The Stand Off

I knew I shouldn’t have walked our site coordinator home. But I was doing the honorable thing - walking a girl home through the dark streets of Nicaragua late at night. I flagged down a cab in a matter of moments, gave him the prerequisite information of my destination, and hopped in. Up to this point, I never really had a problem with the cabbies in this little town. Of course, they sneak a peak at my skin, realize they can take advantage of me, and consequently do so. Case in point: from the same departure point I’ve been charged as little as 10 Cordoba’s (about 50 cents) and as much as 20 Cordoba’s (about 1 dollar). Let’s face it though, as a stranger in a strange land, I’m not going to go AWOL over 50 cents…so I thought at least.

As the cab navigated to my house, picking up and dropping off someone else along the way, I could sense the sketchiness in the air. I gave him the typical directions from the Parque de la Reforma, which serves as the reference point for my house since the streets have no names. As he pulled over to the side of the road, and delivered the pleasantly surprising fee of 10 Cordoba’s, I reached into my pocket and presented a 100 Cordoba bill, a standard denomination which is about 5 dollars.

“I don’t have change,” the burly man grunted.

“Well, this is all I got,” the obvious retort.

“Well, then go into you house, and get change!”

“You don’t understand, I don’t have any change in my house.”

“Then I’ll wait until you find some.”

And the stand off began.

I refused to give the man my 100 Cordoba’s. And as a result he refused to leave. He turned off the engine to the car, bellowed a painful groan, and sat there…in silence. Again, being a stranger in a strange land, I didn’t feel comfortable just hopping out of the cab in the middle of the night and running for it, with the potential of a foot chase, car chase, or who knows what. We were also about 2 houses away from my own, and the last thing I wanted to do was lead him to where I actually lived.

Another minute crept by and the anxiety set in.

What the heck am I doing? I’m sitting here in the middle of a dark road in the middle of the night thinking I’m going to outwait this Nicaraguan cab driver. This is what he does all day…he waits! He waits for customers to enter his cab, waits at traffic lights, and waits for ignorant riders like me to take advantage of.

This was a tough call for me, because as a man of principal, how could I possibly give this guy a Cordoba more than he deserved? After all…this is his job…to provide change to his customers! I knew deep down, as much as I hated to give in to the man, that I was the only one with the power to negotiate here.

“How much change do you have, Sir?” I asked politely.

“Ehhhh…”

“Do you have eighty Cordoba’s?”

“No.”

“Seventy?”

“No.”

“Sixty?”

“Ah…si!”

Finally, we had reached a number to settle – a number that would quadruple my fare. But I didn’t relent that quickly. I asked him angrily how he could drive around without change. I asked him if he was lying to me. As he rummaged through his car, opening all of the compartments to show me he had no change, it dawned on me that I had made the rookie mistake. Granted – the man should carry change…but I had to chalk this one up on the Lessons Learned from Cab Riding in Nicaragua handbook. Always ask if the driver has change before you step in the cab. A simple thought, but one I definitely take for granted living in the States.

I handed the man my 100 Cordoba bill, accepted the 60 Cordoba’s in return, and fled to my house. Believe it or not, he was sincere and apologetic. Certainly a lot more apologetic than the cab driver who ran out of gas on us a few weeks back. But that’s the way it goes in Nicaragua, and the price you sometimes pay for being a stranger in a strange land.

Being a Gringo in Masaya

My day abruptly begins around 6:00AM, as the great beasts next door bark as if their fighting for the last remaining piece of meat on this planet. My buddy talks about poisoning these dogs, but I’m pretty sure that’s illegal even under Nicaraguan law. As I roll over in bed, quasi-awake from Cujo and company, I am next awoken whenever the wind blows…literally! Just above my aluminum roof is a giant tree with many loose limbs. As the wind blows the branches fall. And as the branches fall, they crash onto my roof. I’ve developed a standard response protocol for this since it happens multiple times a night: 1) I awake up in a panic 2) I scan the room with my flashlight on the off chance there is forcible entry 3) I settle down, close my eyes, and continue to dream.

When 6:45AM strikes my alarm officially goes off. I make my way to the bathroom, prep myself accordingly, and then proceed to shave and comb my hair in the absence of a mirror. No kidding, I haven’t seen myself in over three weeks. So how do I shave? Well, I’ve been using a straight-edge for about 2 years now, and have a pretty good sense of how to maneuver around my face. My only concern is that I will shave too high and encroach on my sideburns. But, since I don’t have a mirror, I guess I never really know.

