"Hell Hath No Fury Like a Ripped Off Peace Corps Volunteer."

Getting on the last bus to Managua from Rivas is a chore.  Tons of people are hoping that they will be able to fit on schoolbus whose intended capacity is 65 but undoubtedly holds 200 as people spill out both the front and back latch door, protected by cobrador's (the men who collect your fare) who are hanging out of the bus holding on for dear life.
Generally, this bus ride goes off without a hitch.  That is, after you clamor your way to the front of the line, pushing other passengers aside so you can make your way on the bus.  Politely standing at the end of the line will lead you stranded.  Once you make it, perhaps you stand on your feet for the entire bus ride, surrounded on all sides, venders, cobradors and those passengers that get off along the way pushing their way through as the bus itself becomes a game of tetris.  Reconfiguring your body in the small space you have, at one point nearly sitting on your neighbor so that people can pass.
Tonight, I earned my seat.  The pasaje or fair from Rivas to Managua is 60 cords if you take the expreso which "makes no stops" and 48 for the ruteado that makes several stops and takes about 30 minutes longer.  However, the fact that I am privy to this information is not written on my face.  So, as the cobrador asked for my pasaje, I gave him my 60 cords.  Generally, he would then pass to the next passenger asking for their fare.  In this case, however, he tapped me on the shoulder after counting my money and told me that the fare was 120.  At which point, I told him that the bus from Rivas to Managua is 60 cords.  He told me that he had said it was 120 before we got on.  I repeated myself and told him I only had the money it took to get to Managua.  He said he would give me back my money and I could get off and wait for the next bus.  No thank you, I said, in not so many words.  He said he'd call the cops.  He was obviously bluffing.  This idea implicates that he would stop the entire bus full of passengers eager to arrive at their destination while we waited for the police who would no doubt, never arrive.  The man next to me told me not to get off.  Even though I was shaking, I stood my ground.  I told him he could look through my wallet to see the 2 cords I had left if he wanted.
At this point, a woman a few rows back became equally idignant.  She gave him her pasaje of about 40 cords from Rivas to Catarina, about an hour outside of Managua.  She told him that it wasn't fair of him to charge people more who commuted everyday to work in places like Isla de Ometepe and Rivas.  The woman next to her informed the cobrador that if he insisted on taking that much from each passenger, he would have to take all of us off.  At this point, he knew he'd been beaten and begrudgingly gave me my ticket.
At the next stop the last woman to come to the defense shouted that the pasaje was 120 and then yelled for us to get going as it was a very expensive EXPRESSO (direct bus).

Being here it's sometimes difficult to stand up for yourself.  You're not always sure what's culturally appropriate.  Or you don't want to burn bridges.  In the past week or so I've been falling back into my skin in this regard.  It felt great to stick up for myself with a bus full of Nicas right there next to me, on my side.

To quote one of our facilitators from training "Hell hath no fury like a ripped off Peace Corps Volunteer." 

La Purisima

As a result of Spanish colonization, Catholicism is King in Nicaragua.  The first week of December, the country goes all out for a celebration of the Virgin Mary known as La Purisima.  Each day, in cities throughout the country, neighborhoods are awaken at 4 in the morning by drums, trumpets, trombones, and the like to be at mass by 7.  Our neighborhood celebration was Sunday, December 1st.  My host mom, a very active member of the church was runnin' this.

For special events such as the 19th of July (anniversary of the Revolution), birthdays, and religious events, an early morning, big band wake up call is run of the mill.  You're waken up on the 19th by trucks slowly passing by, loaded down with concert speakers blasting the phrase "Viva Sandino" in a voice that sounds as antiquated as the revolution itself.  On Sunday, I woke to a big band procession, unaware that it was our neighborhoods Purisima and chalking it up to the circus that has been posted on our block, I went back to sleep.  I woke to find my entire house bustling by 9.  My host mom's family had come in from Managua, there was a giant bowl of Spaghetti cooking in the courtyard to feed those praying to the Virgin Mary, stationed on our corner, and young boys and men constructing and decorating the carosa or float that was to carry the Virgin and several angels (all young girls from our barrio).

