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.