Thursday, November 30, 2006
Gallos and gallinas
I don´t know if I´ve mentioned this already, but Levi and I are staying at Big Foot Hostel in Leon, Nicaragua. It´s a backpacker hub in this gritty, bustling town, with a bar, dorm rooms and a lush garden where turtles roam. Levi and I sleep in a private room at the back of the hostel, where the walls don´t reach the ceiling and where we hear the gallos and gallinas of Leon cheer each other on during the after-glow of passion.
Gallos are roosters, gallinas are chickens. When a gallo fertilizes an egg, he starts to crow. The gallina starts to screech, and all their neighborhood pals join in the celebratory cry. This has been the norm for all the places we´ve visited in Central America. But in Leon, the rooster nearby sounds like he´s gotten a tracheotomy.
We first speculated that our cock had lost his voice box in a bad cock fight. But Darryn, the hyper Aussie hostel owner, told us the truth of this cretinous animal.
Turns out he belongs to the archbishop´s wife, a nasty woman whose home is paid for by the Archiocese of Leon. That´s right, the archbishop´s WIFE. He is married. And to a woman who loves a rooster who sounds like he spends his afternoons at the Alger Bar & Grill.
But doesn´t it make total sense? This awful rooster is protected by Catholic corruption, which comes in the form of a witchy woman who tortures the neighborhood with her cock. (Did you know that President Daniel Ortega´s wife is a witch? Well, she is. A self-proclaimed bruja.)
Speaking of corruption, don´t donate your money to Nicaragua or anywhere unless you know where it´s really going. The amount of corruption that we hear about is astounding. More on that later, though.
Gallos are roosters, gallinas are chickens. When a gallo fertilizes an egg, he starts to crow. The gallina starts to screech, and all their neighborhood pals join in the celebratory cry. This has been the norm for all the places we´ve visited in Central America. But in Leon, the rooster nearby sounds like he´s gotten a tracheotomy.
We first speculated that our cock had lost his voice box in a bad cock fight. But Darryn, the hyper Aussie hostel owner, told us the truth of this cretinous animal.
Turns out he belongs to the archbishop´s wife, a nasty woman whose home is paid for by the Archiocese of Leon. That´s right, the archbishop´s WIFE. He is married. And to a woman who loves a rooster who sounds like he spends his afternoons at the Alger Bar & Grill.
But doesn´t it make total sense? This awful rooster is protected by Catholic corruption, which comes in the form of a witchy woman who tortures the neighborhood with her cock. (Did you know that President Daniel Ortega´s wife is a witch? Well, she is. A self-proclaimed bruja.)
Speaking of corruption, don´t donate your money to Nicaragua or anywhere unless you know where it´s really going. The amount of corruption that we hear about is astounding. More on that later, though.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
How French are you?
That awful woman who brought us French Women Don´t Get Fat is at it again with another book, which I won´t name because I don´t want to promote it. But I will promote Mireille´s quiz, dubbed, "How French are you?" It turns out that (sigh of relief) I am "une vraie française." But that´s because I lied on about half the questions.
This brings me to identity. My Franco-Irish-American identity. I´m the only American Raftery with this issue. When Finn was three years old, the verbose little guy proclaimed to my mother that he was half French, half Irish and 100 percent American. My parents have moved away from this indulgent exercise and onto people of other origins. (Rob is from the U.S. but his grandma lived in Mexico and Hana is from the Czech Republic, but she spent a long while in Germany.)
Me, I have a little more trouble. I moved to the States when I was four, and I remember missing Ireland terribly. I spent my summers in France listening to my aunts´and uncles´vehemently anti-American rhetoric. I remember my parents vowing they would never give up their European identities, remember my father walking around our St. Patrick´s Day parties, counting the number of nationalities present. Dad´s rule was that a person had to have been born in the country or be a passport holder. The highest number he reached was 14, Finn being the only American.
