting rock bottom.

As I rolled into my house again, this time with about 20 visitors who were over for Sunday lunch, I did what I could to ignore everyone and headed straight to my room. So, there I was, inside my room in 95 degree weather, stripped down to my underwear and curled up into a ball under my mosquito net, shivering as if I was lying on a bed of ice. Of the six brain cells that were probably still functioning in my head at the time, five of them were telling me to go to the doctor, while the other just told me to fall asleep. I listened to the majority and headed out the door once again, to a nearby doctor recommended by my organization.

Just being around that white coat lifted up my spirits, but it didn't change the fact that my hydration level was suffering. As the medico slipped some oral hydration packets into my hand, I was reminded of a book I had read while in Nicaragua about the life saving importance of this substance. No doubt, the packets lifted me up immediately, but unfortunately on that particular afternoon I was up against more than whatever was contaminating my system. I was up against the birthday party my host mother was having.

I assumed my host mother's birthday would be like my host father's a few weeks prior. Not a big-to-do. Just a few family members over to share a laugh and cut a cake. But, of course, this one had to be different. Not only did the number of guests at the house balloon from 20 to 40, but my family also hired a band to play in our backyard. Since my little detached room is in the backyard, I basically sat there, with water, oral hydration packets, antibiotics, and fever - as the marching band played outside my door for 3 hours.

There is often no option, especially when you're sick in a developing country, but to take it one step at a time and hope the next day brings something better. This happened for me, as I went to the clinic, drew some body samples, and received some new medication.

Then Wednesday night came.

After completing the second dose of a strong medication with side effects, I started to feel a little on the downside again. My appetite was disappearing, my nausea was increasing, and my body was aching. For whatever reason I will never fully comprehend, my host family saw it acceptable to feed me beans for dinner. I politely declined this offering and set out to the supermarket to buy myself some instant soup. It didn't matter what I chose, because by 11 PM I was basically building a campfire around the toilet bowl.

I tried the change-in-location technique. Falling asleep on various parts of my bed. Attempting some shut-eye on the outside porch. I even took my pillow and blanket to the bathroom with me, just hoping that the proximity would cure my pain. By 1 Am I had just about lost it, and accepted that I would not be getting any sleep that night. In an act of desperation, I called the one person I knew who would be awake at that time, my friend in medical school 9 time zones away. While he did his best to reassure me, his pep talk only bought me an additional 10 minutes. I had no choice but to wake up my host family, who with connections got me to the ER within 5 minutes. Finally...someone who could possibly put me to sleep.

How could I go to the ER in Nicaragua? Well...like in the US, it's always a last resort. And the doctor was there waiting, asking me what was wrong, what I did for a living, what medication I was taking, and ordering me to a bed. He even found it necessary to keep me distracted as the tubes went in, asking me in detail what it took to get a micro-loan.

Withing 20 minutes of arriving in the ER, and after receiving some fluids and meds to kill the pain, I finally found myself falling asleep.

Until the other guy arrived.

He was probably a few years younger than I, surely Nicaraguan, and for some reason had a container of some food product pressed up against his lower right abdomen. I didn't have a clue what was wrong, but before I knew it another doctor had rushed in, asked him about his pain, and pursued the same protocol and stuck him in the bed two down from me.

I'm not sure what it is about moaning, but for some reason it serves as an audible release that some people feel necessary to either express pain or relieve pain. I guess it is kind of like sneezing, in that every person has a personal style. Regardless, this kid felt it necessary to moan so loud as to keep me awake for the next few hours. Having done my fair share of moaning earlier in the night, I felt the noises contagiously spreading, and before I knew it I was moaning as well.

He moaned. I moaned. He moaned. I moaned. It was like we were taking turns chucking 100 pound barbels to each other. And since there was no nurse to witness our display, it carried on and on and on. Finally, at around 4 in the morning and after moaning for about 30 minutes, I made an adjustment and turned on my side. For whatever reason, this eliminated the pain I was feeling. And my moaning finally ceased. Unfortunately, my roommate 2 beds down was compensating for me - and even started screaming for help.

So there we were, two boys tied to IV's in the ER of Masaya screaming...Ayuda! Enfermera! He was screaming for himself. I was screaming on his behalf, and frankly, just to have him stop moaning. I don't know exactly what time it was, but at some point he finally got an injection to kill the pain. I, on the other hand, finally got the sleep I had been longing for, a whopping 3 hours before they sent me home.

So since then? And what now?

That I do not know. After that memorable night and a rescue effort from my Dad to provide the necessary support and care, there was no other logical option but to recuperate from real home. A logical option it certainly is, but it definitely makes you think: what fortune to have options at all.

The First Visitors

2008-04-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

Prologue (recorded on 3 April):

In about 1 hour the first visitors will be arriving in Nicaragua. And with that I have an unfamiliar set of emotions. Excitement, obviously, I’ve missed my family. But also, I have this feeling of immense curiosity.

Have I done a good job describing Nicaragua? Have I done a good job describing my job? My life here? How have I portrayed it? Will it meet, fall short, or exceed expectations?

What will they take away from this visit? Is a long weekend even enough time to take away something? If so, will they see what I see?

When I first heard that my family would be coming to visit me in Nicaragua I immediately had flashbacks to 6 years ago. I was a freshly turned 21-year old living in Madrid, studying at a well-respected university and staying with a host family about five metro stops from the magnificent plaza in Sol. I remember my Dad stirring the fire-burning alcohol, quemada, after a hearty authentic Spanish meal in my host family´s apartment. I remember my Mom commenting over and over about the generous hospitality and caring nature of my host mother, Maribel. Really...I remember just being excited and proud of my surroundings and the beauty of my host country.