We sat outside in our rocking chairs for a few hours to rest before the actual procession which began at 8.  The entire neighborhood was in attendance as we walked the 8 blocks to the PanAmerican Highway, doubled back and ended at the Church where the Virgin was placed on an alter and prayer continued.

The Carosa Construction.

Maria nos lleva a vivir la Eucaristia.  Mary leads us to live the Communion.

Angels on the Float.

The Purisima passing the PanAmerican Highway.

        This whole week, the first of December, these same processions will be happening throughout the country.  Each day, different neighborhoods celebrate the Purisima with their own floats, each one more elaborate than the next (a competition of sorts).  On Saturday, the griteria takes place throughout the country, a tradition originating in Leon.  In Rivas, the calle de milionarios or street of millionares, named as such as before the revolution, this main street was where many wealthy families lived, will serve as the setting.  It's been likened to Halloween in that families pass out fresco, pan, and other assortments.  As per my host mom's suggestion, I'll be bringing a pillow case this Saturday as fellow Rivenses walk through the street asking "Quien causa tanta alegria?"  The response being "La Concepcion de Maria!" 

Dia Contra la Violencia a la Mujer

100 Eligen Vivir Sin Violencia

My counterpart from ProFamilia and I ready for the march with our noisemakers and sombreros.

These trucks drive through cities with announcements.  In parades they play music and also allow us to broadcast our message.

The entire group in front of the Alcaldia.  One of three stops in our march.

 

The International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women.  March put on by the Casa de la Mujer of Rivas.  Stops made at the Alcaldia (Mayor's Office), Juzgado (Court), and Policia to have a representative affirm their committment to the cause.  November 25th, 2013. 

Settin' Goals

In 2012, in lieu of the typical New Year’s resolutions set forth and generally given up on by February I decided to set goals for the year.  My goals included visiting New Orleans and Buenos Aires (both of which were with my dear friend Perri and her now fiancé Guille), to run a marathon, and to volunteer for South by Southwest.  Setting goals, all of which I completed, motivated me throughout the year to manage my time and resources to achieve them.  Since being in country I have set a few monthly and weekly goals for myself.  In August it was to run 4 times a week, which apparently everyone in town, even those I have yet to meet, have noticed the chela who runs the carretera to San Jorge.  This past week after two weeks of devouring seasons of New Girl and Cougar town like I imagine myself doing to Chipotle chicken tacos upon return, I decided to set a goal to not watch television OR movies for the week.  

It’s funny how once you are told you can’t have something, it’s all you want.  Not two hours after committing myself to the idea, I had to stop myself from pulling out Mean Girls and Clueless.  My go to relaxation was no longer available.  So, to replace it, I found new means. 

This past week I saw to several chores, kept my room clean, spent more time with my host family, and pushed myself into my community.
 

On Wednesday night, a day after setting my goal I called my Rivense friends to solicit a date for the Tigres vs. Gigantes* game.  An hour before the game was to start; all possibilities seemed to have previous plans.  So, I went for a run.  Now, there are two women who work for ProFamilia that I have been joining as they walk the carreterra to San Jorge.  It just so happened that I ran into them and invited them out.  Neither had ever been to a game despite being from Rivas.  As I waited for them to arrive, I ran into my neighbors and a friend.  I sat with my neighbors as I waited for my friends to arrive.  In the last inning, as Rivas sloppily tried to salvage the game, a batter lost his grip on the bat and it soared above our boys.  Thankfully, no one was hurt, except this gentleman’s pride.  

Thursday I gave a charla to a group of 5 pregnant women, in the health center for their monthly check up, on the benefits of breastfeeding, warning signs and prevention; went to a meeting that had been cancelled, and was falsely accused of shoplifting. 