My parents have since become American citizens, as have many of their international buddies. My father waved that star-spangled banner after 9-11 and he took me to the voting polls when he cast his first votes. "When are you going to get your citizenship," he would ask, and I kept coming up with excuses. The lamest one was that it shouldn´t matter, as reporters shouldn´t express their opinions. He provided an all-too American response. "It´s your constitutional right!" Then he laughed. "Isolde," he said, "When have you not expressed your opinion?"
In Central America, I´ve had an identity shift. At first I said that I was from Ireland, hoping that lurking pick-pockets might have heard of the potato famine and take pity. I found out on my second day that it don´t matter where whitey´s from, so long as she´s got money. Plus, I felt as though I was lying.
Then I said that I lived in the United States. "Where?" They would ask. For a while, I said Seattle, but that too felt like a lie, since I haven´t lived in Seattle for seven years. I switched to Washington state, which brought about further confusion. "The capital!" They would exclaim. Nope, I would say, though I lived there once. "How near to New York?" And I would say far, though I lived there once too. At this point, they would have grown bored of the "hot-hot-cold-where-are-you-from" game.
But yesterday, to my teacher, I finally said it. "I´m just American. Kind of from all over the country, like most Americans. Kind of from all over the world, like most Americans." She got it.
Today, a Peruvian guy at our hostel was confused because he heard me speak French and English. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Soy estadounidense," I said, "Pero mi mamá es de francia. Entonces, yo hablo frances."
"Oh, you´re American," he said in English. "That makes sense."
I thought so too.
This brings me to identity. My Franco-Irish-American identity. I´m the only American Raftery with this issue. When Finn was three years old, the verbose little guy proclaimed to my mother that he was half French, half Irish and 100 percent American. My parents have moved away from this indulgent exercise and onto people of other origins. (Rob is from the U.S. but his grandma lived in Mexico and Hana is from the Czech Republic, but she spent a long while in Germany.)
Me, I have a little more trouble. I moved to the States when I was four, and I remember missing Ireland terribly. I spent my summers in France listening to my aunts´and uncles´vehemently anti-American rhetoric. I remember my parents vowing they would never give up their European identities, remember my father walking around our St. Patrick´s Day parties, counting the number of nationalities present. Dad´s rule was that a person had to have been born in the country or be a passport holder. The highest number he reached was 14, Finn being the only American.
My parents have since become American citizens, as have many of their international buddies. My father waved that star-spangled banner after 9-11 and he took me to the voting polls when he cast his first votes. "When are you going to get your citizenship," he would ask, and I kept coming up with excuses. The lamest one was that it shouldn´t matter, as reporters shouldn´t express their opinions. He provided an all-too American response. "It´s your constitutional right!" Then he laughed. "Isolde," he said, "When have you not expressed your opinion?"
In Central America, I´ve had an identity shift. At first I said that I was from Ireland, hoping that lurking pick-pockets might have heard of the potato famine and take pity. I found out on my second day that it don´t matter where whitey´s from, so long as she´s got money. Plus, I felt as though I was lying.
Then I said that I lived in the United States. "Where?" They would ask. For a while, I said Seattle, but that too felt like a lie, since I haven´t lived in Seattle for seven years. I switched to Washington state, which brought about further confusion. "The capital!" They would exclaim. Nope, I would say, though I lived there once. "How near to New York?" And I would say far, though I lived there once too. At this point, they would have grown bored of the "hot-hot-cold-where-are-you-from" game.
But yesterday, to my teacher, I finally said it. "I´m just American. Kind of from all over the country, like most Americans. Kind of from all over the world, like most Americans." She got it.
Today, a Peruvian guy at our hostel was confused because he heard me speak French and English. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Soy estadounidense," I said, "Pero mi mamá es de francia. Entonces, yo hablo frances."
"Oh, you´re American," he said in English. "That makes sense."
