Well, it's father's day as I begin this, and I've been thinking about how all minus a few of my seven host families I stayed with during the semester had an absent father. In Quetzaltenango, my host mother was divorced, and the father lived in Guatemala City. At La Escuela de la Montaña, the children's father was in the U.S. (and my host mother's father worked in Xela all week and was only home on Tuesdays). In San Jose las Flores, the father of the oldest kids was killed during the war, although she was remarried with two younger children and we saw the father once or twice while we were there. The husband of Cordelia, my host mother in Nueva Esperanza, died during the war as well. There was a father in El Sitio, who came in after we'd all gone to bed and was gone when I woke up. The father of my Managua family had never been around much, and eventually left for good and married another woman. My host family in our rural Nicaraguan stay was very stable with a wonderful father. Let me elaborate on my experiences with the two host families I had in Nicaragua.
As I said in my previous email, we lived in the CGE house our first and last week in Nica, and if you subtract spring break and our 4-day rural stay, we lived with our host families in Managua for about 4 weeks. The homes were all in the community, or barrio--which is the word for a poor neighborhood--,of Batahola Norte. My family actually lived one block outside of Batahola, in Dinamarka, but all of the families were involved with the Centro Cultural.
Batahola is well known internationally, in certain circles, for two reasons: it was the first housing project taken on by the Sandinista government in 1980, and for its Cultural Center, which was founded in 1983. The cultural center offers classes of all types to the members of the community (music, dance, sewing, cooking, adult education, etc.), contains a library, and is especially famous for its murals, which cover almost every wall surface. The murals depict Nicaraguan history as well as images of the community's struggles. More information is available at www.friendsofbatahola.org , or--in Spanish--at www.ccbnnic.org (this site doesn't seem to be working, but there is a very cool picture of the mural at the front of the church at the top of the home page--do you recognize the four men on the left?).
My little blue house with its living/dining area, kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms was on a dirt street. Eight people lived there. With Angelica and I, that made 10, and the two of us stayed in the little tiny room with two twin beds and a foot and a half of walking space between them while everyone else slept in the large bedroom. Our family was made up of Doña Rosa, her four children, and three grandchildren: Marilet, 32, with sons Jeffrey, 7, and Esteven, 18 months; Jessenia, 24, with daughter Miurell, who turned 7 while we were there; Bismarck, 18; and Juan Carlos, 14.
Here's a description of some of the characteristics of living in that house: "a rattley fan, a bed with bar across my chest, a window that opens onto a concrete wall. Corrugated metal roof with wooden 2x2 cross- beams. Aqua walls -- cement, wood, and metal, depending on the side of the room. Curtain door to our bedroom, debris falling on our beds from the roof. Paintings (some by Juan Carlos), and giant posters with photos of fancy U.S. country homes. Rocking chairs with wicker seats and backs. Table with a hole in it where we eat, do art, and study. Ants -- big ones -- in the bathroom. The first week it was cockroaches. Television is on most of the time, especially telenovelas, graphic news, music videos, and Hollywood movies dubbed in Spanish. Music, coming from somewhere down the street. Children yelling, neighbors talking in the street -- or in the house. Esteven, endless source of entertainment!"
Because we were so busy with activities and homework, I didn't get to really experience the culture as much as I'd hoped. But one cultural gem that I did learn about was the "gigantón": We were playing games with the kids in the back yard when we heard drumming, and they all started yelling excitedly and ran off down the street. After a while, we discovered what all the excitement was about. It was a "gigantón," a group of people marching down the street with drums, let by a very tall paper-mache and cloth person and an "enano" or elf, with a huge round head. As they made their way down the road, all the kids from the neighborhood followed, Angelica and I with them, overprotective Americans that we are--we were the oldest people in the crew; everyone else was probably under 13.