Friday, I turned my goal of averaging 1 charla/week in the month of November into a reality at the health post a block and a half from my house on the importance of yearly PAP exams.  Cervical cancer is one of the leading causes of death for Nicaraguan women.  Yearly, 869 women are diagnosed and more than 400 die each year.  The country rates 6^th highest in terms of morbidity due to cervical cancer.  Annual PAP exams can save women’s lives.  At the end of my charla, I ask for reasons why women wouldn’t get a PAP.  The answers range from embarrassment to distrust to misinformation.  The one I find most interesting is distrust.  In a culture where news travels by chisme or gossip, women fear that their doctor may disclose confidential information to their friends and family.  

After meeting some of the women in attendance and their children, I headed to the Casa de la Mujer for our monthly reunion where we were swag to adorn tomorrow as hundreds of participants march through the streets of Rivas for the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women.  From there, I headed to a café to Skype with a friend back home.  Once back to my Rivense home, I called my granpa.  That evening, rather than unwinding with a couple glasses of Cougar town, I met with a friend for pupusas, fresh squeezed OJ, and batidos.  Not before I enjoyed a nice visit with my host mom.  

Saturday morning I slept in, something I’ve lost touch with.  I woke up to banana pancakes topped with walnuts and home-made syrup.  That’s right everyone.  I’ve officially become a commune living hippy who makes her own syrup, washes her hair with soap when she runs out of shampoo, and has taken to replacing deodorant with hydrogen peroxide (thanks Granpa!) since her last stick broke.  After my luxurious breakfast, I headed into the center of town where I ran into a friend’s son.  Seeing him led me to pay her a visit.  She gave me some melocoton fresco, which I do not care for in the least, and told me that I was dressed provocatively as I arrived in skinny jeans, a white tank top, and sandals.  Walking home, passing the Iglesia San Francisco, I decided to stop in.  Feeling as though I’d found some respite, I decided to journal (12 Cords, best purchase I’ve made in a while, aside from my caramel batido).  Not shortly after I’d begun, attendants began filing in.  I was greeted by a friend who informed me that there would be a funeral procession following mass.  Feeling severely underdressed and out of place, I was glad to hear from my counterpart who asked me to meet her at a beauty salon of her sisters.  Upon getting there, I was bombarded by a makeup artist who saw to a complete and glamorous makeover.  I later met them all up for some salsa dancing, a dance, much like cumbia and bachata, that I have yet to master but look upon with the utmost awe. 

This morning, Sunday, I set out to the community of Ochomogo, a quaint pueblo where the Casa de la Mujer hosts a youth group.  This past Monday, I gave them a charla on Unplanned Pregnancy.  As I enjoyed the pico (a large piece of fresh baked bread laden with sugar in the shape of a triangle so as to resemble a beak or pico) we had all been provided, the girls invited me to their softball game this Sunday at 10.  I arrived at 10:30 (a la hora Nica) to discover that the game had been pushed back to 1.  In the mean-time, I visited with some of the girls from the youth group, met their families, and was invited to lunch which consisted of seasoned beef so tough you have to gnaw it from your hand.  I was treated as a guest of honor and invited to play alongside the team.  Had I been outfitted in different shoes I would have jumped at the opportunity.  As it stood, I was on the sidelines cheering on our team with what could have only been the entire town, bolos and all.  Bolos, I might add, who seem to think they are, in fact, the coach of the team.  Upon return, I had a chat with my mom for her birthday.  In reflecting on what it is that I am grateful for in my days here, I often find that calls from or to home are among the things that I am consistently thankful for.  For this reason, I have decided that I am going to make it a goal of mine to have 1 chat with family, friends from home, PC BFFLs each week for the month of December.    

        

I just got off the phone with my mama, round 2!!  We got to talking about her and Ads visit.  Having them meet my host family, get to see my site, enjoy the country I live in, and to be able to spend an entire Christmas week with them is such a blessing.  This will be our first family trip as adults.  I am so inexplicably excited and blessed to be able to pass the holidays with such great friends and family.  Thank God they’re not bringing a dark cloud. 