When I open my door around 7:25AM I am usually greeted by my host father, Luis Alberto. Not to be confused with Luis Enrique (the son), or Luis Eduardo (the grandson). Usually, the opening of my door is like the “Bat Signal,” only for my breakfast. I plop my butt down at the dining room table, open a book and I await to eat. The style of eggs tends to vary, but there is always one guarantee – Gallo Pinto. Gallo Pinto is pretty much the “hamburger” of Nicaragua. It is fried rice and beans, and is served with almost every meal. If it weren’t for the protein, I would have a tough time downing it. But since it’s a part of the diet here, you either accept it or you go hungry.

As I trek to work at 7:45AM, I’m often surrounded by mothers walking their little children to school down the same busy street. When I arrive at my office door fifteen minutes later I tap on the glass and the security guard lets me in. Since we’re like a mini-bank, we have a security guard at all times. The only difference is I don’t have to flash a badge, then swipe a badge, and then swipe a badge again as I did in my government days. After slipping the good old “Buenos dias” to the work crew, I walk back to the little nook I share with Claudia and Sandra, turn on the fan, and fix myself a cup of instant coffee.

I work through the morning after an initial meeting with my boss and a stint in the field with the promoters, and reverse course back to my house for lunch. Like breakfast, I’m almost always greeted by a family member, typically my host mother, Maria Rosa, or the daughter, Carina. Within moments, lunch is served, usually in the form of fried plantains, fried chicken, and white rice. Aside from the inordinate amounts of grasa (fat), I really have no qualms about the food. I get my read on one more time and then head back to work.

Now, walking to work post-lunch is much different from walking to work post-breakfast. The little ones in the morning usually give me a blank stare, curiously wondering why my skin looks different from theirs. In the afternoon, however, the wonder is replaced by vigilance – as the teenage eyes lock, follow, and stare down the Gringo – until I pass.

I enter the office around 1:00PM and go through the same routine, only this time with a “Buenas tardes.” I hop on my computer, do some email checking, research, and news reading, and prep for the afternoon community outreach workshop our office conducts. When my day ends around 5:30PM I hitch a ride home from our workshop, enter my house, and am greeted again by the family, which is normally watching TV in their rocking chairs known as abuelitas. They ask me about my day, about what time I want to eat, and then tune back into the tele.

The moment I enter my room I head straight for the shower. When you combine the dust in the street, the saturating bug repellant on my body, and the sweat I accumulate walking back and forth multiple times a day, it makes for a pretty filthy Gringo. I make my way to the shower, hoping that the water is running, and ease into the cold intermittent splashes. When there is no cold running water, I resort to the cold bucket shower – which really isn’t as bad as it seems. In fact, if everyone took bucket showers, I have a feeling we’d save quite a bit of water in this world…think about it.

After dinner with the family, some chit-chat, and inexplicable high, screechy baby noises at Luis Eduardo, I typically head back to my room, figure out my plans for the evening, if any, and carry on. All I know is by bedtime I’m pooped, and really just want to crawl into bed and read a book. When I return home into darkness from another power outage, like right now, I’ll usually grab my laptop and type away under my mosquito net (which is more like my fortress by now). Before closing my eyes, I take my flashlight one last time, scan the fortress in search of intruders that will eat me alive in my sleep, and call it a day…

Until the dogs bark...again.

Perspectiva

My first day on the job I entered the non-air-conditioned facade with a long sleeve shirt, slacks, and beads of sweat streaming down my cheeks, only to find out I’d be attending a strategic planning workshop for leather shoemakers. Sounds interesting, right? Well…it was…for the first hour or two. As my eyelids got heavier and heavier I reached into my bag of government experience and deployed the “staying awake” tactics. I got up and pretended to go to the bathroom, stretched my limbs, and returned to my seat with the hope that I would actually learn something about strategic planning. Even though I had no such luck, I realized immediately that my job would not be about building “knowledge” in its traditional sense. Instead, the true benefit would come in building perspective.

The workshop about strategic planning on Day 1 offered the perspective of the local leather shoemakers, where I listened to the simplistic visions of these niche businesses. As we split up into groups I felt obligated to make some sort of contribution. After we went through the basics and answered all of the questions about the strengths, weaknesses, and goals of their business, I took a minute to talk to the dominating voice of our group.

“Fernando, what are the real goals of your business?” I asked.
“To sell more, to go international, to improve,” he responded.
“That’s great. But how are you going to do that? What do you need?”
“Better machinery.”
“And what if you can’t get better machinery?”
“Then I can’t improve.”
“Is there anything else you can do to grow your business?”
“No. Only better machinery.”

That was it. There was no mention of anything else aside from this machinery. There was no mention of stylistic change. There was no mention of relocation, or different marketing techniques. There was certainly no mention of using the internet. In Fernando’s mind, there was only one solution to his problem – machinery – which he doesn’t have and he can’t afford.

