For you? Or for me?

This past weekend I did something that I haven't done in 26.52 years. I took an Easter holiday. La Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is a national holiday here in Nicaragua, and people either a) observe religiously b) rush to the most popular beaches, pound a few beers, and pass out in the sand.

As you probably guessed, I decided to do neither. Instead, I found myself desperately stewing over my overwhelming defeat a few weeks back for a retreat in the mountains. So with nobody mandating my presence, and without a unanimous vote, I finally got my way.

After a brief, tranquilo visit on Wednesday evening with the lone volunteer in the 3,200 person town of Chaguitillo, I pushed my way onto a bus on Thursday afternoon where I joined another volunteer and her friend who was visiting. Destination: Selva Negra – a coffee farm resort in the middle of the Nicaragua's northern mountains. Up to this point, I had serious doubts about the amenities of a Nicaraguan resort. But I learned from my previous trips / mistakes and lowered my expectations appropriately.

The minute that we pulled up to the gate and there was actually a guard on duty, I had a feeling we were in good hands. And when we pushed open the door to our Youth Hostel, saw an enclosed roof, a private bathroom with hot water, and 3 separate beds, there was no doubt we were in good hands.

Almost every Nicaraguan I told before departure about this trip to the North said two things:

“Wow…that’s nice…it’s supposed to be pretty up there. And it is really cold!”

“Is it cold for you? Or is it cold for me?” I would politely respond.

“Well. Cold for me I guess.”

Normally, when a Nicaraguan says it’s cold it’s really about 75 degrees with a little bit of shade. I immediately respond by explaining the landscape of the United States, and how the North basically freezes during the winter. Now that’s cold…I insist. This time, however, the Nicaraguan radar was somewhat accurate. Parked in the middle of the mountains between Matagalpa and Jinotega, Selva Negra is probably about 20 degrees cooler than Masaya. I’ll be honest – I ordered hot coffee, hot tea or hot chocolate during almost every meal. I clasped my arms together to battle the wind chill. And I even slept with a comforter for the first time since arriving in this sauna.

The Nicaraguan radar was also accurate about the beauty of this resort. Surrounded by forests and coffee trees with a lake plastered front and center, it was like an entirely different country. There was almost nothing in this resort that resembled any aspect of my day-to-day living. Between the professionalism, cleanliness, amount of foreigners, and greenery, I couldn’t help but consider it a false sense of reality.

We filled our mornings hiking the beautiful mountains, for Selva Negra boasts 14 hiking trails and monkey observation posts. Unfortunately, during our first night the skies opened up, and we found ourselves slipping and sliding all theway up and down the trails. At one point I think I even sat in the same squat position for five minutes, knowing that my next step would leave me about 6-8 feet below my current position. As for the afternoons, they were simply filled with the tours of the coffee farm, a book by the lake, or a refreshing nap.

When it was all over, the beautiful hikes, the hearty meals, and the gorgeous scenery tallied up to approximately $150 / person for three days. I know what you’re thinking: not a bad price at all…especially for a boy with no income. Yet, I failed to mention the significance of the first comment every Nicaraguan made before I went on my trip.

“Wow…that’s nice…it’s supposed to be pretty up there. And it is really cold!”

The truth is most Nicaraguans I spoke to about this trip have never actually been to Selva Negra. Even if they have they certainly didn’t spend three days there, but more likely an afternoon. Many of them know from word-of-mouth that it is pretty and cold, but that’s where it ends. I distinctly remember unveiling the holiday itinerary to my Spanish tutor, and the conversation that followed:

“$15 per night for the room…that’s expensive,” he said.

“For you? Or for me?” I politely responded.

“For everyone!”

Did I mention the false sense of reality? I’m getting a nightly bargain for the same amount nearly half of Nicaragua earns in an entire week.

La Villa Betania

Approximately 5 kilometers Southwest of Masaya’s Central Park and 25 minutes by foot from my home, there is a quiet village that few people know about. It consists of about 60 homes, 250 people, excessive amounts of dust as well as dogs, roosters, and pigs. It has one water source, a well located at the end of the second street, which serves the entire community. With no public lighting, the residents resort to barbed wire as a primary defense of their homes. And to top it off, the unpaved dirt roads make it virtually impossible to commute with any comfort whatsoever.

Welcome to the Villa Betania. A place I’ve come to know well because it is the focus of my work. The term Villa is a familiar one. But Betania was named after the late daughter of an American man, who constructed a majority of the houses in her memory.