                                                                                           

*Professional baseball leagues.  Tigres represent Chinandega, Gigantes represent Rivas.  There are 4 teams which also include Boer from Managua and the Orientales from Granada.  Tigres trail while Gigantes lead.  However, Wednesday proved to turn the tables as Chinandega beat Rivas 3 – 2.     

Teen Smart Graduation.  An organization in Costa Rica and Nicaragua that creates youth promoters.

The backyard where I had lunch on Saturday afternoon. 

Ochomogo baseball game.  Entire town of this pueblo is here.

Gardening with machetes.

Madronyo.  The National Tree.

 

How to Make Pinol

                                 Featuring my host mom, myself, and the dueño of the molina. 

There are 3 differrent types of maiz.  6 pounds of "maiz amarillo" in tow.  Seperated into two different batches to toast over 20 minutes.

Because we used yellow rice it was a bit difficult to see when it was done (she normally uses white corn but was given this from a friend) you have to taste it.  When it's soft enough to chew you're good.  Set it out to cool.

Toast 1 pound of cacao.  When the shells are black and it begins to pop, they're done.  You can shell them or leave the shell on (more vitamins, the shell on, better taste, with shells off).  We took them off.

Shells of Cacao.

Mix cacao, corn, cinnamon, and some spice that smells like Christmas which she referred to as "pimienta" or pepper.

The molina around the corner.  They grind the pinol 3 seperate times.  Listo!

 

 

On our next segment of Cooking in Nicaragua we'll be making a Nacatamal with freshly slaughtered pig.  Learning different recipes is one of my favorite things to do here.  It's also interesting to note the difference in where our food comes from here vs. in the States.  In Ecuador we were offered cuy or guinea pig by the hosts of a farm right outside of Quito.  It is a delicacy in the Andes.  It was served to us with toenails and face still intact.  Being in Nicaragua, I've heard my host brother ask our empleada when the pigs would be slaughtered so we could have pork.  On of the reasons why it was so disconcerting to see the guinea pig with it's face, toenails, and all is that we, in the States, are so disconnected not only from the process whereby our food arrives from where it was grown to our table but also the actual aesthetics of, for instance, the chicken we eat, is so drastically changed.  Chicken is just a piece of androgynous meat. 

A Typical Day

In one of the last interviews I had with Peace Corps before being asked to serve in Nicaragua, I was asked, as is custom at the end of interviews, if I had any questions.  In an effort to divert from the fact that I, in fact, had no questions, just a residual feeling of having been judged for the past 45 minutes, I asked my interviewer what a typical day had been like during his Peace Corps service in the Phillipines.  Though he obliged and took me through his day which began with a bucket shower, it’s hard to identify any kind of “typical day” in Peace Corps service. Thinking about it brings to mind various images from pop culture.  Obviously, Airplane is the most hilarious.  Depicting being shown up in basketball with the locals (R.E. softball) and saying things like “stretch your food dollar.”  I would never say anything like that.  Mainly because I’m not a tool.    

Over the past couple of days, I’ve been trying something new.  I’d read an article about “10 ways to be happier at home” among countless others on how to combat homesickness.  One of the suggestions being to set an intent for each day.  That’s what I’ve been doing.  Over the past the past three days they have been: 

Monday: Check in with myself every hour to see how I’m doing.

Tuesday:  Identify the things in my service that I am grateful for.

Wednesday (today): No complaining.

What was fascinating to me was that setting an intent is a great way to add purpose to your day.  Further, not complaining freed me up to let go of the things I would have complained about and to be happier about the conditions that my day opened up for me.

