Hardcoreitude

flakes
Today's my first at college. It's been fairly underwhelming. Nothing is all that surprising, except that I don't know anyone. All my friendswere upperclassmen, and they've either graduated or hid themselves away in the apartments. Hell, I don't even know my roommate. She seems nice though. AND has a hello kitty toaster. Which I am allowed to use. Rockin'.

I've already had a memorable day. I went to my old job (its premises anyway) and re-applied. I found out beforehand that the Environmental Club lets students rent out bikes for free. So I took advantage of this opportunity to enjoy the warm January air by a faster mode of transportation than foot. And I could feel superior to all those air-haters in their automobiles. Mom had called me just before and asked me if it was sleeting. I scoffed. "It's gorgeous out mom, you're being ridiculous."

As I wheeled the bike onto 1st Ave however, the sky let loose. Enormous wet flakes whipped my face while I biked the mile over to the URrelay building, feeling even more superior than I did before.

For those who don't know (which is probably pretty much everyone who reads this blog), my New Year's Resolution is to buy nothing new for the entire year. Exceptions are:

* Medicine and Medical Attention (that isn't optional, like Botox)
* Food
* Cleaning supplies (detergent, deoderant, etc)

Everything else, I will just convince myself I don't need or I will shop at second hand stores. The idea is that I stop thinking as a consumer, as well as reducing the carbon trail of most of my goods.

Another recent change is I've become vegetarian. I'm anemic, so I'm not sure how this will work out. I'll probably binge on a steak once I start getting too lethargic. One Marie Hunt has purchased a small grill that can be used in a dorm room, apparently, so we're planning on getting organic steaks when the need arises. She is also cutting back on meat, but for completely different reasons.

Anyway, I'm officially a hippie. Hippie 2.0. Of course, like most suburbian hippies, I'm probably contradicting myself completely without even knowing it (Lattes are a food.....).

concerts and Gritar-ing

Dad invited me to the High School Winter Concert. Usually, these types of events make me shudder and turn back to my laptop. Dad and I both know the majority of the high school choirs are painful collections of gangly adolescents who breathe from their shoulders and never stay in tune. But we also know that we are hosting a South Korean student for the week as part of a Christmas homestay program and to deny Kim Jo the opportunity to see dozens of hormonal teenagers who think they can sing is unthinkable. Also, I was curious to see my old high school, inhabited by students I had never met.
Of course, all of the songs were Christmas-themed. One of my favorite pastimes is situations like this is to squint my eyes and watch the entire ensemble blend into one big Caucasian blob. But Kim Jo said she liked them, although she did not understand what figgy pudding was, and why “they wouldn’t go until they got some,” as the demand seemed rather threatening. So Dad launched into an explanation about an old tradition in England of caroling from house to house for treats.
I can’t believe this didn’t occur to me during La Purisima. For those who don’t know, this day celebrates the conception of the Virgin Mary. The night before is known as La Griteria, or The Shout, something like that. Groups of Nicaraguans visit families with Purisima altars set up, sing one of the holiday songs, and receive gifts. The gifts are usually practical, like Tupperware or cups, but you can also get nacatamales (think large mass of cornmeal with some meat in the middle), juice, noisemakers, candy, etc. Let the imagination go wild.
Of course I threw myself into celebrations with some others in the group, as well as a few Nicaraguan friends who knew where the good houses were and how to sing the songs. We really do just shout out the song. I’m beginning to think Nicaraguans prize decibels over harmony. And we never did just a refrain; we shouted out several verses before calling it good and getting our treats. I wonder why this tradition died out in England? And why it is such a big deal in Nicaragua? If anyone has any suggestions, feel free to comment.
The best part about the night was roughly midnight, when what sounded like every person in Managua lit off all the firecrackers, fireworks, and various noisemakers they had bought with their bonus paycheck. I stood in the park with Rachel, Brian, Cailen, and David, and couldn’t stop grinning. For all Nicaragua’s inner contradictions and divisions, at least they can all agree that setting off explosives to celebrate Mary getting knocked up is a splendid idea.

Home...