One of the bonding experiences we had with the kids was doing art with them and the neighbors. Angelica was an artist, so she brought paper, crayons, and colored pencils. My bonding experience with the women of the house happened when I got sick. "All three of them came into my room to ask me how I felt and if I was sick, and then they proceeded to try to fix me. It was actually really sweet. Doña Rosa admonished me for not telling them the second I got home, because "I could have died quietly on my bed without anyone knowing!" I assured her that it wasn't that bad. But Marilet, who's a nurse, took my temperature, gave me some pills, bought me some crackers, and ordered me to drink a bottle of Pedialyte for rehydration. When I threw up later, Doña Rosa made me a special "tea," which was lime and baking soda- flavored foam. It was one of the strangest concoctions I've ever drunk, but it did the trick, and I felt much better in the morning!"
I was glad to be feeling better because that was the morning we left for our trip to the rural community of Sontule, northeast of Estelí. Sontule is part of the Miraflor Union of Agricultural Cooperatives. Almost all of the men in the community are coffee farmers and grow organic coffee that is sold on the Fair Trade market. Of course, that means that all the best stuff is exported and they only get to drink the second-rate coffee. The farmers in Sontule have been organized into cooperatives since the early 1980s, which made it a target during the contra war, and their coffee storage building was burned out at least 3 times and otherwise attacked during the war. In 1995, the women decided they wanted to start a women's cooperative, which does many things, one of which is an eco-tourism project that involves living with families.
Two other students and I stayed with the family of Vilma Ivania and Guadalupe Castillo. Their house was an 8-minute walk down a two-track road off the main [gravel] road. My impression of their house, surrounded by plants, was "like a little green paradise among the dryness. Some would say, wow, what poor living conditions, but by rural Nicaraguan conditions, it's quite nice! It's pretty big, with tile floor, concrete in the kitchen, a porch and a side patio with hammocks. No running water or electricity, though. We do things like write in journals by candlelight, go to bed at 9pm, and take bucket baths. Their shower is outside, heavy black plastic wrapped around four wooden posts, surrounding a large stone slab to stand on.
Thursday we went with Ivania to the well to fetch water. Lucky for them it's a pretty short walk. On our way back she took us to see their other well, which is used for bath and wash water. Then she showed us around their garden. It consists of coffee plants; mango, banana, lemon, and orange tree; achiote, which makes a red dye; and pataculo, which is a spice. They have lots of varieties of lemons and oranges-- lemons the size of grapefruits, oranges that taste like lemons--we know, we tried one...
The weather there was like being back in Guatemala -- so beautiful and pleasant! It was the only time during our stay in Nicaragua when we needed blankets at night. In fact, we wore pants and long sleeve shirts to bed.
Ivania is an amazing, powerful, strong, articulate, feminist. She and her husband are confident that Daniel Ortega (who was the FSLN president in the 80s) will win the presidential election in November. During the war, she was part of an armed vigilante women's group until they moved to Sontule from Estelí. Her job then became to take care of the kids and the house while Guadalupe was out working and fighting. She told us a story about the first instance that would become a common occurrence during the war: They had been living in Sontule for two days. That day, she was alone in the house, taking care of a lot of children, when all of a sudden she heard bombing and shooting. She took the kids and ran for the mountains. The youngest was her son, Alvaro, who was 4 months old, born by a C-section from which Ivania was not yet completely healed. There were so many kids to keep track of, she accidentally left one of them behind who had been sleeping, whom she had to go back and fetch. The Contras burned the house and everything in and around it. She stayed in the mountains with the children for two whole days with practically no food. And yet she says that she liked the war--because she was never scared by it, and she believed in the principles that it supported and struggled for.
While there, we visited the neighboring community of Cebollal (a 40-minute drive down the gravel road), where they do the quality-testing (called "catación" or coffee-cupping) of the coffee that the farmers grow. We got to watch and participate in a demonstration of the process, which made the coffee fans in our group very happy. We also went on a walk through an orchid reserve and got to climb inside a giant tree that a ficus/phycus plant had killed. The other name for ficus in Spanish is "matapalo," which literally means branch/tree killer. They start in the tops of trees and their roots grow down, twining around the tree and eventually to the ground, essentially strangling and stealing nutrients from the trees. It was pretty amazing.