First thing, I wake up to a phone call from my dear friend in country.  We chat on the phone for about 45 minutes and she reads me my spiritual guidance for the day.  We’ll call her my pastor.  After I get off the phone, I get ready for my day:

•  cold showers (far from resembling the melancholy portrayed by Stockard Channing in Grease, cold showers provide a swift kick in the ass to get you up and ready in the morning or a nice way to cool down after a long walk in the sun)

•  apply makeup with sunlight as the electricity “se fue” or went out

•  eat breakfast while the lady who cleans our house blasts “Vivir mi Vida” by Mark Anthony over the radio (if you haven’t heard this song it provides the perfect rhythm to a parallel universe where I am both a backup dancer and a prima ballerina)

I finish up the last of my cinnamon toast and pack my bag to leave.  My host mom comes back in just as I’m about to leave asking if I’m headed to work as it’s already 9.  Soon after I head out the door and she shouts after me “God be with you.”  

Now, since my iPod is broken and receiving repairs in Managua, I’m now taking the 20 minute walk to work headphones free.  What originally was born from the desire to avoid piropos had unknowingly become a way for me to shut out my community.  

As I walk in to say hello to my counterpart she asks how I’ve been doing as I’ve been out of the office due to a bacterial infection (no big deal, it’s not a flesh eating virus, we’re good).  We chat for a bit and I begin working in the room adjacent to hers.  Soon after she comes in to chat, we talk about work; she leaves in the middle of a sentence.  People frequently interrupt each other here but you always pick up right where you left off.  Not an hour later, another of my counterparts invites me to a vaccination campaign.  I let her know that I’ll be available later that afternoon and would love to come with her.  Being invited to events is definitely a matter of being in the right place at the right time, in a place where a common reason for not returning a call is that you are out of minutes.  “Ya no tengo saldo, fijate.”  Translation:  “What had happened was…I ran out of minutes.”  

On my way back home for lunch, I stop at the park, one of my favorite places in town, to make sure everyone is able to come to a meeting tomorrow for individuals living with a chronic illness.  On my way back home, a pepano, or pedicab driver offers to take me up the hill free of charge.  Thankful to find respite from the oppressive sun, I hop in.  The umbrella I bought a few days ago to protect me from the sun has not served me very well.  When I first bought it, I was ecstatic.  It was adorable and I felt I had the perfect tool to not be mistaken for some foreigner.  I was also left feeling slightly fachenta.

We interrupt this program to bring you this news:

Fachenta:

•   One of my favorite words.  Specifically Nicaraguan Spanish.  Used to annotate when someone is doing something that is not accessible to the mass population. 

•  For instance:

“My parents came to visit and we spent $US70 on a cab from Managua to Rivas.”

“Why didn’t you just take the bus?”

“It’s less of a pain in the ass, it’s faster, and this way they weren’t seated face to face to a perfect stranger’s junk.”

“¡Que Fachenta!”

The more you know. 

Anytime I leave the house, I’m already a few blocks away looking for any possible sign of shade from the houses lining the streets.  My failure leads me to remember the umbrella I hope to soon make a habit of carrying with me everywhere.  

When I arrive back at the health center, I’m surprised to find pepanos, or pedicab drivers parked outside that I am not familiar with.  I’m even more surprised to see my counterpart intentionally standing in the sun.  When I ask her what she’s doing she responds that she was cold.  In surprise I clarify.  Of course she was kidding.  Oftentimes, as was the case today the city doesn’t have electricity for a significant part of the day, much less air conditioning.  The only respite you’ll find in your office from the heat, if you’re not lucky enough to come by a fan, is the breeze that finds its way through the open glass slats on your window.  

I find who I am looking for and we’re off to our vaccination campaign at a local school.  I am learning as we go what my role in all of this is, who all of these middle aged women are, and what exactly we are vaccinating them for.  We vaccinate, in total 49 people.  Only two of whom are males.  Tetanus shots, I know they hurt and I can’t even look as she sticks the patients, though I tell them half-heartedly not to be scared.  I fill out paperwork and smile at their children as they stand directly in front of me just to stare.  I’m tempted to have them help me but scared they’ll hand the patients something while they’re being injected.  Let me take a step back, this entire experience takes place outside of a classroom, under the awning of a white and blue brick schoolhouse, in the middle of the day, with myself and the nurse in charge.  We walk back together and she wishes me good luck on my 1^st day of softball practice.  