I´d say that flashback became a distant memory the moment I picked up my parents and sister by Taxi on Thursday afternoon. I never thought about it until that moment, but Taxi rides serve as quite the fine introduction to Nicaragua. Think about this: a small beat up 1993 Hyundai with no air conditioning, no handles to adjust the windows, and seat belts not to be found. So let´s see, we´ve summed up the air conditioning problem, the lack of technological advancement problem, and the safety and security problem all in one ride. Once you add in the burning trash on the side of the road, and the brutal heat that never lets up you have summed up the environmental and climatic challenges as well.

Needless to say the 1 hour taxi journey to Granada made me and the Fam even more thankful as we stepped foot into a beautiful hotel overlooking the Central Plaza. Until that moment, I wasn't even sure hotels like this existed in Nicaragua. I mean the whole staff spoke comprehensible English, the customer service was beyond satisfactory, and there was a beautiful swimming pool with a mini-fountain in the central courtyard. That false sense of reality that struck me at Selva Negra a few weeks back started creeping into my mind again, but this was clearly much different. You see, my family didn't come down as tourists to Nicaragua to vacation - they came down to spend time with family. Plus, typical me, I had an itinerary planned that would surely give them a taste of the life.

Even though I started feeling a little bit under the weather, the next day ran exactly as planned. We started Friday morning with a private boat tour of the Granada Isletas, a nice touristy activity to capture the lifestyle of the country's elite as well as to interact with some randomly stranded monkeys. We followed that up with a visit to Masaya, my hometown, when my host family had us over for lunch, and where the language barrier couldn't be any more evident. I always find it a shame, really, that two nice families cannot even get to know each other because a simple language barrier. They could have everything in common - share the same values, share the same dreams - and still never know it. I did my best to play translator, but let's face it, I'm not a professional translator and I already know both families as well as I can, so my own curiosity is not really at stake here. The only thing at stake was our health, for the afternoon sun started creeping in, and we had about 4 more hours of serious heat to cope with.

After a short tour of the city and a brief stint in the air-conditioned internet cafe, the hour I had been waiting for had finally arrived. Nobody in my family knew it at the time, but as much as the heat was wearing them down and as much as they wanted to go back to the hotel, I would allow no such action to take place. Instead, our taxi took us out to the nearby suburb that lies 5 kilometers Southwest of Masaya’s Central Park and 25 minutes by foot from my home, La Villa Betania.

As our taxi rolled over piles of dirt and pulled up to the porch we call our meeting place, I could sense a shift of emotions. It was the same shift that I experience virtually every time I step foot in the Villa, the shift from sympathy to outright disbelief. Per usual, only one person arrived on time, which left my family not only a little antsy, but also wondering, is this thing going to actually happen? Indeed it did. We had a turnout of eight kids, showing up in Nica fashion between 20 minutes - 40 minutes late, with my family looking on and my Dad even taking a few minutes to play some "catch" with the kids in the neighborhood.

Without a doubt our meeting in the Villa Betania was our finest hour together. For that hour we cared nothing about the excessive heat that had beaten us down all day, the excessive amounts of dust that had stained our bodies, or the excessive grease that had filled our bowels for lunch. We cared nothing about all of the little tiny pieces that make one wonder why exactly am I here? We cared nothing about anything, because in the Villa, there is only one thing that really matters: trying to make a difference in the community.

If you know my family, you know that conversation and chatter is never a lagging concept. But for some reason, as we left the village and headed back to our nice hotel in Granada, the need for conversation was simply not there. Amongst the four of us, I think we all clearly understood what the other was feeling. And, for the first time, someone else witnessed and understood why my time in the Villa Betania always seems to make up the finest hour of my day.

Epilogue (recorded on April 14):

"This place is like living in the 1930's with internet," my Dad commented.

More correct he probably couldn't be (I can't be sure because I was born in the 80's). Regardless, the comment carries water. For no matter how well I describe it, or how many pictures I splash on the screen, no matter how many times I rant or preach, renounce or profess, clarify or confuse, or write in outright disbelief, there is truly no conceivable way to understand any single bit of it unless you actually step foot into the atmosphere.

Taking a Cold Shower

2008-04-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

It looks innocent…doesn’t it? I mean the head looks normal. The amount of space looks adequate. Even the decor seems to work.

The truth is I feel blessed to have running water, a functioning bathroom, and a tile floor to stand on. Yet, all of these perks, while physical and beneficial, fail to deliver one integral component: hot water. Like every other unfamiliar task that presents itself, the only real option is to make adjustments – to minimize the downsides – to maximize the experience. After about 100 showers in 66 days (it’s really hot down here), I like to think I know a little bit about this subject. That said, I’ve outlined the following process to offer a dose of the daily routine, and in the event that a future situation should render you hot waterless.

Rule #1: Accept your fate

Unfortunately, taking a cold shower not only requires physical tolerance but mental preparation as well. In other words, be very clear before you step in: You will not look forward to this; you will probably not find it refreshing; you will probably not grow accustomed to it. Setting the appropriate expectations is the most important part of the process because if you think for one second that this particular shower will be any easier or enjoyable than the previous one, you are kidding yourself. Understand what lies ahead and it will serve you well in the long term.

Rule #2: Head first

One tool of the trade that I have learned to utilize is the thickness of my skull. After turning on the shower while staying out of the water’s path, you must position yourself where the water only strikes your head. You can achieve this by simply looking down and leaning your neck forward, the same way you look at your feet. This is critical because initially you want to prevent the cold water from making direct contact with your skin – it’s just painful and causes you to make awkward humiliating...ahhhhhhhhh... noises. Therefore, anticipate your pain and act accordingly.

