The Things They Carried

I thought it would be appropriate to explain and illustrate to you the process by which our fridge and bellies are filled every week. Every week two JVs head to El Mercado Huembes to buy food for the week. I just got back from the market. The sights, smells, sounds, and tastes are fresh and they linger on my palate. Michael is my market partner. We grabbed two large market bags woven with a multi-colored plastic material. We first set out for dry goods. We bought four pounds of red beans, one pound of sugar, one half-pound of salt, one pound of peanuts, one pound of raisins, three packages of spaghetti, tomato paste, crackers, cookies, garbage bags, and toilet paper. After we collected most of these things from a small stand in the market called, Sonia y Sonia, we moved through the densely packed market toward the fruit and vegetable stands. Walking through the market is like maneuvering in a crowned labyrinth. Children run around barefoot. It’s hot. Music is blaring from two or three directions simultaneously, and vendors are constantly asking ¿Qué busca? (What are you looking for?). The floor of the market is coated in trash, dirt, and sometimes a liquid mixture of cleaning fluid and water. The smells range from the putrid scents of fish and poultry to the tantalizing smells of freshly baked bread, soups, tortillas, and tamales. Everything tastes better at the market too because we’re hot, sweaty, and hungry. A woman let us test a mandarin which exploded with citrus sweetness in my mouth. We bought one and a half dozen. Along with that we bought three pounds of onions, three cloves of garlic, three large carrots, two pounds of potatoes, one ayote (a delicious squash), three cucumbers, six limes, four packages of green beans, three sticks of celery, and one enormous watermelon. After that we only needed eighteen eggs, and a half gallon of milk. We were on our way. Oh, and I forgot to mention that earlier today Michael bought one and a half dozen bananas, a couple pounds of tomatoes, green peppers, and a pineapple. We bought all that food, enough for six people for one week for around forty US dollars. There are certain things we don’t need to buy every week of course, but that tends to be the necessary budget week to week, with small purchases at local ventas (small businesses run out of peoples homes in the neighborhood) as needed. By the time we got home we were each carrying around 20+ pounds per person. But it felt so glorious to have fresh fruit, vegetables, and eggs in the house. I just whipped up some scrambled eggs with garlic, onions, and green peppers and fresh tomato on top. I have really found it a joy to cook here. So far I have cooked a rica BBQ chicken pizza with a biscuit crust and a Pakistani dish with potatoes and soy meat. I forgot to mention that we eat very little meat products but have found carne de soya­ or soy meat to be a great substitute. If anyone has good and simple recipes please feel free to pass them on. I’m always looking for new recipes. I have found the cookbook More with Less to be a great resource. I highly recommend it. I should also mention that not every Nicaraguan shops at the market like we do. There are also a couple supermarkets that would rival any Kroger or Safeway of the US. Actually, one of them is owned by Wal-Mart (Ironically it is called La Union). We tend to buy very few things from La Colonia, the nearest supermarket to our house, but usually only butter, margarine, or meat, because it is less likely to carry any nasty bacteria or parasites. So, no worries, we eat well, actually better than at home, and we stay as healthy as one could expect. Ha. ¡Buen Provecho!

Sport and Hitchhiking

I want to describe two things that I’ve experienced in the past couple days.

Yesterday I was sitting around the house most of the day relaxing and reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie in Search of America. It is an engaging story of Steinbeck’s travels across the US with his dog. It made me reminiscent of my travels from summers past. Perhaps it made me a little restless too. I went for a run around the neighborhood. It felt so good to stretch my legs. I cut the run short because of the intense heat and a case of insidious laziness. Instead of packing it in and taking a shower, only to be followed by more sweating, I decided to grab a ball from the house and head to the basketball court down the street. I shot hoops with a couple guys that if I were in the US would have made me nervous. They sported tattoos and one guy even smoked a cigarette mid lay-up. While we were playing a local game of Stick, which involves free-throw shots and tipping the ball, a game of baseball started in the dirt soccer field adjacent to the basketball court. My family has a running joke with our friends the Metz’ because we (namely my dad) don’t think baseball is a real sport, played by real athletes. He thinks that basketball is the height of athletic sporting games. After watching guys run around in bare feet over dirt, rocks, trash, and even some glass to play an intense game of baseball, I have to side with the Metz family. That is sport. The tattooed dudes weren’t athletes. And for myself, I shoot hoops like a marksman missing the broadside of a barn.

The second story just happened today. Everyone but Jenna, who had to work, went to Laguna de Apoyo near Granada. It was about an hour bus ride and a ten minute taxi ride down to an exceedingly beautiful volcanic lake. The breeze blew cool and the sun was warm. We spent the day relaxing, swimming, and reading. When we left the lake we started walking up toward the main road to catch a bus. A pickup truck rolled up behind us, Michael stuck out his thumb, and before I knew it I was nestled in the back of a pickup with Christine, two Nicaraguan men, a bunch of firewood, and two ratty old chairs. We breezed through the country on our way to the highway. The air was sweet and fresh as we drove through the forest, up out of the volcanic crater where the lake shimmered below us. The Nicaraguans in back along with the wood were dropped off, and the driver offered to drive us all the way to Managua. Christine and I hopped down thinking that’d we’d get into the cab with the rest of the crew for the highway stretch of the trip. I opened the front door to hop in and the driver said, “No, let the muchacha sit there. Get in the back and sit down low.” So I hopped back in the bed of the truck and settled in for a beautiful and windy trip down the highway to Managua. He drove fast. As we drove back to the city, smells of the countryside faded back to smells of the city—diesel exhaust and pollution. He dropped us off and we were left with a twenty minute walk back to our house. It was a great day, topped off with a donut from Doña Donut, a local woman who walks around selling homemade donuts, and an exquisite dinner of soy meat, beans, and rice prepared by Michael.