We ended our stay with the Castillo family just like we began it--with a dance party. They may not have electricity, but they are able to run a television (where they get most of their news from) and a boom box from a battery. The first night, Hannah's birthday was the occasion for the music and dancing. Not too many other people live with Ivania and Guadalupe, but a couple of their children and grandchildren live nearby--so there were probably about 7 adults there and at least 5 kids. It was a splendid weekend--but too short for my taste! I think the stays in the countryside were my favorite part of the program in each country.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Nicaragua, Honduras, and Home! Pt. 1: Managua y Leon
Well it's been a busy eight weeks since I last wrote! I'm home now -- arrived in Albany around 1am May 31/June 1 -- recovering from the semester and trying to find a job so I can afford school next year... I am in the process of putting all my photos online, and they will be available for viewing soon.
It's hard to believe I haven't written anything about Nicaragua because it feels like it was so long ago! It was an extremely busy seven weeks, and although I had free internet access, I didn't have enough time to sit down and write any updates! Hopefully this series of entries will remedy that.
---
Our program structure in Nicaragua was different than it had been in either of the two preceding countries. We were taking two classes: Nicaraguan history with a focus on the role of women, and a political science class about "citizen participation in policy formulation within a globalized economy" (i.e. Nicaragua). Class sessions were held at the Center for Global Education house, Casa Jaime Mayer (which is also where we lived our first and last weeks in Nicaragua). We lived in pairs in homestays, and would be picked up by the CGE bus in the mornings and taken back home at 5pm. It was a very intense schedule! With two classes, there was lots of reading and homework, plus our almost daily excursions to visit organizations and hear speakers.
Nicaragua is one of the poorest nations in the world, and has one of the highest debts per capita. We lived in the capital city of Managua, which was practically decimated by an earthquake in 1972. Because of this, it does not have a major "downtown" center with tall buildings, and it has lots of open fields and trees in areas where buildings once were, making it feel much less urban than San Salvador or Guatemala City, even a little desolate. It is on the edge of a large, dangerously polluted lake, because of the city dump which is right off the shore.
The revolutionary period from the late 70s through the 80s has also left a physical legacy in the city (and around the country), in the form of bullet- and bomb-damaged buildings, war memorials, and walls covered with murals. Our first day, we visited the Beacon of Hope monument, which was erected by president Violeta Chamorro after the signing of the Peace Accords in 1990. In a powerful and arresting visual statement, the weapons that were turned in by armed fighters were buried underground and cemented into a wall, with the barrels of guns jutting out at various angles. The presidents and mayors since then have done many "apolitical" city beautification projects, making new parks and putting in new artsy sculptures and fountains at intersections -- although what they had to get rid of and the way the money was spent in order to do that certainly was not apolitical.
One of the things I was most amazed to learn about was the difference between the Eastern and Western regions of Nicaragua. When we think of Latin America, we usually think of Spanish- speaking Catholics (or Evangelicals) who are a mix of indigenous and Spanish origins. This is true for the Western half of Nicaragua, which followed the usual pattern of Spanish colonization, but the Eastern half, a.k.a. the Atlantic Coast, is a competely different culture. There, you will find English-speaking Moravians (a Protestant denomination) of African descent. Although we never got to visit the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua, I did get a taste of this when I visited my sister on the North Coast of Honduras (these coastlines are actually along the Caribbean Sea).
During our first week, we visited the pottery village of San Juan del Oriente, where they have been making pottery since before the colonization by the Spanish. We also did some touristy things, visiting Volcan Masaya, which is a steamy active volcano that you can see down in to, the artisan market in Masaya, which is the largest in Nicaragua, and spending a couple hours in the popular town of Granada.