I thought so too.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
HAHAHAHAHAHA
Washington state, 25 degrees F (feels like 17 degrees)
Leon, Nicaragua, 88 degrees F (feels like heaven)
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Happy dia de gracias
Levi and I are on a Thanksgiving trek, trying to find the perfect places to nibble. Not too fancy, not too cheap. A place with a decent glass of white wine, maybe red, and we´ll tip real good if you have mashed potatoes. We have made two stops so far. At the first, we bought two pieces of the most perfect chocolate cake with homemade frosting and rainbow sprinkles. Then we stopped at Ben Linder Cafe, which is a tribute to a Portland engineer who was killed by the Contras in 1987.
Anyway, happy Thanksgiving. If I have learned anything in the last two months it´s that, damn, we have a lot of thanking to do.
In other news: ironic t-shirts. I think we have a winner.
We were on a dusty bus between Rivas and Leon when a Nicaraguan man with a basket filled with bready goods got on board. His t-shirt read, ¨I survived Phillip Slogoff´s bar mitzvah.¨ My dream is that Phillip Slogoff will some day Google himself and find this blog. He will be surprised and amused that his name lives in the dustiest parts of one of the world´s poorest countries. I imagine him bringing up this find at Christmas dinner and his mother being pissed that one of their guests gave this precious momento to Goodwill. Does anyone know Phillip Slogoff? Perhaps I´ll Google him now.
Today, Levi and I started volunteering at a center for street kids. We figure it´s a fair trade -- they indulge our Spanish, and we let them climb all over us. We´ll post some photos soon. They´re positively fun.
(Note: Since I wrote this post, it has been noted that Phillip Sloggoff probably doesn´t celebrate Christmas, seeing as he celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. I beg to differ. I have participated in many seders, and I am a fallen Catholic.)
Anyway, happy Thanksgiving. If I have learned anything in the last two months it´s that, damn, we have a lot of thanking to do.
In other news: ironic t-shirts. I think we have a winner.
We were on a dusty bus between Rivas and Leon when a Nicaraguan man with a basket filled with bready goods got on board. His t-shirt read, ¨I survived Phillip Slogoff´s bar mitzvah.¨ My dream is that Phillip Slogoff will some day Google himself and find this blog. He will be surprised and amused that his name lives in the dustiest parts of one of the world´s poorest countries. I imagine him bringing up this find at Christmas dinner and his mother being pissed that one of their guests gave this precious momento to Goodwill. Does anyone know Phillip Slogoff? Perhaps I´ll Google him now.
Today, Levi and I started volunteering at a center for street kids. We figure it´s a fair trade -- they indulge our Spanish, and we let them climb all over us. We´ll post some photos soon. They´re positively fun.
(Note: Since I wrote this post, it has been noted that Phillip Sloggoff probably doesn´t celebrate Christmas, seeing as he celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. I beg to differ. I have participated in many seders, and I am a fallen Catholic.)
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Remember the Dutch girl?
About a week ago, I wrote about a Dutch girl who was particularly critical of the U.S. and who challenged me on the back of a pick-up truck. Well, we bumped into her in Leon, and she got my same haircut! FYI, in Nicaragua, ¨solo un pocito mas corte¨ means, ¨Give me what Hillary Clinton got.¨Ella, think the poof. But anyway, bad haircuts create bonding moments, and the Dutch girl and I are now friends.
In other news, Levi and I have started language school again, only this time, we´re the only students in the school. My teacher is super feministy, which is interesting. Today, we talked about incest and abortion. Joyous! Apparently certain parts of Nicaragua carry the tradition of fathers having sex with their daughters before their wedding day. This tradition has, as you can imagine, led to some birth defects. I can´t find anything about this online, but if anyone knows about it, do inform! Levi questioned whether my teacher meant tradition as we mean it, which was a good point. Either way, sex with your kid is, I think we can all agree, pretty nasty.
