Yo Si Puedo

I hadn’t been to La Villa Betañia in about five weeks. And the doubts raced through my mind. What if the youth group has fallen apart? What if the kids have lost interest? Were they willing to continue the group without my presence? Will we have to start from scratch? What if the government official from the illiteracy program never followed through?

There was only one way to find out. I visited La Villa the Sunday I returned, in the mid-afternoon timeframe when our meetings usually take place. The taxi dropped me at the standard exit point, and as I strolled along the dirt path my thought process quickly resorted to the old. These roads are unreal. I don’t know how a car can even drive on them. Avoid the puddles. Avoid the puddles. Ah, there are those people again. We’ll see if they stare me down today. Why must people always stare me down? Is my Gringo skin all that different from their Nica skin?


I halted at the meeting grounds, la casa de Eyling, and extended the standard Nica greeting towards the house. Eyling, the president of the youth group, emerged and greeted me warmly. We covered the “hi, how are you” basics and then proceeded to the meat of my visit.


“Eyling, is anything happening with the illiteracy project?” I anxiously inquired.

“Actually, we started the program about three weeks ago.”

"You mean that you and the group went through the training, and started teaching to the residents three weeks ago? That’s great! How did you do it?”

“Well, Alejandro from Yo Si Puedo called, and he set the whole thing up for us.”


I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That the kids, on their own initiative, went through training and launched the project we had been planning for several months. And they did it all without me around. Without my support. Without facilitation. Not only that, but the local rep from illiteracy programs followed up as scheduled.


Of course, I trust people when they tell me too good to be true news, but I felt compelled, for my own peace of mind to verify the news and attend a class taught by the group. So the following night I entered La Villa Betania to witness the project in action.


I arrived at Eyling’s house around 6:10PM, and only intended to stay for about 15 minutes, to get a sense for the program. Oddly enough, as many times as I had been to her house, this was the first time I actually went inside. Normally, I find myself outside on the square concrete slab out front, plopped in my plastic chair, waiting for the group to arrive.


The house is no different than the others in the community. The entrance feeds into the living room, where everyone parks their TV and stereo, the two main sources of entertainment in Nicaragua. A slight turn to the right and there is usually a small room or two sectioned off by a curtain. Cooking and bathroom duty is performed outside in designated areas. Since most of the houses are so small, and often consist of anywhere between three to eight family members, many residents construct “additions” to their homes. It is not an addition as we would commonly think of it, a construction project that turns an old room into something new and improved. Instead, the addition is usually scraps of wood nailed together until sturdy enough to support aluminum or tarp, which serves as the roof.




As I entered the home, passed through the living room, and walked into the addition, I could see the kids setting up the TV and VCR loaned by Yo Si Puedo. The classroom, consisting of wooden tables, dirt floors, two students, two teachers, one dry-erase board, and muchisimo insects, served its purpose – it provided a place to learn. Like every other experience in development work, nothing is ever predictable. So I can’t say that I was surprised when the electricity outlet (hanging from the ceiling), did not work. The kids resorted to traditional blackboard teaching.

Even though there were only two adult students in the class this evening, there was a light-hearted, uplifting aura that filled the room. To watch two teenagers spend an evening teaching their adult neighbors how to pronounce the letter “M” and identify it in sentences, as simplistic as it sounds, was a sight to see. The teenagers we re attentive, relaxed, and patient. The adults were enthusiastic, engaged, an d most importantly – they were learning.

Two, ten, however many students the final count reads, I am proud of the teens for executing their plan. The community is proud of them. And they are proud of themselves. As they should be. For in development work, where the range of certainty graphs like a mathematical sine wave, small victories go a very long way.

Movie Going in Masaya

It was my first Saturday night back in town, and with the ongoing saga of the transportation strike, my mobility was quite limited. After reading a book and watching about 7 episodes of West Wing (Season 4), I decided it was time to get out of the house. Earlier in the day, I had met my Program Coordinator at a local smoothie joint called Fruity Fruity to shoot the breeze and pass some time. As we walked back towards Central Park, she informed me that a movie theatre had recently opened in Masaya. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing…A movie theatre in Masaya? Could this be the solution to my entertainment roadblock?

I decided to verify this claim before I got my hopes up. Sure enough, she was right, and the listing showed Star Wars: 3D viewing at 8:00 PM. What better way to spend a Saturday night? Watching a 3D version of Star Wars and flailing my tentacles around as objects appear to be crashing into my face. And for 2 dollars, how could I go wrong?

While there was absolutely no conceivable or logical rationale to arrive early, I had to because my American blood pumped with excitement. This would be my first movie in Nicaragua, it would be on a large screen, and best of all, it would be shown in a room with Air-Conditioning. I arrived about ten minutes before Showtime, eager to purchase my ticket. I walked up to the booth, lowered my head to the opening, and took a look inside.

Nothing but pitch black! My hopes appeared shattered, my evening ruined. I stood there wondering if someone was actually working this booth or if the show had been cancelled. A minute later, a young man pleasantly appeared through a curtain and sold me my ticket.

After a few more minutes of time-wasting, I found myself in that dilemma that every person with a small bladder deals with, should I go the bathroom before it starts? Since we operate on Nicaraguan time, I figured I had a few minutes to spare. I ran to the bathroom around the corner, spent about 30 seconds searching for a light, realized there was none, and then moseyed back to the theatre to make sure I didn’t miss a beat.