So, I'm back in the states. It feels rather sudden, and I'm reeling both mentally and physically. What with the strep throat and ear infection that made the 12 hour plane ride (involving two transfers) a living hell. I've been making plenty of notes however, so hopefully I'll create some entries later about other Nica experiences. For now, I'm facebooking like there's no tomorrow, downing double dosages of ibuprofen, and taking antibiotics. In reality, I'm not even home yet, I'm at my aunt's in St. Paul. I still need to drive 3 1/2 hours north to get to my house. Where my parents can't wait to pile on the creature comforts. I don't know what I'll do with so much love. I've been in 100% academic load for four months. The switch over has been far too sudden.


Upcoming:
+ sights and sounds of Maximo Jerez
+ Nicaraguan political commentary
+ an explanation of exactly what I did for my independent study
+ poetry

All photos are finally on flickr, and even in handy, themed sets. Much more helpful to view. Whenever I'm not writing blog entries or writing internship applications for the upcoming summer, I'll probably be organizing them even further. I call it my Tupperware peccadillo.

Guidebooks and Taxis

I went hiking today! Sort of. Here is my day, delivered in numerical order.

I shall begin with a quote from Lonely Planet, a so called "credible" guide book.

"Today protected as part of Reserva Natural Tepesomoto-Pataste, the gorge is phenomenal, with steely gray cliffs and graded peaks carved from the dry forest and pockmarked with caves. It's a 3km hike into the canyon from a trailhead that leaves from a well-signed exit 15km north of Somoto. A taxi can take you there for US $4."

Hah!

1. Arose at 5:30 AM in Esteli, Nicaragua
2. 6:45 AM: begin 3 hour bus ride to the town Somoto begins
3. 9:50 AM: Find a taxi fairly quickly. By taxi, this actually means a random guy, his taxi ID and decals in absentia. However, I bargained him down from $6to $3 for a ride to the Natural Reserve. Indeed, he agreed far too quickly on the cheaper price. Relying on my intrepid instincts at this point, I get in.
4. Rode with sketchy "taxi" man for four blocks, where he stopped to ask two girls where the Reserva is. Upon discovering that he was not ripping me off, and actually had to go somewhere substantial, he told me he was not going to take me to said Reserve.
5. 9:55 AM: I exit. "Forget" to pay.
6. 9:56 AM: Begin a quick exchange of information with the women. They tell me I need to take a bus to Samoa to find the Reserve. I do not trust their advice. After all, no bus is mentioned in Lonely Planet. It clearly says taxi.
7. I wonder around Somoto, looking for someone to give me advice.
8. 10:05 AM: A man in a furniture store turns out to be the executive director of an ecologically minded radio station that does some seat-of-the-pants eco-tourism. He tells me to take a taxi to Uniles, where Santiago Rivera would take me up the mountain. As the word in Spanish for canyon has escaped me, I am unable to verify that is where I'm going. Yet, he does own a radio station. And knows a man named Santiago.
9. 10:35 AM: Find a taxi at the market place. It is not quite the price radio man told me, but I am indeed in a taxi.
10. 10:45 AM: Arrive at a pulperia. Taxi man leaves. Two girls approach me and ask if I am going to the mountain. Impressed by the ease of transfer, I begin walking with them.
11. 11:00 AM: Find Santiago. Establish that the spanish word for canyon is...canyon. Also establish that if I want to visit the canyon, I need to take a bus. Which leaves at 11:00.
12. 11:01 AM: Begin hike with Santiago up the mountain behind his house. This gentleman looks to be about 70, with the classical wrinkly face you see in small Spanish villages. He also carries a machete, which he uses more as a walking stick than to chop things. I did see him chop some grass at one point.
13. 11:34 AM: Santiago points out the canyon to me. I have to take his word for it, as I could not see it, the canyon resting roughly 30km away.
14. Hike continues, taking us through coffee fields, over a small creek, up rather muddy narrow pathways, and past some very pretty flowers. We would have gone to the very top of the mountain, but it was too cloudy to see what we could see, as it were. So we decided it was best to return. I also find out Santiago is in a fairly successful fair trade cooperative, and has even been to the US several times to promote mercado justo. He even has a medal.
15. 1:17 PM: Return to Santiago's house. He shows me his medal: a small gold medallion somehow laminated into a dusty picture frame. I drink half a cup of coffee, the standard brown colored sugar water, and take a picture of one of his grandkids shelling beans. Now I have documentation of where their beans come from.
16. 1:24 PM: A taxi-van arrives, part of it's daily route. I bid farewell to Santiago and his family, and ride back to the bus station.
17. 2:00PM: Express bus leaves for Esteli.
18. 3:14PM: I celebrate my day over fresh wheat bread, hummous, cucumbers, and tomatoes at La Casita. This is a cafè outside of town, with a cactus garden and very rambunctious adolescents who take gelled hair seriously.