We spent our first night in Leon at Hostelito Vieje. It wasn´t until the next morning that we realized we were staying in a dank hole. No windows, concrete floors and spiderwebs everywhere. Our room could lock shut only with the help of one of those locks you find on a little girl´s diary, so it wasn´t exactly muy seguro. To boot, halfway through the night, halfway through the night, the tagboard wall separating us from the communal bathroom split apart. It was funny, though, because we were mortified by the quality of our room on our first night in Antigua. There, the walls were brightly painted, the mattresses had springs and there were windows looking out onto a lush courtyard. At the time, I suggested pulling out our sleeping bags. Now, I´m amazed by sheets without holes and blood stains that fit the bed.
We moved to this hostel called Big Foot, one of these super Wal-Mart hostels you find on the backpacker trail down here. Big Foot isn´t much prettier than the other joint -- the floors are concrete and our bed is set up on cinder blocks (and may be broken, as I was jumping on it today and it made a bad sound). But we prefer it because we´re allowed to use the restaurant´s kitchen, which has been an exercise in not pissing off the orderly Germans. Plus, it´s $8 for the night. Hard to beat that price.
(We know so many travelers now that we have bumped into four different groups of people we know from other places. At Big Foot, we are sleeping in the room next door to Manuel and Marie, a German-Canadian couple who we slept next door to in San Juan del Sur. The week before, we were in the same hostel as Manuel in Granada.)
(Note: Yes, yes, I know. Poquito, not pocito. Pocito would sound like po-see-toe. Not too bad a try though, considering that I just learned how to say, "My name is Isolde." I had been saying, "Me llama es Isolde." I thought that "llama" was the word for name. It´s not. My version translates to, roughly, "My she is named is Isolde." The correct way is "Me llamo Isolde." Translated: I am named Isolde.)
In other news, Levi and I have started language school again, only this time, we´re the only students in the school. My teacher is super feministy, which is interesting. Today, we talked about incest and abortion. Joyous! Apparently certain parts of Nicaragua carry the tradition of fathers having sex with their daughters before their wedding day. This tradition has, as you can imagine, led to some birth defects. I can´t find anything about this online, but if anyone knows about it, do inform! Levi questioned whether my teacher meant tradition as we mean it, which was a good point. Either way, sex with your kid is, I think we can all agree, pretty nasty.
We spent our first night in Leon at Hostelito Vieje. It wasn´t until the next morning that we realized we were staying in a dank hole. No windows, concrete floors and spiderwebs everywhere. Our room could lock shut only with the help of one of those locks you find on a little girl´s diary, so it wasn´t exactly muy seguro. To boot, halfway through the night, halfway through the night, the tagboard wall separating us from the communal bathroom split apart. It was funny, though, because we were mortified by the quality of our room on our first night in Antigua. There, the walls were brightly painted, the mattresses had springs and there were windows looking out onto a lush courtyard. At the time, I suggested pulling out our sleeping bags. Now, I´m amazed by sheets without holes and blood stains that fit the bed.
We moved to this hostel called Big Foot, one of these super Wal-Mart hostels you find on the backpacker trail down here. Big Foot isn´t much prettier than the other joint -- the floors are concrete and our bed is set up on cinder blocks (and may be broken, as I was jumping on it today and it made a bad sound). But we prefer it because we´re allowed to use the restaurant´s kitchen, which has been an exercise in not pissing off the orderly Germans. Plus, it´s $8 for the night. Hard to beat that price.
(We know so many travelers now that we have bumped into four different groups of people we know from other places. At Big Foot, we are sleeping in the room next door to Manuel and Marie, a German-Canadian couple who we slept next door to in San Juan del Sur. The week before, we were in the same hostel as Manuel in Granada.)
(Note: Yes, yes, I know. Poquito, not pocito. Pocito would sound like po-see-toe. Not too bad a try though, considering that I just learned how to say, "My name is Isolde." I had been saying, "Me llama es Isolde." I thought that "llama" was the word for name. It´s not. My version translates to, roughly, "My she is named is Isolde." The correct way is "Me llamo Isolde." Translated: I am named Isolde.)