8:00PM finally struck and I, along with another family of three, continued to eagerly wait outside the theatre. The ticket guy opened the door, appearing to invite us in. But instead of an invitation, he delivered a message – the current movie would be over in approximately ten minutes. Typical. I tried to suppress my boredom for a few minutes by sending text messages to random people, pathetically boasting that I was about to step into a movie theatre in Masaya.

Ten minutes went by.

My boredom was escalating, my excitement diminishing, and my sweat from standing outside in the 85 degree heat accumulating. What the heck is going on? I circled the top floor a few more times to kill some time. On my final lap, the little five-year-old came out in me as I pressed my face against the theatre window to catch a glimpse inside.

Another twenty minutes went by.

I looked down at my cell phone for the umpteenth time – and the survey said – 8:30PM. A half hour late! And I’m still standing outside waiting to be seated. Finally, after not seeing him for a half hour, the ticket booth captain opened the theatre door once again, and this time delivered a telegram.

“This is running a little longer than expected. Would you like to come back tomorrow?” He asked.

“Tomorrow? But I want to see the movie tonight.” I responded.

“Well, I don’t know when this will be over.”

I was in disbelief. I thought to myself…Just look the video box…that’s how you’ll know!

I resisted the urge, however, and instead found myself quite amused.

“Actually, if it’s alright I’d just like my money back.” I said.

And that was that. No movie for me. No money for him. And no getting those 40 minutes of my life back. I reflected for a second about how this would play over in the United States. A night ruined…a demand for free tickets…a call to the manager! Maybe even a…I’m never coming back to this theatre again!

If I’ve learned anything about living in Nicaragua though, where customer service is a distant cry from mediocre, it is that when plans go awry, the best thing to do is raise your arms, shake your head, and chuckle. Yes. I said chuckle. For if you get upset about every tiny detail that doesn’t meet expectations, you’d be entering or living in a constant state of depression.

The Return

After 3+ weeks of recuperation at home in Miami, I finally received medical clearance and returned to Nicaragua. Unsurprisingly, everything was pretty much the way I had left it three weeks prior. But for some reason I felt a little different.

As I exited the plane and made my way through customs, I felt very at ease. I recalled my first time off that plane in late January, joined by my now-departed peer, and waiting anxiously for about an hour until we reached the yellow line. I remembered all of the question marks, the uncertainty, and the excitement. This time, as I stood in line for about 5 minutes with my $5.00 visa fee handy, the anxiety never surfaced. I was as comfortable as could be.

I grabbed my backpack and headed for the airport exit, expecting to hop into a taxi and head to Masaya. Only there was one small problem: almost all of Nicaragua was/is on a transportation strike. Gas prices are too high, and the people want the Government to step in and regulate. Apparently, the Government sees it differently, so Ladies and Gentlemen, we officially have a standoff.

Fortunately, I am wiser than I appear, and checked with my friends before heading back down about the feasibility of convincing a taxi to haul me to Masaya. It will probably just cost you double the normal rate, my friends told me. As I approached taxi after taxi, however, the rejection started to magnify. We are on strike…it’s too dangerous…we are on strike. Well, isn’t there any way I can get to Masaya?

Apparently, my wisdom had worn out its welcome. And the anxiety that was absent 5 minutes before started getting the better of me. The taxi rejecters obviously sensed my growing concern, as one of them kindly directed me to a group of Americans waiting for a shuttle. To my great fortune, or dumb luck, there was a family of three on my flight who always calls a shuttle to pick them up at the airport and drive them to their home in Granada. For 15 bucks, the driver was nice enough to pass through Masaya and drop me at my doorstep. Even in the face of a strike.

During the drive from Managua to Masaya there really was no cause for alarm. The “riots” I had heard about were nonexistent. The police I had heard about were not to be seen. Even the roads had a healthy number of cars on them. Perhaps the most uncharacteristic aspect of this drive was my comfort level, my familiarity with the place. You see, the family consisted of two parents and one son. The parents, who visit Nicaragua three times a year to do volunteer work and vacation, engaged me in conversation and seemingly had no urge to observe their surroundings. I, too, found myself drawn to our conversation more than the burning trash, dirt roads, and wooden houses that surrounded our path to Masaya. The son, on the other hand, was making his first visit to Nicaragua. He had little to no part of our conversation, for his eyes fixated on the side windows, carefully taking in the world that probably pales in comparison to his college grounds.

I glanced at him sporadically during my conversation with his folks, and realized I knew exactly how he felt. During my first week, I remember our Micro bus driving through the dirt roads of local villages in extreme poverty. There were the kids that walked around topless with dirt smeared all over their bodies, the wooden and aluminum scrapped walls that appeared as fragile as to topple from a gust of wind. Above all, there was that gut wrenching feeling – that disbelief that these images paint the picture of one-third of our world.

As I stepped out of the shuttle, extended my graciousness to the transportation saviors, and strolled to my front door, I couldn’t help but analyze the distinction between me and the first-timer. Have I stopped looking around? Since when did I stop looking around? Then I entered my home, greeted my family, wandered to my room, and shut my door – a routine similar to the one I practice in Miami. I haven’t stopped looking around, I decided. I just happen to be living instead of looking.