I first came into contact with Villa Betania during my second week on the job. It was 6:00PM on a Friday evening, and I was accompanying the local development division of my organization as a bystander once again. Just like the other rural training sessions, we set up shop in a primitive commonplace – dirt floors, no furniture, an overhead light, and out in the open, welcoming mosquitoes and all other living creatures that wanted to make an appearance. The meeting began as expected, with our team doing the talking, the 30 community attendees doing the listening, and the little kids running around and doing the distracting. I just sat there in silence, desperately wondering how I could contribute to this training session and desperately questioning what benefit, in general, my presence was serving.

As our local development leader, Maria Lidia, carried on in her comforting voice about the importance of leadership and the importance of working as a team, a voice in the back angrily interjected.

“How do you expect us to work as a team, when we have leaders here who make decisions on behalf of the community without consulting anyone?”

The tension rose. My ears perked up. And the diatribe continued.

“How can we work for the future of our community like this? What good does it do if these people are in charge?”

The venting went on for an hour. Our team hardly said a word. And it all culminated in the man who was being attacked, standing up, and walking out of the meeting.

Fortunately, the argument came to a halt and we were able to preserve the final five minutes of the meeting for its intended purpose: to review the list of goals the community had set out to accomplish in 2008.

1. Potable water
2. Paved Roads
3. Neighborhood Watch program
4. Day Care Center
5. Public Lighting
6. Creation of a Park
7. Formation of a Youth Group

I’m not sure what it was, but something about the disagreement and the goals for 2008 intrigued me. As if the community had unintentionally dragged us into their personal struggle and asked for help. Obviously, I wanted nothing to do with the politics and tension between the community members. But in terms of organizing and consulting with the community to help reach their goals for 2008, I felt like I could possibly make a difference.

Call me naïve, for it is now six week later and my work has drifted away from most of the goals except one – lucky number 7. You see, when I first arrived there had been plenty of talk in the village of youths taking a more active role in the community, especially since many of them were on scholarships and proving success in their new opportunities. But just because there was talk didn’t mean anything was happening. I decided to attend a meeting with the youths, and ask them if they wanted assistance and help organizing a community project. I’m not sure if kids just say “yes” to everything or they actually wanted help from a Gringo, but they accepted my offer.

Since then several things have happened. We officially established ourselves as Unidad Juvenil, or Youthful Unity, and meet multiple times a week in the evenings or on the weekends. After several brainstorming sessions, we decided to launch an illiteracy fighting project in the neighborhood. Just this past Saturday our group of 10 conducted a survey and about 25 illiterate residents expressed interest. And, just this morning, I went with 5 members of the group to the local government office, reported our findings, and set up a meeting and training session tomorrow in La Villa Betania to officially kick off our project.

Some people ask - If you work for a microfinance institution, why are you primarily working with community projects and youths?

Practical Answer: There is an entire division in our organization dedicated to local outreach, with the hope that through education and training people will form cooperatives or even pursue microcredit one day. Plus, I’ve been out with the credit promoters, witnessed microfinance in action, and although it is fascinating, it seems rather procedural and systematic.

Emotional Answer: Imagine life in the village from the description above.

Need I say more?

Nicaragua es mi cuerpo…Masaya mi corazón

About a week ago our group of five volunteers was forced into a retreat weekend on the Pacific Ocean about an hour Southwest of Masaya, to a place called Masachapa. I realize “forced” may be a strong word to describe a free weekend on the beach. But as a guy who is not really a beach lover, and whose idea for a weekend in the mountains was unanimously vetoed, I really had no other way to view my participation.

The point of this retreat was to “get away” for a weekend: To forget about the highs and the lows, the frustrations, and the slow pace of life; to reflect upon our experiences and share them with others; to simply have fun. It was also a requirement for our involvement in the program, and a rather effective one. That’s if you pick the right place, of course.

I was told I should arrive a day early because we had a five-person “suite” that overlooks the ocean. I caved in immediately, failing to consider what a “suite” in Nicaragua would entail, and failing to align my expectations for a slow beach weekend in a very slow country.

Our “suite” was, in fact, only one room – a modest space with three beds (two doubles and one single), lined up in a row. We had a 20 inch TV hanging from the ceiling, a fan we never figured out how to turn on, an A/C unit that never got colder than 80 grados, and a sink that failed to provide running water. Add in the scorching temperatures, lack of purified water, and essentially one dining option (our hotel restaurant) which my recently bacteria-filled friend classified as “medium-risk,” and there you have it – a beach weekend in Nicaragua.

