Coming Up on a Month and I'm Still Here. In One Piece.

Sometime last week, Peace Corps was gracious enough to enable my cell phone to receive and make calls to the States.  Last Friday was the first call that I received, from my mama.  I was so excited to hear her voice from the comfort of my room.    Talking to her, she started to tell me about a neighbor of hers who was sitting on the porch holding her cat on a leash.  When she told me she asked her about it, I was thinking ‘how?’  Baxter, you know I don’t speak Spanish.  Secondly, how did she muster up the courage to strike up a conversation with this woman?  Then it occurred to me, I was projecting.  Everyone speaks her (r.e. my) 1^st language and she feels comfortable.  It’s somewhere she’s been fortunate enough to call home for nearly 15 years. 

But maybe that comfort was just as slow going as it is for me, here.  Even though my Spanish is pretty good, I still find myself lacking basic vocabulary; turning simple explanations to chores.  I remember the first time this happened to me.  I was in Ecuador and trying to ask my host mom for help with the oven.  Because I didn’t know the word for oven (horno), I made one up.  My family looked at me in confusion.  Using all the words I knew to explain what an oven was, they finally understood. ¿ Horno? they asked ¡ Si! I laughed.  Thankfully, at this point, conversations like this are few and far between.  

http://kullyum.tumblr.com/post/52733236162/when-i-cant-remember-the-word-for-something

Brinner.  Complete with banana pancakes, tea, and eggs.

Regardless, I am starting to get my barring’s and become more comfortable here.  I have an honest to God mattress and complete use of the kitchen.  Food and sleep, of course, being the most important things in my life, it’s a vast improvement.  As today marks the first day of my 4^th week here, I can see that there have been a few changes in my lifestyle (work, chores, and social life).  For starters, my perfume has been replaced by swaths of bug spray (a must have for dengue and malaria season aka rainy season, referred to here as invierno or winter).
 

My water is filtered by a clay pot.

I’m definitely missing the conveniences of the States, as I cool off from a hot day, rocking in my abuelita in front of a small fan.  Yesterday was my first time washing my sheets without a washing machine.  It took me about an hour, using the concrete washboard.  I had to put myself to bed soon after.  All the clothes that I felt I should have brought with me during training, seem like somewhat of a relief to not have as its one less thing to wash.  

In my work, I’ve been trying to carve out some kind of schedule.  Being acclimated to someone showing me the ropes in every job I’ve ever had, it’s a bit of a struggle.  Meeting new people to work with and hearing about projects I can observe or help with is my job right now.  Alongside gaining visibility and creating relationships in the community.  I’ve had some luck in meeting with other NGOs here to see what work they do and begin collaboration.  I’ve discovered a daily pregnant women’s group at the health center and started giving charlas at two of the local schools, one being a high school and the other, a primary school.

 

I gave the same charla to two groups at each respective school.  My experience at each was vastly different.  The reason being that the primary school is characterized by children who are outside of the age range that they should be in that particular grade.  For instance, on Friday, I stood before a group of students, aged 14 – 20, in 5^th grade. This was definitely a unique experience for me.  Though we have heard that in Nicaragua, 49% of youth don’t work or study and a mere 26.6% complete secondary education, it was very different experiencing it.  Though the charlas I gave there didn’t go nearly as well as those I gave at the secondary school, I am really excited about continuing working with them.  I am also interested in the education here in general.  Looking at libraries, there’s one at the University, the Hospital, and a children’s library that I’ve never seen open.  Libraries, as they exist in the States, are nowhere to be found.  These libraries have a small selection and you are not permitted to take out books unless you are a staff member/student, respectively.  In my last job in the States, I worked with a kid who told me his family didn’t have any books for him to read.  In his case, he did have access to the library at school.  One of the biggest determinants of a child’s ability to/progression in reading comes from the presence of books at home.

   

In terms of my social life here, I’m actually pretty fortunate to be in Rivas.  It’s a big city, well comparatively.  With 50,000 people, it’s slightly larger than Bartlesville, Oklahoma.  A lot goes on here.  In the short time I’ve been here, there’s nearly always something going on during the weekends.   This past weekend, we had our Hipica, a tradition that was formed after the war by upper class Nicaraguans that had returned to the country.  It’s formally a horse show, mas o menos.  It’s generally overshadowed by its sponsors, flor de cana and tona, turning it into a giant fiesta, regardless of what city it occurs in.  The weekend before last was the beginning of a junior (kids under 18) international surf competition.  Representatives from South Africa, the United States, Ecuador (represent!), and of course, Nicaragua bring sand from their respective beaches to mix together in the opening ceremonies, symbolizing that each country were brothers of the Ocean.   