Rule #3: The 180

While the 180 sounds tricky, its importance is actually more significant than its level of difficulty. After your forward-leaning skull adjusts to the temperature, quickly rotate your body around 180 degrees so that your head is now tilted back and is still the only body part making direct contact with the water. Remember, the key to enduring the cold shower is to avoid direct contact with the skin for as long as possible. That said, by tilting your head back the water will drip down from your skull and deflect to parts of your body. But I said no contact with the skin, right? True, but at some point you do have to wash yourself. This method puts off direct contact with the skin initially, and instead embraces the idea of indirect contact. This indirect contact or water deflection will allow you to ease into the temperature, as opposed to dealing with an all-out direct immediate shocker.*

*Some of you may disagree with this approach. You are the people that dive into the cold swimming pool to "get it over with." My recommendation is the opposite, and resembles lowering your body into a cold swimming pool one limb at a time. Honestly, it's a personality thing. Accept or reject: It's up to you!

Rule #4: Maintain temperature

After the indirect contact of the water has spread to most parts of your body, there is obviously no other option but to engage in full direct contact. By this point you should be adjusted fairly well to the temperature, and the focus should shift to temperature maintenance. It is critical to keep your body wet, because if you start to dry up in one particular area you are basically starting back at square one. For many of you this may not be a problem, but with my shower head and the minimal amount of water it sprays I have to constantly monitor this. So keep the water coming, soap yourself up, and then proceed to the final wash.

Rule #5: Acknowledge your accomplishment

As you desperately reach for that towel to provide the warmth and comfort you have been longing for, realize that you have just accomplished something. And while this in no way prepares you for an easier or more enjoyable shower tomorrow, at the very least you gain some confidence and realize that it is not as bad as it seems.

If you have any questions or concerns about taking a cold shower, please free to contact me. In fact, I have some questions of my own. For example, if this temperature was all I knew throughout my life, as is the case with most Nicaraguans, would it still feel cold? Would I even consider it cold? Conversely, if this temperature was all I knew throughout my life, how would I feel if I came across hot water?

Strange questions to ask but they certainly have relevance. Mind you, what's unfamiliar for some is not unfamiliar for all.

For you? Or for me?

2008-03-25T15:48:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I did something that I haven't done in 26.52 years. I took an Easter holiday. La Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is a national holiday here in Nicaragua, and people either a) observe religiously b) rush to the most popular beaches, pound a few beers, and pass out in the sand.

As you probably guessed, I decided to do neither. Instead, I found myself desperately stewing over my overwhelming defeat a few weeks back for a retreat in the mountains. So with nobody mandating my presence, and without a unanimous vote, I finally got my way.

After a brief, tranquilo visit on Wednesday evening with the lone volunteer in the 3,200 person town of Chaguitillo, I pushed my way onto a bus on Thursday afternoon where I joined another volunteer and her friend who was visiting. Destination: Selva Negra – a coffee farm resort in the middle of the Nicaragua's northern mountains. Up to this point, I had serious doubts about the amenities of a Nicaraguan resort. But I learned from my previous trips / mistakes and lowered my expectations appropriately.

The minute that we pulled up to the gate and there was actually a guard on duty, I had a feeling we were in good hands. And when we pushed open the door to our Youth Hostel, saw an enclosed roof, a private bathroom with hot water, and 3 separate beds, there was no doubt we were in good hands.

Almost every Nicaraguan I told before departure about this trip to the North said two things:

“Wow…that’s nice…it’s supposed to be pretty up there. And it is really cold!”

“Is it cold for you? Or is it cold for me?” I would politely respond.

“Well. Cold for me I guess.”

Normally, when a Nicaraguan says it’s cold it’s really about 75 degrees with a little bit of shade. I immediately respond by explaining the landscape of the United States, and how the North basically freezes during the winter. Now that’s cold…I insist. This time, however, the Nicaraguan radar was somewhat accurate. Parked in the middle of the mountains between Matagalpa and Jinotega, Selva Negra is probably about 20 degrees cooler than Masaya. I’ll be honest – I ordered hot coffee, hot tea or hot chocolate during almost every meal. I clasped my arms together to battle the wind chill. And I even slept with a comforter for the first time since arriving in this sauna.

The Nicaraguan radar was also accurate about the beauty of this resort. Surrounded by forests and coffee trees with a lake plastered front and center, it was like an entirely different country. There was almost nothing in this resort that resembled any aspect of my day-to-day living. Between the professionalism, cleanliness, amount of foreigners, and greenery, I couldn’t help but consider it a false sense of reality.

We filled our mornings hiking the beautiful mountains, for Selva Negra boasts 14 hiking trails and monkey observation posts. Unfortunately, during our first night the skies opened up, and we found ourselves slipping and sliding all theway up and down the trails. At one point I think I even sat in the same squat position for five minutes, knowing that my next step would leave me about 6-8 feet below my current position. As for the afternoons, they were simply filled with the tours of the coffee farm, a book by the lake, or a refreshing nap.

When it was all over, the beautiful hikes, the hearty meals, and the gorgeous scenery tallied up to approximately $150 / person for three days. I know what you’re thinking: not a bad price at all…especially for a boy with no income. Yet, I failed to mention the significance of the first comment every Nicaraguan made before I went on my trip.

“Wow…that’s nice…it’s supposed to be pretty up there. And it is really cold!”

The truth is most Nicaraguans I spoke to about this trip have never actually been to Selva Negra. Even if they have they certainly didn’t spend three days there, but more likely an afternoon. Many of them know from word-of-mouth that it is pretty and cold, but that’s where it ends. I distinctly remember unveiling the holiday itinerary to my Spanish tutor, and the conversation that followed:

“$15 per night for the room…that’s expensive,” he said.

“For you? Or for me?” I politely responded.

“For everyone!”

Did I mention the false sense of reality? I’m getting a nightly bargain for the same amount nearly half of Nicaragua earns in an entire week.

La Villa Betania

2008-03-17T16:56:00.000-07:00

Approximately 5 kilometers Southwest of Masaya’s Central Park and 25 minutes by foot from my home, there is a quiet village that few people know about. It consists of about 60 homes, 250 people, excessive amounts of dust as well as dogs, roosters, and pigs. It has one water source, a well located at the end of the second street, which serves the entire community. With no public lighting, the residents resort to barbed wire as a primary defense of their homes. And to top it off, the unpaved dirt roads make it virtually impossible to commute with any comfort whatsoever.