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Daniel Ortega exacts his revenge on Americans through hairdressers
Think Paul McCartney, cerca "Love me do." But can you really complain when the fanciest haircut in Nicaragua's richest town costs $4?
In other news, Levi has finally posted another blog entry.
And in other other news, we got to watch a New York social worker and a Capitalist Irishman duke it out at breakfast. It's beautiful to watch people from separate gabby cultures discuss the future of nuclear energy in our world. Levi and I were growing tired of canned Europeans who get off reading Chomsky.
P.S. The Irishman was a Dubliner from the north side!
In other news, Levi has finally posted another blog entry.
And in other other news, we got to watch a New York social worker and a Capitalist Irishman duke it out at breakfast. It's beautiful to watch people from separate gabby cultures discuss the future of nuclear energy in our world. Levi and I were growing tired of canned Europeans who get off reading Chomsky.
P.S. The Irishman was a Dubliner from the north side!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
There is a tarantula in our bathroom
When I returned to our bedroom last night after chatting and typing in the main room, Levi was on the top bunk, reading "Wicked," which he highly recommends.
"I have good news and I have bad news," he said. "Which do you want to hear first?" For those of you who don't know Levi very well, let me interpret: "I have really bad news. There is no good news."
The good news was that you could get really good reading light on the top bunk. "Oh no," I said. "Do I want to hear the bad news?"
"I wasn't going to tell you," he said. "But there's a tarantula in the bathroom."
Not a cute, fuzzy baby tarantula who got lost on her way home to Mommy. A big daddy tarantula. Thick, hairy legs and fatty body tarantula. Levi had drunk about a fourth of a bottle of rum by the time he spotted our new roommate, and as he described it, it seemed they had a bonding moment.
"He was so scared, it was so sad," he said. "I flicked my towel at him, and he scurried away. I flicked my towel again, and he scurried a little less. Then I flicked my towel again, and he didn't really scurry. How could I kill him after he trusted me like that?"
***
About that bottle of rum: On our way to the beach the other day, Levi offered to run to the pulperia to buy some goodies. He asked what I wanted, and I said that some bread and juice would be fantastic. He returned with a liter of pineapple juice, a small packet of Oreo cookies and a bottle of rum.
"Rum? For the beach?" I said.
"It was so cheap, you have no idea," he replied, holding up his purchase proudly. "Ten dollars for the five year old bottle. I was going to get the cheaper bottle, but I only want the best for my girl."
"I have good news and I have bad news," he said. "Which do you want to hear first?" For those of you who don't know Levi very well, let me interpret: "I have really bad news. There is no good news."
The good news was that you could get really good reading light on the top bunk. "Oh no," I said. "Do I want to hear the bad news?"
"I wasn't going to tell you," he said. "But there's a tarantula in the bathroom."
Not a cute, fuzzy baby tarantula who got lost on her way home to Mommy. A big daddy tarantula. Thick, hairy legs and fatty body tarantula. Levi had drunk about a fourth of a bottle of rum by the time he spotted our new roommate, and as he described it, it seemed they had a bonding moment.
"He was so scared, it was so sad," he said. "I flicked my towel at him, and he scurried away. I flicked my towel again, and he scurried a little less. Then I flicked my towel again, and he didn't really scurry. How could I kill him after he trusted me like that?"
***
About that bottle of rum: On our way to the beach the other day, Levi offered to run to the pulperia to buy some goodies. He asked what I wanted, and I said that some bread and juice would be fantastic. He returned with a liter of pineapple juice, a small packet of Oreo cookies and a bottle of rum.
"Rum? For the beach?" I said.
"It was so cheap, you have no idea," he replied, holding up his purchase proudly. "Ten dollars for the five year old bottle. I was going to get the cheaper bottle, but I only want the best for my girl."