Spring break happened after we'd been in Nicaragua for two weeks -- Holy Week, or Semana Santa. My friend Sarah and I decided to spend that time in Leon and at the beach. Leon is one of the oldest cities in Nicaragua, and for 300 years was the stronghold of the Liberal party, trading off being the capital of the country with Granada, which was the Conservatives' stronghold, until Managua was established as the capital in 1852 (In Latin America, the terms Conservative and Liberal have a very different meaning than in the US, stemming from their 19th-century struggles for independence). During the revolutionary period, the FSLN presence (Frente Sandinista de Liberacion Nacional) was very strong, and the current town shows the effects of that -- murals everywhere, plazas honoring those who died, and the ruins of bombed buildings.
We had heard that Leon was well known for its Holy Week traditions, especially sawdust drawing in the streets, and were pretty disappointed that, just as one would expect in any other town, lots of things were closed or had shortened hours that week. Luckily, we had made plans to spend three days at the beach 45 minutes away, so we weren't stuck in a town with nothing to do. (And we did get to see the sawdust art right before we left.)
We stayed at a hotel on the waterfront -- of an estuary -- at Las Peñitas. It was large, but shallow and easy to cross to reach the ocean. Mostly though, we stayed at our hotel and relaxed in the hammocks and read. Here's a reflection I wrote in my journal while we were there:
"I was out [in the estuary] just sitting in the shallow water looking at the beautiful life around me -- the blue water, the sand bar, the crashing waves, the green-tree-filled nature reserve islands, the birds, the clouds in the blue sky, the boats, the people -- and I felt like I could have stayed there forever and been happy. But I didn't have any company and I felt kind of pointless, so I went back to the hotel... This estuary is amazing. When the tide is in, it's a solid expanse of water all the way to the island, and huge crashing waves at the inlet. It looks daunting to cross. But when the tide is out, there's more land than water, and you can easily walk across to the other side and see all the amazing animal life in the sand underfoot. An estuary is an incerdibly rich and important ecosystem; a place where a river meets a sea; where fresh water meets salt water.
Here, the idyllic tropical beach-front life meets the difficult, poor, fisherman's life. People get up early in the morning to take their fishing boats out--by 8, boats have already started to come back in. A few hours later, boats owners have to go back out and bring their boats in the rest of the way, once the tide is higher. I picked up a rock that was green-brown and sparkly, with red- orange slicing through it. I think maybe it's a lot like this place--the green/brown sparkle for nature, life, beauty; the red for the difficulty and injustice of that life."
That last sentence could be true for all of Nicaragua, and all of Central America...
It's hard to believe I haven't written anything about Nicaragua because it feels like it was so long ago! It was an extremely busy seven weeks, and although I had free internet access, I didn't have enough time to sit down and write any updates! Hopefully this series of entries will remedy that.
---
Our program structure in Nicaragua was different than it had been in either of the two preceding countries. We were taking two classes: Nicaraguan history with a focus on the role of women, and a political science class about "citizen participation in policy formulation within a globalized economy" (i.e. Nicaragua). Class sessions were held at the Center for Global Education house, Casa Jaime Mayer (which is also where we lived our first and last weeks in Nicaragua). We lived in pairs in homestays, and would be picked up by the CGE bus in the mornings and taken back home at 5pm. It was a very intense schedule! With two classes, there was lots of reading and homework, plus our almost daily excursions to visit organizations and hear speakers.
Nicaragua is one of the poorest nations in the world, and has one of the highest debts per capita. We lived in the capital city of Managua, which was practically decimated by an earthquake in 1972. Because of this, it does not have a major "downtown" center with tall buildings, and it has lots of open fields and trees in areas where buildings once were, making it feel much less urban than San Salvador or Guatemala City, even a little desolate. It is on the edge of a large, dangerously polluted lake, because of the city dump which is right off the shore.