The parent/child workshop on Day 2 offered a slightly more uplifting perspective, for we asked the parents and the children to split up into groups and express through drawings the concerns in their lives. First, we had the perspective of the parents, which was characterized by drawings of money shortages, workers commuting or moving to better-paying countries, and unemployment. Then, we had the perspective of the children, which was more or less characterized by drawings of themselves, sitting at their school desks with inner-monologue clouds about their heads thinking about their future. So typical – children always thinking of themselves! Yet, it was invigorating to see that in spite of challenges, children still have the vision, creativity, and ability to dream.

Without a doubt, the most humbling perspective struck on Day 4, when a coworker and I went out into the field for credit solicitation. Our first stop was a regular borrower from our organization who operates a tortilla business in her backyard. Now, by backyard I mean an area the size of a one-car garage, with a dirt floor, wooden table, and spotty covering – like the picnic area of a run-down park. This woman, with her two assistants, is known for making the best and biggest tortilla in the neighborhood. With the microcredit, she was able to purchase the two giant tortilla pans that rest on the naturally-generated burners on the back table. About ten minutes into our visit, a local came by and purchased four tortillas. I thought to myself…wow, four tortillas for one customer, not bad! Then I saw the monetary exchange, at 2 Cordoba’s (about 10 cents) per tortilla, and thought to myself again…even if she has good day of 30 customers, and they each buy 4 tortillas, she will generate 12 dollars of revenue for a full day’s work. Minus materials and labor…you do the math.

Even though the first week of work placed me in observation mode, I quickly learned about the scopes of the businesses and people my organization works with. We have the local salespeople who spend their days in the market, the local youths and adults who seek out more education, and the backyard business owners who operate on neighborhood reputation. There was something about those visits on Day 4 that just didn’t sit well though. As we sat in prospective clients´ homes, I found myself not only scanning the room in awe of the conditions, but also in search of threatening mosquitoes that would possibly attack me. Talk about perspective: I’m concerned about a mosquito bite. They’re probably concerned about anything but.

Bienvenido a Nicaragua

It took about five minutes for the Nicaraguan culture to sink in. As Sarah (another volunteer) and I exited the plane, we were welcomed with a massive, around-the-corner line to get through customs. At one point I don’t think we moved for literally 20 minutes. By the time we got our bags and left the airport, we were two hours behind schedule. Two hours of delay is even a stretch by Nicaraguan standards, but we learned quickly that waiting, delays, cancellations are a part of every day life.

That theme continued throughout the week, as each of our orientation activities started 45 minutes, sometimes an hour late. No worries though, I welcomed this mentality very quickly. On Wednesday we had a workshop scheduled at 4:30 PM, after a swim in La Laguna de Apoyo, one of Nicaragua’s nicest, clean-watered lagoons. Now, let me ask you this: If you give six volunteers and one program coordinator a free afternoon on the beach, what are the odds they will respect the start time of a 4:30 meeting? Needless to say, this one took the cake, and we didn’t begin until 8:00 PM.

Tardiness is hardly a major problem in this country, especially compared to the severity of poverty that can be seen on the street corners of Managua. It is not unusual to see houses the size of a studio apartment, made of cement blocks, and covered by a wood or aluminum roof. It is not unusual to see a vendor at traffic lights, begging you to buy food, water, or the latest prensa. Most disturbingly, it is not unusual to see children run up and down the streets begging for money. This reality is tough to swallow, for these kids are taught from an early age to ask people for money. Even though the money is probably going to parent or another family member, this is what the children are taught to do, and in many cases this is what they must do to survive.

The most thought-provoking activity of the week took place in Masaya, my new hometown. Masaya is known for their local markets, which flourish with crafts and other artisan works. Our group leader paired up the six of us, and gave us a scenario we had to complete with Cordoba’s (the local currency). With these 40 Cordoba’s (approximately 2 dollars), we had to find a way to heal our 1 year old baby who was plagued with diarrhea, buy the daily food ration for our family, and buy some school supplies for our 8 year-old in school. After buying the diarrhea medication 85% of our stash was gone, which left us with basically nothing to buy food and school supplies. We spent the next half hour prioritizing our purchases and bargaining with the locals. In the end, we bought half a pound of rice and 12 mini-bananas, enough food for only three people, while completely neglecting the school supplies for our 8-year-old.

This exercise reflects the decisions that many Nicaraguans must make on a daily basis. With a finite amount of money, most of which is below the poverty line, they are forced to prioritize the necessities in their lives. Needless to say, many of those necessities, like the food ration and school supplies, are neglected, and the cycle continues. There is no simple way to characterize the problem, but in Banker to the Poor, Muhammad Yunus, economist and 2006 Nobel Peace Prize winner, writes about the local villages of his native Bangladesh by saying,

“I theorized about sums in the millions of dollars, but here before my eyes the problems of life and death were posed in terms of pennies. Something was wrong.”

Bangladesh, Nicaragua, wherever - I couldn’t agree more.