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Two people we've met
NEW FRIEND NO. 1
It's impossible not to get sucked into the history of Guatemala if you're a long term visitor. There's plenty to read and lectures to attend, but local Guatemalans aren't keen on discussing the 36-year civil war that resulted in the mass killings of whole villages. We figured the war was too far in the past or irrelevant at the moment.
But last night, I met Taxa, who turned all this reasoning on its head. Taxa (speaking the wonderful Guatemalan Spanish that is so easy to understand), told me that the army continues to terrorize Guatemalans. She was living in a village in the Guatemalan highlands when the army came in, lined up men, women and children and shot them in front of other villagers. "Morning and night, they would pull us out of our homes and we would watch as they killed more of us," she said.
Taxa's grandfather had struck a deal with the army, and so some, but not all of her family was spared. I asked her if Oscar Berger, the current president of Guatemala, is any better, and she nodded her head vigorously. "He robs us, but at least he doesn't kill us," she said.
Taxa was one of the first and only people who spoke to the United Nations Truth Commission when they came into town, asking for stories. Even today, she said, people hush each other when they talk about the past. "My people are traumatized," she said.
At the moment, Taxa is a painter who lives with her American husband in the United States. They're working on a book about the atrocities in Guatemala, but she's worried about the project. She's afraid the army will read the book and exact their revenge on her family. She intends to use her husband's last name and to wear a huipile, a traditional indigenous shirt, with the woven pattern of a different village.
NEW FRIEND NO. 2
This morning, I spied a guy who bore eery resemblance to Steve Pulkkinen, Levi's dad. He was cradling a two-month old baby, cooing to it in Spanish. I went up to him and he stuck out a hand. "I'm Steve," he said. "From Seattle." Fun coincidence.
This Steve is in the process of moving to Nicaragua, and for the next four hours, he regaled Levi and I with stories of the jewelry industry, drunk, gay roommates in Granada, ex-wives, his junk store in Fremont and living in east Tacoma. We were in stitches.
There are lots of French people here, too, but they are smelly and rude to Americans (one said to me yesterday, "If you had told me you were French, I would have been nicer." Screw you too, monsieur. Levi is irked that one of the guys hasn't stitched up the rip in his pants that permits his butt cheeks to hang out. I agree that skinny Frenchmen with excessive butt hair should keep it to themselves.
It's impossible not to get sucked into the history of Guatemala if you're a long term visitor. There's plenty to read and lectures to attend, but local Guatemalans aren't keen on discussing the 36-year civil war that resulted in the mass killings of whole villages. We figured the war was too far in the past or irrelevant at the moment.
But last night, I met Taxa, who turned all this reasoning on its head. Taxa (speaking the wonderful Guatemalan Spanish that is so easy to understand), told me that the army continues to terrorize Guatemalans. She was living in a village in the Guatemalan highlands when the army came in, lined up men, women and children and shot them in front of other villagers. "Morning and night, they would pull us out of our homes and we would watch as they killed more of us," she said.
Taxa's grandfather had struck a deal with the army, and so some, but not all of her family was spared. I asked her if Oscar Berger, the current president of Guatemala, is any better, and she nodded her head vigorously. "He robs us, but at least he doesn't kill us," she said.
Taxa was one of the first and only people who spoke to the United Nations Truth Commission when they came into town, asking for stories. Even today, she said, people hush each other when they talk about the past. "My people are traumatized," she said.
At the moment, Taxa is a painter who lives with her American husband in the United States. They're working on a book about the atrocities in Guatemala, but she's worried about the project. She's afraid the army will read the book and exact their revenge on her family. She intends to use her husband's last name and to wear a huipile, a traditional indigenous shirt, with the woven pattern of a different village.
NEW FRIEND NO. 2
This morning, I spied a guy who bore eery resemblance to Steve Pulkkinen, Levi's dad. He was cradling a two-month old baby, cooing to it in Spanish. I went up to him and he stuck out a hand. "I'm Steve," he said. "From Seattle." Fun coincidence.