The revolutionary period from the late 70s through the 80s has also left a physical legacy in the city (and around the country), in the form of bullet- and bomb-damaged buildings, war memorials, and walls covered with murals. Our first day, we visited the Beacon of Hope monument, which was erected by president Violeta Chamorro after the signing of the Peace Accords in 1990. In a powerful and arresting visual statement, the weapons that were turned in by armed fighters were buried underground and cemented into a wall, with the barrels of guns jutting out at various angles. The presidents and mayors since then have done many "apolitical" city beautification projects, making new parks and putting in new artsy sculptures and fountains at intersections -- although what they had to get rid of and the way the money was spent in order to do that certainly was not apolitical.
One of the things I was most amazed to learn about was the difference between the Eastern and Western regions of Nicaragua. When we think of Latin America, we usually think of Spanish- speaking Catholics (or Evangelicals) who are a mix of indigenous and Spanish origins. This is true for the Western half of Nicaragua, which followed the usual pattern of Spanish colonization, but the Eastern half, a.k.a. the Atlantic Coast, is a competely different culture. There, you will find English-speaking Moravians (a Protestant denomination) of African descent. Although we never got to visit the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua, I did get a taste of this when I visited my sister on the North Coast of Honduras (these coastlines are actually along the Caribbean Sea).
During our first week, we visited the pottery village of San Juan del Oriente, where they have been making pottery since before the colonization by the Spanish. We also did some touristy things, visiting Volcan Masaya, which is a steamy active volcano that you can see down in to, the artisan market in Masaya, which is the largest in Nicaragua, and spending a couple hours in the popular town of Granada.
Spring break happened after we'd been in Nicaragua for two weeks -- Holy Week, or Semana Santa. My friend Sarah and I decided to spend that time in Leon and at the beach. Leon is one of the oldest cities in Nicaragua, and for 300 years was the stronghold of the Liberal party, trading off being the capital of the country with Granada, which was the Conservatives' stronghold, until Managua was established as the capital in 1852 (In Latin America, the terms Conservative and Liberal have a very different meaning than in the US, stemming from their 19th-century struggles for independence). During the revolutionary period, the FSLN presence (Frente Sandinista de Liberacion Nacional) was very strong, and the current town shows the effects of that -- murals everywhere, plazas honoring those who died, and the ruins of bombed buildings.
We had heard that Leon was well known for its Holy Week traditions, especially sawdust drawing in the streets, and were pretty disappointed that, just as one would expect in any other town, lots of things were closed or had shortened hours that week. Luckily, we had made plans to spend three days at the beach 45 minutes away, so we weren't stuck in a town with nothing to do. (And we did get to see the sawdust art right before we left.)
We stayed at a hotel on the waterfront -- of an estuary -- at Las Peñitas. It was large, but shallow and easy to cross to reach the ocean. Mostly though, we stayed at our hotel and relaxed in the hammocks and read. Here's a reflection I wrote in my journal while we were there:
"I was out [in the estuary] just sitting in the shallow water looking at the beautiful life around me -- the blue water, the sand bar, the crashing waves, the green-tree-filled nature reserve islands, the birds, the clouds in the blue sky, the boats, the people -- and I felt like I could have stayed there forever and been happy. But I didn't have any company and I felt kind of pointless, so I went back to the hotel... This estuary is amazing. When the tide is in, it's a solid expanse of water all the way to the island, and huge crashing waves at the inlet. It looks daunting to cross. But when the tide is out, there's more land than water, and you can easily walk across to the other side and see all the amazing animal life in the sand underfoot. An estuary is an incerdibly rich and important ecosystem; a place where a river meets a sea; where fresh water meets salt water.
Here, the idyllic tropical beach-front life meets the difficult, poor, fisherman's life. People get up early in the morning to take their fishing boats out--by 8, boats have already started to come back in. A few hours later, boats owners have to go back out and bring their boats in the rest of the way, once the tide is higher. I picked up a rock that was green-brown and sparkly, with red- orange slicing through it. I think maybe it's a lot like this place--the green/brown sparkle for nature, life, beauty; the red for the difficulty and injustice of that life."
That last sentence could be true for all of Nicaragua, and all of Central America...
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