It's the quintessential mix of what I've experienced in Nicaragua. Adjusted expectations, generally helpful and friendly people, even the cognates. And never trust Lonely Planet.

Good Central American news source

If you want to know what's going on around here, a good online magazine (in English!) is Envio Magazine

Currently, the articles focus on the (lack of) hurricane relief, penalization of abortion in Nicaragua, the Guatemalan elections, Hugo Chavez, and dirty politics. Good stuff.

Unexpected events: an example

So, here's an event that happened this morning, one of those surprises I was talking about yesterday.

My goal for breakfast was to find cafè girasol, which is the money making part of Familias Especiales Julia Biliarte, an organization that supports disabled kids and their families. I thought I'd send some dinero their way by eating some gallo pinto and cafè presto (aka beans, rice, and instant coffee). I had success, then decided to find a cybercafè nearby.

Nothing turned up. Worse, the street turned into a dead end. But as I got closer to the roundabout, it became clear I was at Matagalpa's cemetary. It's this enormous complex of spanish-influenced, colorful, above ground grave things, not really sure what they're called, up on a hill. Great views, as usual. In any case, much different than the humble graveyard where uncle Tim is currently interred.

As I take in the sights, wishing I had brought my camera, a 20-something Nicaraguan asked if I came to see the Ben Linder grave. This is where it gets cool, because I had wanted to see his grave, but didn't think I'd have time in Matagalpa to go see it. Also, it's kind of creepy to ogle someone's remains. But Linder is a special guy. He was an American hydroelectric engineer and unicycle clown who was killed by the Contra forces in 1987. In Managua, there's an organization called the Ben Linder House, which sponsers events all week long, mainly for English-speaking volunteer groups. I still need to go there. But anyway, I got to chat about cemeteries in front of a clown/engineer's dead body.

Afterwards, I took a taxi to the Rubèn Darìo park, I think with the same driver who took me there last night. Matagalpa in the morning is tranquil. The clothing stores and their super sized speakers aren't open yet, the breeze is still cool, and not all the benches at the park are taken. And of course there are plenty of cybercafès nearby.

Anyway, I hope to write again next weekend. I'll be in Estelì. My plan is to got the Heroes and Martyrs Gallery, take a yoga class, visit an organic farming collective (anyone need medicinal herbs?), tour a Cuban cigar factory (I do plan on purchasing some), and take a hike in Somoto, a nearby village with an apparently spectacular waterfall called Somoto Canyon, birthplace of Central America's largest river. I'm salivating a little.

During the week, I plan on interviewing more of the women in the cooperative, as well as trying to rustle up some people who aren't thrilled with the organization, at least for a change of pace. This Wednesday, I'm going to move in with Mayrita, the president of El Privilegio. I need to take more pictures. That will indeed happen.

Until next week then.

Life in the Highlands

Life has taken a turn for the strange. I started my independent study project roughly a week and a half ago. So, Wednesday morning I took a bus from Managua to Matagalpa, not really knowing where I was going to sleep that night or who was going to be my principal advisor for the study period.

I take a taxi to CECOCAFEN, which some of you might know about already. Suffice it to say, it deals with fair trade coffee initiatives, as well as social development programs in the areas that grow coffee. There, I'm met by a woman who tells me my advisor couldn't make it. So, we go to a bread store and buy a quick lunch, then she drops me off at the bus stop, giving instructions to the ticket vender to make sure I get off at El Roblar. Before she leaves, she tells me to ask for Mayra when I get there.

I got to enjoy the next couple of hours, bemused, watching the Nicaraguan mountainside roll by. The bus looks vaguely familiar, and eventually I figure out it is the exact same but Rachel and I used a month before when we lived in the campo to go to La Chocolata, that elementary school in the middle of nowhere. Even later, I figure out El Roblar is the last stop on the line, meaning Rachel and I indeed walked through the exact same town in which I was now going to spend the next three weeks of my life. Life is too weird.