San Juan at Sunset.

South Africa.

Nicaragua.

Ecuador.

Nicaragua and U.S.A.

Every single country represented.  Folkloric Dancers.

The sand from all the countries.

La Hipica.

The first weekend I got here, we went to a baseball game, where I enjoyed some delicious ceviche (yes, ceviche) and a quesillo (corn tortilla with a layer of cheese, vinegar, smothered in cream).  All of the words are the same.  Strike is strike.  Shortstop is shortstop.  Safe is the only word that is translated to quieto.  Rivas baseball team is called Frente Sur and they are awesome.  We beat some Atlantic Coast ass, 6 – 2.

Another chance to practice the Nicaraguan National Hymn.

Ceviche with quesillos behind us.

Explaining where I am from in the States, has changed from a pueblo outside of Dallas, which simply elicited blank stares to 15 minutes from the Rangers stadium, which not only is easier to comprehend but also a great segway to start cultural exchange.  ¿Eres fanatico? Though it comes off as asking me if I’m insane, actually just means are you a fan?  Por supuesto.  

Welcome to Rivas!

Spanish Fears

My worst fear has officially been realized.   This evening as I was on the phone with a dear friend of mine from Nica 61, I saw something move quickly from the bottom of the door frame to behind my dirty clothes.  Instantly thinking of either a mouse or roach, I jumped from the abuelita*, or rocking chair, that I had been sitting in to my bed.  I was still on the phone and screaming on top of my bed, soliciting advice from the other end of the line.  Isabel instructed me to grab a broom and start picking up the bags of clothes until something moved, confirming whether I was going insane and hallucinating or had in fact seen some sort of critter.  Just as I moved the last bag (they’ve been accumulating as I’ve been avoiding my first load of laundry in country without a washer), I was certain that I was going insane.  Just to be sure, I checked my backpack, and lastly my hiking backpack, situated just behind my abuelita.  In order to reach it, I had to step onto my rocking chair.  When I lifted up my backpack with my hand as it was too heavy for the broom, the mouse ran from its hiding spot.  I jumped from the chair to my bed and as the chair rocked forward, the mouse was situated directly underneath and was killed.  I ran from the room, nearly to the street where my host sister and her friends were.  My host brother and mom came out of their rooms upon hearing my blood curdling scream.  They swept the mouse away, taking it to the street, as I watched from the distance, still reluctant to enter my room again.  My host brother assured me that mice are not really in the rooms.  He’s really sweet and been very helpful since I got here.  Here I sit, still uncomfortable to move from the elevated position in my bed to turn the lights off or use the restroom.  We’ll see how the night goes.

*Abuelita also means grandmother.  For this reason, when I sent a text to a friend of mine (who was my consolation when I felt like the presence of rats and mice in country would send me fleeing from Nicaragua our first 3 days here) recounting my traumatic experience, she responded that every time I used the word abuelita she was envisioning me standing on top of “a poor old person trying to escape the mouse.”         

Last night I went to a party with my site mate.  Now, let me first say that it was the first time that I have really felt like I was truly integrating.  I have been to parties in other Spanish speaking countries as well as during my time here in Nicaragua.  At each of these events, however, I have been accompanied by my English speaking friends or accommodated by host country nationals speaking English, as in Argentina.  

When we arrived last night, I sat down with a woman named Anna and she told me about her career as a preschool teacher, how much she loves working with kids, and how she is interested in obtaining another degree in Children’s Psychology.  After I told her I was going to be here for 2 years, we exchanged numbers.  Throughout the night, I spoke with everyone in Spanish, including my site mate.  I even had a conversation with a new friend about some of my hang ups.

 

Throughout the evening, it hit me, as it has been hitting me throughout this week that this is going to be my home for the next 2 years.  My home, where I live in Spanish.   Where I not only introduce myself, but make friends, vent, solve problems, and work in Spanish.