Welcome to the Villa Betania. A place I’ve come to know well because it is the focus of my work. The term Villa is a familiar one. But Betania was named after the late daughter of an American man, who constructed a majority of the houses in her memory.

I first came into contact with Villa Betania during my second week on the job. It was 6:00PM on a Friday evening, and I was accompanying the local development division of my organization as a bystander once again. Just like the other rural training sessions, we set up shop in a primitive commonplace – dirt floors, no furniture, an overhead light, and out in the open, welcoming mosquitoes and all other living creatures that wanted to make an appearance. The meeting began as expected, with our team doing the talking, the 30 community attendees doing the listening, and the little kids running around and doing the distracting. I just sat there in silence, desperately wondering how I could contribute to this training session and desperately questioning what benefit, in general, my presence was serving.

As our local development leader, Maria Lidia, carried on in her comforting voice about the importance of leadership and the importance of working as a team, a voice in the back angrily interjected.

“How do you expect us to work as a team, when we have leaders here who make decisions on behalf of the community without consulting anyone?”

The tension rose. My ears perked up. And the diatribe continued.

“How can we work for the future of our community like this? What good does it do if these people are in charge?”

The venting went on for an hour. Our team hardly said a word. And it all culminated in the man who was being attacked, standing up, and walking out of the meeting.

Fortunately, the argument came to a halt and we were able to preserve the final five minutes of the meeting for its intended purpose: to review the list of goals the community had set out to accomplish in 2008.

Potable water
Paved Roads
Neighborhood Watch program
Day Care Center
Public Lighting
Creation of a Park
Formation of a Youth Group

I’m not sure what it was, but something about the disagreement and the goals for 2008 intrigued me. As if the community had unintentionally dragged us into their personal struggle and asked for help. Obviously, I wanted nothing to do with the politics and tension between the community members. But in terms of organizing and consulting with the community to help reach their goals for 2008, I felt like I could possibly make a difference.

Call me naïve, for it is now six week later and my work has drifted away from most of the goals except one – lucky number 7. You see, when I first arrived there had been plenty of talk in the village of youths taking a more active role in the community, especially since many of them were on scholarships and proving success in their new opportunities. But just because there was talk didn’t mean anything was happening. I decided to attend a meeting with the youths, and ask them if they wanted assistance and help organizing a community project. I’m not sure if kids just say “yes” to everything or they actually wanted help from a Gringo, but they accepted my offer.

Since then several things have happened. We officially established ourselves as Unidad Juvenil, or Youthful Unity, and meet multiple times a week in the evenings or on the weekends. After several brainstorming sessions, we decided to launch an illiteracy fighting project in the neighborhood. Just this past Saturday our group of 10 conducted a survey and about 25 illiterate residents expressed interest. And, just this morning, I went with 5 members of the group to the local government office, reported our findings, and set up a meeting and training session tomorrow in La Villa Betania to officially kick off our project.

Some people ask - If you work for a microfinance institution, why are you primarily working with community projects and youths?

Practical Answer: There is an entire division in our organization dedicated to local outreach, with the hope that through education and training people will form cooperatives or even pursue microcredit one day. Plus, I’ve been out with the credit promoters, witnessed microfinance in action, and although it is fascinating, it seems rather procedural and systematic.

Emotional Answer: Imagine life in the village from the description above.

Need I say more?

Nicaragua es mi cuerpo…Masaya mi corazón

2008-03-09T15:49:00.000-07:00

About a week ago our group of five volunteers was forced into a retreat weekend on the Pacific Ocean about an hour Southwest of Masaya, to a place called Masachapa. I realize “forced” may be a strong word to describe a free weekend on the beach. But as a guy who is not really a beach lover, and whose idea for a weekend in the mountains was unanimously vetoed, I really had no other way to view my participation.

The point of this retreat was to “get away” for a weekend: To forget about the highs and the lows, the frustrations, and the slow pace of life; to reflect upon our experiences and share them with others; to simply have fun. It was also a requirement for our involvement in the program, and a rather effective one. That’s if you pick the right place, of course.

I was told I should arrive a day early because we had a five-person “suite” that overlooks the ocean. I caved in immediately, failing to consider what a “suite” in Nicaragua would entail, and failing to align my expectations for a slow beach weekend in a very slow country.

Our “suite” was, in fact, only one room – a modest space with three beds (two doubles and one single), lined up in a row. We had a 20 inch TV hanging from the ceiling, a fan we never figured out how to turn on, an A/C unit that never got colder than 80 grados, and a sink that failed to provide running water. Add in the scorching temperatures, lack of purified water, and essentially one dining option (our hotel restaurant) which my recently bacteria-filled friend classified as “medium-risk,” and there you have it – a beach weekend in Nicaragua.

I’d be lying if I told you the weekend was a total loss. Just like every day in the life, there were highs and lows. It was nice spending four hours on Saturday night shooting the breeze on our balcony overlooking the Pacific, while intensely arguing over the true location of the Big Dipper. It was nice to learn that if you accidentally swallow a mosquito and your throat starts swelling that there is no need to panic because you can still breathe through your nose. And, for a real change, it was nice to miss the comfort of my bed, the well-cooked meals, and the livelihood of my hometown, Masaya.

Masaya, the city of flowers, and the place I have so eloquently described for better or worse in previous posts. It never appeared so beautiful before. And it never occurred to me how much I liked it until I “got away.” This is good news though, because I’ve begun to embrace my evolving affinity for the community. Surely, it helps that my Sunday students and teachers stop me in the street or the local bar to practice their broken English. And that the villagers have started greeting me with a distant wave as I roam by their houses for another meeting. And, on the personal side, that I’ve fully integrated into the beat on Sunday afternoons, when my host family operates a lunch business out of our home as friends, family, and community members flock to the scene to enjoy some tasty food, Spanish tunes, and a few brews.