This Steve is in the process of moving to Nicaragua, and for the next four hours, he regaled Levi and I with stories of the jewelry industry, drunk, gay roommates in Granada, ex-wives, his junk store in Fremont and living in east Tacoma. We were in stitches.
There are lots of French people here, too, but they are smelly and rude to Americans (one said to me yesterday, "If you had told me you were French, I would have been nicer." Screw you too, monsieur. Levi is irked that one of the guys hasn't stitched up the rip in his pants that permits his butt cheeks to hang out. I agree that skinny Frenchmen with excessive butt hair should keep it to themselves.
Isla de Ometepe
Monday night, we saw turtles. Hundreds and hundreds of turtles laying eggs on the beach. Levi, the animal lover, petted the mama turtles' fins as they pushed out their eggs.
'Can you hear her?' he asked, crouching down next to one. 'She's breathing so hard.' I wasn't so much intent on the heavy breathing as I was on the smell. The whole beach smelled like sour armpit. But the experience was a touching one, and I was reminded of Pon-Pon, my family's turtle. My mom once remarked that she wouldn't be happy if you put her in a swamp in Malaysia, Pon-Pon's natural habitat, so it was reassuring to see these turtles free. As we left, Levi said, 'Don't you wish you could just pick them up and take them back to the ocean? They seem so exhausted.'
We arrived on the Isla de Ometepe yesterday. After an hour cab ride, an hour boat ride and a three hour bumpy bus ride, we arrived at Gen. Somoza's old ranch. Somoza is Nicaragua's most notorious dictator, and the land was taken away by the Sandanistas in the early 1990s. Recently, the land has been given back to the Somoza family, which runs it as a sort of backpacker's resort. They have captured five monkeys and placed them on a nearby island and call it a 'monkey refuge.' That way, they can rent out kayaks to unsuspecting gringos. Tomorrow, we'll head out to monkey island with the rest of the gringos.
It's a beautiful island, and it appealed to me because I had heard that nobody starves here. You can fish in Lago de Nicaragua and pick rice and fresh tropical fruit. After seeing so many children whose heads don't fit their bodies, I was looking forward to seeing well-fed babies. Sadly, that's not the case. On the bus ride to the end of the island, we saw a woman and son who took our breaths away. The mother's arms stuck out like twigs, and her breasts looked like mosquito bites under her shirt. Her face had sunken into her chin, but she smiled as big as she could to the driver and other passengers on her way out. Her son's head bobbed on his tiny body, and hair had fallen out of his head in clumps. 'They're starving,' Levi said.
'Can you hear her?' he asked, crouching down next to one. 'She's breathing so hard.' I wasn't so much intent on the heavy breathing as I was on the smell. The whole beach smelled like sour armpit. But the experience was a touching one, and I was reminded of Pon-Pon, my family's turtle. My mom once remarked that she wouldn't be happy if you put her in a swamp in Malaysia, Pon-Pon's natural habitat, so it was reassuring to see these turtles free. As we left, Levi said, 'Don't you wish you could just pick them up and take them back to the ocean? They seem so exhausted.'
We arrived on the Isla de Ometepe yesterday. After an hour cab ride, an hour boat ride and a three hour bumpy bus ride, we arrived at Gen. Somoza's old ranch. Somoza is Nicaragua's most notorious dictator, and the land was taken away by the Sandanistas in the early 1990s. Recently, the land has been given back to the Somoza family, which runs it as a sort of backpacker's resort. They have captured five monkeys and placed them on a nearby island and call it a 'monkey refuge.' That way, they can rent out kayaks to unsuspecting gringos. Tomorrow, we'll head out to monkey island with the rest of the gringos.