Church

This Saturday we went to mass in a community called René Cisneros. The church community is small, welcoming, and rooted in the spirit of the Christian Base Community movement. Christian Base Communities grew with the impetus of the Second Vatican Council and the Bishop’s Conference of Medallín, Colombia. Our Jesuit Volunteer community tries to alternate between this parish and the local barrio parish down the street. I have found the experience at René Cisneros much more conducive to prayer and reflection. The parish reminds me growing up in the New Jerusalem Community in Cincinnati, Ohio. The music is lively and upbeat. People are relaxed and present to the community around them. Formalities and orthodoxies take a backseat to the activity and participation of the congregation.

I would like to share three short insights I had at Mass on Saturday. First, in the middle of the opening prayer a young woman, no more than 20 years old, approached the altar where the priest stood. She held a very small baby wrapped tightly in cloth and nestled close to her chest. She went right up to the priest, whispered a few words, and then returned to her seat with a number of other young women. The priest stopped right in the middle of the prayer and announced joyfully that the small child had just been born and he invited us to welcome her into the community. After applause he continued with the service. The seeming distraction and interruption in the order of things was nothing more than the joyful welcome of a child. I could only think that I had never seen anything like that at mass before and how often apparent inconveniences can be moments of grace in disguise.

Second, the homily, given by a Jesuit priest was nothing like I had experienced before. After reading the gospel he did not start by explaining what he, or the Church, or what anyone else should get out of the Gospel, but rather asked a question to the congregation. He asked, “What is the message of this Gospel reading?” It was not a loaded question or a rhetorical one, but an invitation for the community to participate in the Good News. What did the Gospel mean to the people sitting in this small church, in this poor neighborhood, in Nicaragua? Much in the spirit of Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, the priest was using the words and experiences of the people to shape and mold the direction of the homily. It was not only biblically and theologically based, but also rooted in the lived experiences of the people. It was liberation theology in action. It wasn’t socialistic or antithetical to the Catholic faith, but, in opinion, just really good Church.

Third, on my way down the middle aisle, toward the Eucharist, I noticed a small, hunched, old woman walking back down the aisle in my direction. She was simple but elegant and wise looking. As she turned into her pew she reached out to a small boy sitting next to her with a small piece of host saved from communion. The boy obediently opened his mouth and ate the bit of host. I laughed. That small act of rebellion or thoughtfulness or whatever it was tickled me. This innocent old lady was “breaking the rules” but only in gifting the boy what she saw to be something holy, meaningful, and necessary. Perhaps, not. That is of course my interpretation of the situation. However, it was such an interesting observation that I felt I must share it. It reminded me of my childhood when my mom baked communion bread for mass. She would let me eat a piece before it was taken to church for consecration. I thought it was exciting, mischievous, and also delicious (it was not the host of the dry wafer variety).

In my recent news I just got off the phone with my boss at Colegio Roberto Clemente. She told me I could come in on Janurary 26th to start getting acquainted with the school. The kids start on Feb. 3rd. I´ve never been so excited to start this work. My boss is extremely nice and really excited to have me. I´m pumped!

Happy New Year

Happy New Year y Feliz Año Nuevo

Today marks one month of being in Nicaragua. Part of me feels like we’ve been here for much longer, but then again I constantly feel like I just got here. We’ve been asked to speak to a group from John Carroll University. My first reaction was, “well, sure, a free lunch sounds great, but I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t already know.” Then again, now that I’m thinking about it I’ve learned a few things in the past month…

Gallo Pinto is delicious at any time of the day, hot or cold. Sour cream on top is always a little better (when we can afford it, ha)

When hailing a cab always check for the red stripes on the license plate to make sure it’s really a cab and not some crazy ladrones

Roosters do NOT crow at dawn, but rather all night, starting around 2am

What’s reported by the US media about Nicaragua is not entirely true, and what’s reported by the Nicaraguan media about the US is either not entirely true, or is in fact US media in disguise.

I can eat the Fritanga, or street food, and not get sick. Awesome.

This morning I saw our neighbor across the street raking leaves off his roof, and then burned them in the street. Our house is now filled with smoke. Thanks neighbor.

I now realize how much I have underappreciated both chocolate and peanut butter before coming here.

On New Year’s Eve, at midnight, some Nicaraguans burn El Viejo or the old. This consists of burning an effigy of a person in the street. They stuff what looks like a scarecrow with firecrackers, douse it in alcohol, and light the dude on fire, right in the gutter.

People in wheelchairs can be pulled up the street via motorcycle. Saw it.

One hour in the sun with sunscreen left my pasty white skin scorched. Thanks ancestors.

Well, I’m sure I’ve learned more than that, but that’s what I’ve got right now. Oh, I’ve also learned how GREAT it is to get phone calls and mail from friends and family back home ;) Yesterday we went to Pochomil, a beautiful beach on the Pacific Ocean. Things here are a little out of the ordinary because Jenna and Michael’s families are visiting and none of us have started work yet. It’s probably the longest vacation I’ve ever had. I’m ok with that. I know how to relax, don’t worry. I’m currently reading 1984. I highly recommend it.