When I first arrived I found it a little odd that all over this city the community walls profess: Nicaragua is my body…Masaya my heart. Even though this slogan is still a bit of a stretch for me, it rings a little more true with every passing day.

Land of Volcanoes, Lakes, and Everything Else

2008-03-03T12:11:00.000-08:00

As I unlock the chain to my front gate every morning I have two overriding thoughts: 1) It feels so nice to walk to work as opposed to driving or taking a metro 2) I’m not looking forward to this walk because it is emotionally taxing. Now how could that be? How could someone have two thoughts that describe the same activity and completely contradict each another?

Picture your favorite stroll in your hometown - the one that satisfies your appetite for peace and tranquility. Now imagine this stroll sprinkled with trash along your path, populated with malnourished animals, some of which are used as modes of transportation, and piles of dust polluting the air, as if someone just kicked sand in your face. Imagine the sound of screeching car beeps, the roaring of motorcycle engines, and a conglomeration of peculiar stenches you can never pinpoint. In so many words this is the contradiction of my walk to work – the idea of how I want it to be, and the reality of what it actually is.

Lately, I’ve come to believe that life in Nicaragua is a grind. True, I can only speak from my perspective in this urban sprawling known as Masaya, but it’s probably a feeling that permeates in other parts of this country. Having grown up in a completely different environment, I am certainly more sensitive to this grind, and don’t entirely accept it as “just the way things are.” It’s tough to accept the trash along the university walls knowing that a garbage can is in walking distance. It’s tough to accept the frail horses that gallop down the streets pulling a cart of people behind. It’s even tough to accept the constant honking of the taxi’s, which even when you’re walking the opposite direction, will still make a pass at you.

A few weeks back I decided to escape the urban setting, indulge in my hiking fetish and take to the Masaya Volcano National Park. I took the advice of my host family and waited for the bus en route to Managua, which passes by my house. Taking a bus in Nicaragua is like taking the metro or subway in any major US city during heaviest rush hour. Armpits, noise, sweat – it’s got it all!

I stayed close to the front of the bus so I wouldn’t miss my stop, and jumped out on the highway next to the entrance to the National Park. As I entered the grounds those feelings of peace and tranquility finally came to me. For the first time since entering the Land of Volcanoes and Lakes I felt alone with the sounds of nature. I walked a little more than a kilometer beforeI hit the visitor’s center. There I checked in with the park rangers where they relayed my physical description – black hair, gray shirt, and white skin – to the other rangers at the top.

I trucked along by myself, on the so-called path that was really a road. There was nothing around me except large volcanoes, hills, and occasionally a passing vehicle. Every ten minutes or so, I stopped, turned around, and made sure to take in the scenery I never see in the day-to-day grind. As I reached the top of the four kilometer trek, peering down at this beautiful countryside, it was clear my appetite had been satisfied. Sure, it’s always nice to achieve that simple goal of reaching the top of a Volcano. But more importantly, it is easy to forget the poverty, the trash, the animals, and the dust when standing on the peak of natural beauty.

I spent minimal time philosophizing about how a country so beautiful above can be so challenged below. And even though my stroll only lasted three hours, it was enough to settle the contradictory thoughts that enter my mind as I unlock the chain to my front gate every morning.

The Stand Off

2008-02-25T07:26:00.000-08:00

I knew I shouldn’t have walked our site coordinator home. But I was doing the honorable thing - walking a girl home through the dark streets of Nicaragua late at night. I flagged down a cab in a matter of moments, gave him the prerequisite information of my destination, and hopped in. Up to this point, I never really had a problem with the cabbies in this little town. Of course, they sneak a peak at my skin, realize they can take advantage of me, and consequently do so. Case in point: from the same departure point I’ve been charged as little as 10 Cordoba’s (about 50 cents) and as much as 20 Cordoba’s (about 1 dollar). Let’s face it though, as a stranger in a strange land, I’m not going to go AWOL over 50 cents…so I thought at least.

As the cab navigated to my house, picking up and dropping off someone else along the way, I could sense the sketchiness in the air. I gave him the typical directions from the Parque de la Reforma, which serves as the reference point for my house since the streets have no names. As he pulled over to the side of the road, and delivered the pleasantly surprising fee of 10 Cordoba’s, I reached into my pocket and presented a 100 Cordoba bill, a standard denomination which is about 5 dollars.

“I don’t have change,” the burly man grunted.

“Well, this is all I got,” the obvious retort.

“Well, then go into you house, and get change!”

“You don’t understand, I don’t have any change in my house.”

“Then I’ll wait until you find some.”

And the stand off began.

I refused to give the man my 100 Cordoba’s. And as a result he refused to leave. He turned off the engine to the car, bellowed a painful groan, and sat there…in silence. Again, being a stranger in a strange land, I didn’t feel comfortable just hopping out of the cab in the middle of the night and running for it, with the potential of a foot chase, car chase, or who knows what. We were also about 2 houses away from my own, and the last thing I wanted to do was lead him to where I actually lived.

Another minute crept by and the anxiety set in.

What the heck am I doing? I’m sitting here in the middle of a dark road in the middle of the night thinking I’m going to outwait this Nicaraguan cab driver. This is what he does all day…he waits! He waits for customers to enter his cab, waits at traffic lights, and waits for ignorant riders like me to take advantage of.

This was a tough call for me, because as a man of principal, how could I possibly give this guy a Cordoba more than he deserved? After all…this is his job…to provide change to his customers! I knew deep down, as much as I hated to give in to the man, that I was the only one with the power to negotiate here.

“How much change do you have, Sir?” I asked politely.