Mayra turns out to be a very energetic woman in her 30s, who directs her son to take my bag and myself to Don Wilfredo's. Don Wilfredo turns out to be a 45 minute uphill walk from El Roblar.

He is also probably the luckiest landowner this side of Estelì. His farm is atop a mountain overlooking the surrounding area. It's absolutely incredible. Wilfredo himself is an outgoing sort of guy who is more or less willing to talk about anything. His life story is a bit like this: a coffee picker, he traveled all over Nicaragua (here I disbelieve his story a tad) to find the best farm land. It happens to be here, conveniently where his wife's father owned a substantial amount of land. He was also a guerrilla fighter during the Somoza dictatorship, and taught himself to play guitar. Please try and picture yours truly on a mountaintop, listening to a 60 year old ex-guerrilla coffee famer play ranchero music on his slightly out of tune guitar, illuminated by lamplight, crescent moon behind his left ear. Yeah, hard.

Anyway, I stayed with him and his family for a week, learning the ropes of coffee farming. More or less. So, you never know, some of your future coffee may carry the sweat of my fingertips. I did some coffee picking, and helped de-pulp and wash the beans. By help, I mean in some touristy kind of way, I partook in their daily routine. Nothing special by any means, just a way to get an idea of the way coffee is a part of their life, and who takes part in what stages of coffee production.

Every day, something new surprises me. The people here are generous with their time and knowledge, and I can turn nearly any misfortune into something worthwhile.

This past Wednesday, I moved to a new house, Doña Dionysia's. Her house is more typical: the husband abandoned her for a new wife, tons of family living with her, a bit less picturesque surroundings. But this is for the best: Wilfredo wasn't going to talk much about machismo and its effects, and that's really the heart of my investigation. She also has some incredible trails through her coffee fields. Coffee grows best under shade, so it's like walking thtough some jungle which just happened to grow a lot of coffee. Which I think I said about the finca I visited last time I was in the campo. So yes, that indeed is the norm.

I should probably say something about the cooperative. It's name El Privilegio. It got that name because the women who formed it believe it is their priviledge to empower themselves by leaving the kitchen (at least part of the time), becoming wage earners, and otherwise increasing their capacity as human beings (which sounds better in spanish). The cooperative holds a collective savings fund, which was started in part thanks to the above mentioned CECOCAFEN. They use this fund as collateral to make loans in order to produce coffee, grow basic food necessities, or fund small businesses. The cooperative makes funds through UCA San Ramon (where my advisor works), an organization that provides loans for 18 other cooperatives in the area (Yasika Sur). The UCA, whose mission emphasizes gender equality, also provides workshops and other programs to address problems prevalent to the countryside. Topics include sexual and reproductive health, women's rights, self esteem, literacy, how to grow crops, how to manage credit, etc. It's a wide range. The UCA also provides student loans to the children of cooperative members.

Everyone I've talked to has nothing but good things to say about the UCA and El Privilegio. I doubt I'll find anyone willing to critique the two organizations, expecially since they know I'm writing a report on the cooperative. There are some improvements El Privilegio is hoping to make, such as increasing membership (there are only 28 members), and garnering support from their children, especially their sons, as they empower themselves.

There's also an interesting twist: a new cooperative law passed in the national assembly of Nicaragua basically requires small co-ops to unite. The all male cooperative in El Roblar is therefore going to unite with the all woman co-op, so they can save overhead costs. However, the women from El Privilegio were originally the wives of the male co-op members, who decided to create their own organization because of the exclusion experienced in the male dominated one. So...now they're re-uniting, in a way. And of course by now all the men have new wives, which makes the situation a bit more tense. This is another topic few are willing to talk about openly. And I doubt it has a place in an academic work anyway. In the end, the only thing theý'll have in common is an accountant and board of directors--they will continue meeting separately, hold seperate savings accounts, etc.

Hopefully all this info will turn into a 30 page paper. Hard to tell at this point. In the meanwhile, I will continue to enjoy the crisp mountain air, the views, and everything else that will make everyone at home jealous.