I’d be lying if I told you the weekend was a total loss. Just like every day in the life, there were highs and lows. It was nice spending four hours on Saturday night shooting the breeze on our balcony overlooking the Pacific, while intensely arguing over the true location of the Big Dipper. It was nice to learn that if you accidentally swallow a mosquito and your throat starts swelling that there is no need to panic because you can still breathe through your nose. And, for a real change, it was nice to miss the comfort of my bed, the well-cooked meals, and the livelihood of my hometown, Masaya.

Masaya, the city of flowers, and the place I have so eloquently described for better or worse in previous posts. It never appeared so beautiful before. And it never occurred to me how much I liked it until I “got away.” This is good news though, because I’ve begun to embrace my evolving affinity for the community. Surely, it helps that my Sunday students and teachers stop me in the street or the local bar to practice their broken English. And that the villagers have started greeting me with a distant wave as I roam by their houses for another meeting. And, on the personal side, that I’ve fully integrated into the beat on Sunday afternoons, when my host family operates a lunch business out of our home as friends, family, and community members flock to the scene to enjoy some tasty food, Spanish tunes, and a few brews.

When I first arrived I found it a little odd that all over this city the community walls profess: Nicaragua is my body…Masaya my heart. Even though this slogan is still a bit of a stretch for me, it rings a little more true with every passing day.

Land of Volcanoes, Lakes, and Everything Else

As I unlock the chain to my front gate every morning I have two overriding thoughts: 1) It feels so nice to walk to work as opposed to driving or taking a metro 2) I’m not looking forward to this walk because it is emotionally taxing. Now how could that be? How could someone have two thoughts that describe the same activity and completely contradict each another?

Picture your favorite stroll in your hometown - the one that satisfies your appetite for peace and tranquility. Now imagine this stroll sprinkled with trash along your path, populated with malnourished animals, some of which are used as modes of transportation, and piles of dust polluting the air, as if someone just kicked sand in your face. Imagine the sound of screeching car beeps, the roaring of motorcycle engines, and a conglomeration of peculiar stenches you can never pinpoint. In so many words this is the contradiction of my walk to work – the idea of how I want it to be, and the reality of what it actually is.

Lately, I’ve come to believe that life in Nicaragua is a grind. True, I can only speak from my perspective in this urban sprawling known as Masaya, but it’s probably a feeling that permeates in other parts of this country. Having grown up in a completely different environment, I am certainly more sensitive to this grind, and don’t entirely accept it as “just the way things are.” It’s tough to accept the trash along the university walls knowing that a garbage can is in walking distance. It’s tough to accept the frail horses that gallop down the streets pulling a cart of people behind. It’s even tough to accept the constant honking of the taxi’s, which even when you’re walking the opposite direction, will still make a pass at you.

A few weeks back I decided to escape the urban setting, indulge in my hiking fetish and take to the Masaya Volcano National Park. I took the advice of my host family and waited for the bus en route to Managua, which passes by my house. Taking a bus in Nicaragua is like taking the metro or subway in any major US city during heaviest rush hour. Armpits, noise, sweat – it’s got it all!

I stayed close to the front of the bus so I wouldn’t miss my stop, and jumped out on the highway next to the entrance to the National Park. As I entered the grounds those feelings of peace and tranquility finally came to me. For the first time since entering the Land of Volcanoes and Lakes I felt alone with the sounds of nature. I walked a little more than a kilometer beforeI hit the visitor’s center. There I checked in with the park rangers where they relayed my physical description – black hair, gray shirt, and white skin – to the other rangers at the top.

I trucked along by myself, on the so-called path that was really a road. There was nothing around me except large volcanoes, hills, and occasionally a passing vehicle. Every ten minutes or so, I stopped, turned around, and made sure to take in the scenery I never see in the day-to-day grind. As I reached the top of the four kilometer trek, peering down at this beautiful countryside, it was clear my appetite had been satisfied. Sure, it’s always nice to achieve that simple goal of reaching the top of a Volcano. But more importantly, it is easy to forget the poverty, the trash, the animals, and the dust when standing on the peak of natural beauty.

I spent minimal time philosophizing about how a country so beautiful above can be so challenged below. And even though my stroll only lasted three hours, it was enough to settle the contradictory thoughts that enter my mind as I unlock the chain to my front gate every morning.