“Ehhhh…”

“Do you have eighty Cordoba’s?”

“No.”

“Seventy?”

“No.”

“Sixty?”

“Ah…si!”

Finally, we had reached a number to settle – a number that would quadruple my fare. But I didn’t relent that quickly. I asked him angrily how he could drive around without change. I asked him if he was lying to me. As he rummaged through his car, opening all of the compartments to show me he had no change, it dawned on me that I had made the rookie mistake. Granted – the man should carry change…but I had to chalk this one up on the Lessons Learned from Cab Riding in Nicaragua handbook. Always ask if the driver has change before you step in the cab. A simple thought, but one I definitely take for granted living in the States.

I handed the man my 100 Cordoba bill, accepted the 60 Cordoba’s in return, and fled to my house. Believe it or not, he was sincere and apologetic. Certainly a lot more apologetic than the cab driver who ran out of gas on us a few weeks back. But that’s the way it goes in Nicaragua, and the price you sometimes pay for being a stranger in a strange land.

Being a Gringo in Masaya

2008-02-18T07:40:00.000-08:00

My day abruptly begins around 6:00AM, as the great beasts next door bark as if their fighting for the last remaining piece of meat on this planet. My buddy talks about poisoning these dogs, but I’m pretty sure that’s illegal even under Nicaraguan law. As I roll over in bed, quasi-awake from Cujo and company, I am next awoken whenever the wind blows…literally! Just above my aluminum roof is a giant tree with many loose limbs. As the wind blows the branches fall. And as the branches fall, they crash onto my roof. I’ve developed a standard response protocol for this since it happens multiple times a night: 1) I awake up in a panic 2) I scan the room with my flashlight on the off chance there is forcible entry 3) I settle down, close my eyes, and continue to dream.

When 6:45AM strikes my alarm officially goes off. I make my way to the bathroom, prep myself accordingly, and then proceed to shave and comb my hair in the absence of a mirror. No kidding, I haven’t seen myself in over three weeks. So how do I shave? Well, I’ve been using a straight-edge for about 2 years now, and have a pretty good sense of how to maneuver around my face. My only concern is that I will shave too high and encroach on my sideburns. But, since I don’t have a mirror, I guess I never really know.

When I open my door around 7:25AM I am usually greeted by my host father, Luis Alberto. Not to be confused with Luis Enrique (the son), or Luis Eduardo (the grandson). Usually, the opening of my door is like the “Bat Signal,” only for my breakfast. I plop my butt down at the dining room table, open a book and I await to eat. The style of eggs tends to vary, but there is always one guarantee – Gallo Pinto. Gallo Pinto is pretty much the “hamburger” of Nicaragua. It is fried rice and beans, and is served with almost every meal. If it weren’t for the protein, I would have a tough time downing it. But since it’s a part of the diet here, you either accept it or you go hungry.

As I trek to work at 7:45AM, I’m often surrounded by mothers walking their little children to school down the same busy street. When I arrive at my office door fifteen minutes later I tap on the glass and the security guard lets me in. Since we’re like a mini-bank, we have a security guard at all times. The only difference is I don’t have to flash a badge, then swipe a badge, and then swipe a badge again as I did in my government days. After slipping the good old “Buenos dias” to the work crew, I walk back to the little nook I share with Claudia and Sandra, turn on the fan, and fix myself a cup of instant coffee.

I work through the morning after an initial meeting with my boss and a stint in the field with the promoters, and reverse course back to my house for lunch. Like breakfast, I’m almost always greeted by a family member, typically my host mother, Maria Rosa, or the daughter, Carina. Within moments, lunch is served, usually in the form of fried plantains, fried chicken, and white rice. Aside from the inordinate amounts of grasa (fat), I really have no qualms about the food. I get my read on one more time and then head back to work.

Now, walking to work post-lunch is much different from walking to work post-breakfast. The little ones in the morning usually give me a blank stare, curiously wondering why my skin looks different from theirs. In the afternoon, however, the wonder is replaced by vigilance – as the teenage eyes lock, follow, and stare down the Gringo – until I pass.

I enter the office around 1:00PM and go through the same routine, only this time with a “Buenas tardes.” I hop on my computer, do some email checking, research, and news reading, and prep for the afternoon community outreach workshop our office conducts. When my day ends around 5:30PM I hitch a ride home from our workshop, enter my house, and am greeted again by the family, which is normally watching TV in their rocking chairs known as abuelitas. They ask me about my day, about what time I want to eat, and then tune back into the tele.

The moment I enter my room I head straight for the shower. When you combine the dust in the street, the saturating bug repellant on my body, and the sweat I accumulate walking back and forth multiple times a day, it makes for a pretty filthy Gringo. I make my way to the shower, hoping that the water is running, and ease into the cold intermittent splashes. When there is no cold running water, I resort to the cold bucket shower – which really isn’t as bad as it seems. In fact, if everyone took bucket showers, I have a feeling we’d save quite a bit of water in this world…think about it.

After dinner with the family, some chit-chat, and inexplicable high, screechy baby noises at Luis Eduardo, I typically head back to my room, figure out my plans for the evening, if any, and carry on. All I know is by bedtime I’m pooped, and really just want to crawl into bed and read a book. When I return home into darkness from another power outage, like right now, I’ll usually grab my laptop and type away under my mosquito net (which is more like my fortress by now). Before closing my eyes, I take my flashlight one last time, scan the fortress in search of intruders that will eat me alive in my sleep, and call it a day…

Until the dogs bark...again.

Perspectiva

2008-02-10T15:57:00.000-08:00

My first day on the job I entered the non-air-conditioned facade with a long sleeve shirt, slacks, and beads of sweat streaming down my cheeks, only to find out I’d be attending a strategic planning workshop for leather shoemakers. Sounds interesting, right? Well…it was…for the first hour or two. As my eyelids got heavier and heavier I reached into my bag of government experience and deployed the “staying awake” tactics. I got up and pretended to go to the bathroom, stretched my limbs, and returned to my seat with the hope that I would actually learn something about strategic planning. Even though I had no such luck, I realized immediately that my job would not be about building “knowledge” in its traditional sense. Instead, the true benefit would come in building perspective.