The last time I played softball I was in 3^rd grade.  I arrived to the last game I attended with enough time to catch the tail end of my team losing.  The pitcher, her eyes filled with tears, screamed that we had lost because of me.  In hindsight, maybe this was more of a compliment.  My presence was what made the difference between a win and a loss.  At the time, I was incredibly embarrassed and devastated.  That was the last time I played softball.  

A friend of mine in Chinandega had recently joined a league while another friend had joined a volleyball league in El Rama.  After a wild goose chase, I was lead to the Alcaldia, or mayor’s office, where I signed up for a softball league in Veracruz, a rural community about 5 km from Rivas’ center.  

As I entered the market to catch my taxi, as is normal, I was flooded with a sea of offers.  It feels like that scene at the beginning of Aladdin when Jasmine goes to the market and the guy whose missing several teeth pulls open his vest and says “some knives for the pretty lady?”  I’ve taken to laughing in the faces of people, who, like the gentleman today in the market, take me for a petty fool.  “100 cordobas para ir solo a Veracruz.”  Its 80 cords to go by yourself but if you get in a collective, or shared taxi, the price goes down to 20.  This may seem like a difference in 2 dollars.  In reality, it’s a difference in 1% of my living allowance.  At the time that this gentleman suggested this price, I was already waiting with another cab driver who was helping me find a collective taxi.  Once the driver found 4 other passengers, we were on our way.  After nearly hitting what I can only describe as a rabid dog, I got off at the park.  With no cell service, I was unsure as to where I was going.  Oh cell phones, how intimately I’ve come to rely upon you.  The directions you receive are always vague.  You could never say “turn left on Main Street” because there are no street names.  Instead, when given directions, you will see people point and tell you to go straight, straight, straight until you turn left, eventually.  I ended up back at the park only to find a friend of mine who works with the mayor’s office of Rivas planting trees.  Since I was otherwise lost, I asked if she needed any help.  At the very least, I planted a tree today.  

Three women walked by who I was told were on their way to practice.  I caught up with them and they offered me three yucca pancakes, sopped in syrup.  I believe this is what my host mom was referring to when she recommended that I “not eat street food.”  No regrets, it was delicious. 

On the road to get there, we pass a cemetery, where kids will later run through.  Nearly there, we pass a kid who is kicking a campo horse (skinny minny, very short, not akin to ranch horses) until it starts to buck him to make us laugh. When we arrive we are greeted by three grazing horses in the midst of a deep green foothill.  Soon after we begin to warm up, there is a group of boys who takes the other half of the field to practice baseball.  We practice catching, throwing, hitting, and different positions on the outfield.  I learned the word “toque” or bunt and also learned that I am terrible at this particular maneuver.  Laughing at myself with others opens up the floor to laugh at others.  My favorite.  Close to the end of practice, there’s a beautiful sunset and we pause the game as a young girl passes by with three horses in tow.  Impatiently, my newly found teammates begin to throw their gloves at the horses to get them off the field.  This once majestic scene is replaced by reality and the fear that I’ll soon have a softball batted at my face.  

Getting back, I paint my toenails with a coral pink that I love.  As I do so, I chat with my roommate.  As my host mom leaves, she tells me there’s gallo pinto, queso, and pan tostado (this at first tasted like stale bread, now it’s an oldie but goodie) in the kitchen.  As we finish our dinner, Gloria (my roommate) tells me it’s going to rain soon.  Sure enough.  As I sit down to write this, the sky swells and the rain pours.  It only for about 10 minutes but as soon as it starts, the streets clear and the smell of brings me peace.  

Happy Ending.  Not to be confused with Happy Endings.

The current acting Peace Corps director wrote an article entitled “Not Your Parents Peace Corps” wherein she reminded us that JFK envisioned volunteers returning home “better able to assume the responsibilities of American citizenship and with greater understanding of our global responsibilities.”  The return to my beautiful, deliciously crafted burger laden land is far away, but I’d like to think that through a series of vastly different “typical days” it’s achievable.