The workshop about strategic planning on Day 1 offered the perspective of the local leather shoemakers, where I listened to the simplistic visions of these niche businesses. As we split up into groups I felt obligated to make some sort of contribution. After we went through the basics and answered all of the questions about the strengths, weaknesses, and goals of their business, I took a minute to talk to the dominating voice of our group.

“Fernando, what are the real goals of your business?” I asked.
“To sell more, to go international, to improve,” he responded.
“That’s great. But how are you going to do that? What do you need?”
“Better machinery.”
“And what if you can’t get better machinery?”
“Then I can’t improve.”
“Is there anything else you can do to grow your business?”
“No. Only better machinery.”

That was it. There was no mention of anything else aside from this machinery. There was no mention of stylistic change. There was no mention of relocation, or different marketing techniques. There was certainly no mention of using the internet. In Fernando’s mind, there was only one solution to his problem – machinery – which he doesn’t have and he can’t afford.

The parent/child workshop on Day 2 offered a slightly more uplifting perspective, for we asked the parents and the children to split up into groups and express through drawings the concerns in their lives. First, we had the perspective of the parents, which was characterized by drawings of money shortages, workers commuting or moving to better-paying countries, and unemployment. Then, we had the perspective of the children, which was more or less characterized by drawings of themselves, sitting at their school desks with inner-monologue clouds about their heads thinking about their future. So typical – children always thinking of themselves! Yet, it was invigorating to see that in spite of challenges, children still have the vision, creativity, and ability to dream.

Without a doubt, the most humbling perspective struck on Day 4, when a coworker and I went out into the field for credit solicitation. Our first stop was a regular borrower from our organization who operates a tortilla business in her backyard. Now, by backyard I mean an area the size of a one-car garage, with a dirt floor, wooden table, and spotty covering – like the picnic area of a run-down park. This woman, with her two assistants, is known for making the best and biggest tortilla in the neighborhood. With the microcredit, she was able to purchase the two giant tortilla pans that rest on the naturally-generated burners on the back table. About ten minutes into our visit, a local came by and purchased four tortillas. I thought to myself…wow, four tortillas for one customer, not bad! Then I saw the monetary exchange, at 2 Cordoba’s (about 10 cents) per tortilla, and thought to myself again…even if she has good day of 30 customers, and they each buy 4 tortillas, she will generate 12 dollars of revenue for a full day’s work. Minus materials and labor…you do the math.

Even though the first week of work placed me in observation mode, I quickly learned about the scopes of the businesses and people my organization works with. We have the local salespeople who spend their days in the market, the local youths and adults who seek out more education, and the backyard business owners who operate on neighborhood reputation. There was something about those visits on Day 4 that just didn’t sit well though. As we sat in prospective clients´ homes, I found myself not only scanning the room in awe of the conditions, but also in search of threatening mosquitoes that would possibly attack me. Talk about perspective: I’m concerned about a mosquito bite. They’re probably concerned about anything but.

Bienvenido a Nicaragua

2008-02-01T10:25:00.000-08:00

It took about five minutes for the Nicaraguan culture to sink in. As Sarah (another volunteer) and I exited the plane, we were welcomed with a massive, around-the-corner line to get through customs. At one point I don’t think we moved for literally 20 minutes. By the time we got our bags and left the airport, we were two hours behind schedule. Two hours of delay is even a stretch by Nicaraguan standards, but we learned quickly that waiting, delays, cancellations are a part of every day life.

That theme continued throughout the week, as each of our orientation activities started 45 minutes, sometimes an hour late. No worries though, I welcomed this mentality very quickly. On Wednesday we had a workshop scheduled at 4:30 PM, after a swim in La Laguna de Apoyo, one of Nicaragua’s nicest, clean-watered lagoons. Now, let me ask you this: If you give six volunteers and one program coordinator a free afternoon on the beach, what are the odds they will respect the start time of a 4:30 meeting? Needless to say, this one took the cake, and we didn’t begin until 8:00 PM.

Tardiness is hardly a major problem in this country, especially compared to the severity of poverty that can be seen on the street corners of Managua. It is not unusual to see houses the size of a studio apartment, made of cement blocks, and covered by a wood or aluminum roof. It is not unusual to see a vendor at traffic lights, begging you to buy food, water, or the latest prensa. Most disturbingly, it is not unusual to see children run up and down the streets begging for money. This reality is tough to swallow, for these kids are taught from an early age to ask people for money. Even though the money is probably going to parent or another family member, this is what the children are taught to do, and in many cases this is what they must do to survive.

The most thought-provoking activity of the week took place in Masaya, my new hometown. Masaya is known for their local markets, which flourish with crafts and other artisan works. Our group leader paired up the six of us, and gave us a scenario we had to complete with Cordoba’s (the local currency). With these 40 Cordoba’s (approximately 2 dollars), we had to find a way to heal our 1 year old baby who was plagued with diarrhea, buy the daily food ration for our family, and buy some school supplies for our 8 year-old in school. After buying the diarrhea medication 85% of our stash was gone, which left us with basically nothing to buy food and school supplies. We spent the next half hour prioritizing our purchases and bargaining with the locals. In the end, we bought half a pound of rice and 12 mini-bananas, enough food for only three people, while completely neglecting the school supplies for our 8-year-old.

This exercise reflects the decisions that many Nicaraguans must make on a daily basis. With a finite amount of money, most of which is below the poverty line, they are forced to prioritize the necessities in their lives. Needless to say, many of those necessities, like the food ration and school supplies, are neglected, and the cycle continues. There is no simple way to characterize the problem, but in Banker to the Poor, Muhammad Yunus, economist and 2006 Nobel Peace Prize winner, writes about the local villages of his native Bangladesh by saying,

“I theorized about sums in the millions of dollars, but here before my eyes the problems of life and death were posed in terms of pennies. Something was wrong.”

Bangladesh, Nicaragua, wherever - I couldn’t agree more.

Countdown Galore

2008-01-25T23:01:00.000-08:00

5 hours till I wake up...6 hours till I leave for the airport...9 hours till I takeoff...12 hours till I land... and then who the heck knows. What I do know is that I've got 4 bags packed to the brim, one of which is sure to cost me $100 for being overweight, and enough bug spray to possibly fumigate all of Nicaragua.

It's difficult to sum up what I'm feeling right now. Obviously, I'm a little tired because it's 2:15 AM. But mostly it's a combination of excitement, apprehension, hope, and caution. Excitement to return to work in an evolving field. Apprehension to enter the third world for the first time. Hope to make a difference at work and in my community. And caution about the realities of safety and security in an unknown world.

With that, there is not much left to say except farewell, adios, shalom, and ciao. Whatever becomes of the next several months, I know it will be an eye-opening experience.

Be Safe There. Immunize Here.

2008-01-04T19:25:00.000-08:00

Today was a day I was not looking forward to. You guessed it - it was immunization day.

As I sat in waiting area number one, frantically calling my previous physician to find out how I'd been shot up in the past, the anxiety started kicking in. What if I've gotten an immunization already and they give me another one? What if I'm allergic to something and don't even know it? What if I've waited too long and the immunization won't be active before I get there?

After about an hour of torturous hypothetical's, the Physician Assistant (PA) called me in. My anxiety quickly turned to discontent as I weighed in at my record high - 170 lbs. Call it what you will, but this is the same kid who entered college at a buck-37. I was less than pleased, and, naturally, started rationalizing the situation. That shirt's got to be half a pound...same with the shorts...and the hat. Oh yeah, and I just ate like 4 hours ago...so that's got to be the reason.

As the PA left me again, this time in the examination room, I strolled from one wall to the next. To my right was a nice big color-coded map of the world, like the ones you see in history class. Only on this particular map there were no labels - no ocean titles, no country titles, no nothing. Instead, this map was a world-wide representation of Hepatitis. And the color codes represented each type of Hepatitis, and where it is prevalent in the world. My eyes locked on to an area that appeared to be Nicaragua, and vaccination #1 became clear - I would getting some Hepatitis A.

I shifted to my left, glancing at the little gadgets that filled the room, until I came across another pretty looking poster with all sorts of scenery and crafts. As I read the message "AFRICA IS AMAZING...TYPHOID FEVER IS NOT," vaccination #2 became clear to me as well...I would be getting some Typhoid.

An hour later my doctor finally arrived. Even though he appeared only slightly older than I, there is something about that white coat that made me trust the man. I mean, it's not like they sell those things on a street corner. Or even if they did, it would take an awful lot of work, brains, and creativity to pretend to be a physician, and actually have people buy off on it. I never caught the man's name, but he did deliver the news. It would be Hep A, and some Typhoid pills.

I fired all of the questions I had, covering side effects, effectiveness, longevity, and pain. And then it was over. Another PA came into the room, administered the Hep A, and I was on my way. I even had my typhoid pills on an ice pack to keep them at proper temperature.

As the elevator descended from Sunshine Medical it suddently hit me...I AM GOING TO NICARAGUA. After all of the thought, research, and time that went into this idea of returning overseas, it is now becoming an imminent reality. Three weeks from tomorrow I'll be on my way. And while awaiting immunizations in an examination room is not exactly the ideal place for a reality check, it's better than waiting for that very first night, when I experience the power of a mosquito net.

I'm sorry...Where are you going?

2007-12-30T18:05:00.000-08:00

Here I am. The day before New Year's Eve. Less than 4 weeks until departure and a fraction more than 24 hours until 2008. I've got the quasi-outdoorsy look going already, the one where I pretend to be back in college by growing out my 'fro and having sideburns that require a comb, followed by a tuck behind my ears. Factor in my unshaven face and I'm pretty much back to a life of what seems like little care, and little responsibility.
Lucky (or some may call it unlucky) for me, I've learned a bit about responsibility since graduating from college. I've learned about professional responsibility - the kind that requires you to wear a dry-cleaned shirt and tie to work even though you're staring at a computer screen all day. I've learned about financial responsibility - the kind that requires you to carefully watch your credit charges, pay your bills promptly, and accumulate a little stash. Lastly, I've learned about social responsibility - the kind that requires you to look out for the people you care about, yourself, and the community you live in.
It is impossible to quantify how much I've learned about responsibility over the past three and half years. But it's all culminating now, as I prepare for a journey I've longed for since studying abroad in Spain 5 years ago.
In about a month, I'll be heading to Masaya (the city of flowers), which is located about 45 minutes Southeast of Managua, Nicaragua. I will be working for a Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) that specializes in Microfinance - simply put, financial services for small businesses. My day-to-day activities I do not know, but I hope to put the skill sets I've developed over the past three and half years to good use, and help others in need. For those of you with follow up questions, let me nip those in the bud right now:

Where will you stay? With una familia.
Is it safe? I hope so...for I think my program is on top of that.
Who is the sponsoring organization? The Foundation for Sustainable Development.
How did you find them? The Internet. Ever hear of it?
Are you taking a pay cut? I think extinction is more appropriate than cut.
How long are you going for? Half a year. No wait, six months.
Are you nervous? Actually, I am so nervous I can hardly type right now.
Will you have to speak Spanish? Gee...let me think!
What will you do when you get back? Good question. Want to find me a job?

And why are you doing this?

Stay tuned in this blog and you will surely find out.