It's a beautiful island, and it appealed to me because I had heard that nobody starves here. You can fish in Lago de Nicaragua and pick rice and fresh tropical fruit. After seeing so many children whose heads don't fit their bodies, I was looking forward to seeing well-fed babies. Sadly, that's not the case. On the bus ride to the end of the island, we saw a woman and son who took our breaths away. The mother's arms stuck out like twigs, and her breasts looked like mosquito bites under her shirt. Her face had sunken into her chin, but she smiled as big as she could to the driver and other passengers on her way out. Her son's head bobbed on his tiny body, and hair had fallen out of his head in clumps. 'They're starving,' Levi said.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The other travelers
In Nicaragua, we have met and remet the same travelers, most of them European. The majority are wonderful -- interesting, chatty, not obnoxious. They all speak some Spanish, with the exception of a very drunk old man who asked me to interpret for the bartender. He wanted more booze and the name of a young Nica woman across the bar. There are a lot of old gringo men just like him in Nicaragua.
But sometimes the other travelers get under my skin, usually by asking me if I´m pro or anti Bush. I hate that question. I hate it because it´s obvious what they want to hear, and I hate it because it implies that those people who voted for Bush are either bad or stupid.
Two nights ago, a pretty Dutch medical student asked me the pro-anti-Bush question. We were riding through Nicaraguan jungle on the back of a pickup truck, and my butt hurt. The monkeys howling in the distance were beginning to irk me, and I was nervous that the poisonous coral snake might fall from a tree into my lap. Branches kept scratching at me, and I wasn´t in the mood to indulge yet another European tirade.
Instead of answering her question, I asked her if she had met any Americans in Nicaragua who like Bush. She said that she hadn´t met any Americans in Nicaragua. That´s because they´re working, I replied a little icily. Unlike you Europeans, we don´t get months off from work and grants from our government to go find ourselves in Latin America.
She ignored my retort, saying, I don´t understand why you Americans don´t rise up against Bush. I´ve heard many people in my parents generation ask the same thing, reminiscing Vietnam era activism. I think the answer is simple: Draft Ivy Leaguers, and you´ll get your activism.
That´s not what I told the pretty Dutch girl. Rather, I said that Americans seem to believe in their political system. We believe in our constitution, the oldest one in the world, which was written so that decision-making can´t get too out of hand. You could argue that Americans did rise up against Bush on Tuesday, I said, when they voted Democrats to head Congress. I also noted that many Latinos took to the streets earlier this year to oppose immigration policy.
You didn´t answer my question, she said. Are you pro or anti Bush? I told her that what I believe shouldn´t matter a lick. I´m not a citizen, so I can´t vote. Seemingly satisfied, she spent the rest of the truck ride ranting against the United States. The Australian and Canadian joined in, happily proclaiming the U.S. a police state. Hating on the States is a traveler´s favorite pasttime.
I´ve heard these rants before, from my French relatives. Americans are fat and unhealthy, Americans hate Arabs, they hate Jews, they cheat their own people of health care, they are too stupid to rise up against Bush. The travelers start out timidly at first, but once they get going, fueled by the group, they don´t consider that we´re from the U.S., that we might have something to contribute. But they want to lecture us about where we are from, and more often than not, we let them.
On my better days, I try to understand them. It is frustrating to watch the all-powerful U.S. do whatever it pleases in the world. It is frustrating to many Americans as well.
Levi hates the anti-America rant from Canadians, but the Canadians don´t bother me so much. Rather, the Germans drive me nuts. Don´t get me wrong -- the Germans on this trip have been kind, warm and willing to switch to English just to include us.
But one day, the Germans got a little off-track. They started talking about how we Americans weren´t very educated about what´s going on in our country. When I suggested that they may not be all that enlightened about World War II, one woman lashed out. We are sick of having World War II shoved into our heads, she said.
One more beer in me, and I would have said that my grandmother must have been tired of Germans shoving themselves into her during those five years. I did say that my grandparents were tortured during the war, and that though they never spoke of the torture, they talked about the war incessantly while we were growing up. Same as Americans must know about slavery, internment camps and how reservations came to be, Germans must know about the second world war.
There´s an Israeli we´ve befriended who has dismissed the German travelers. He´s a big, goofy guy, filled with stories, jokes and insecurities that make us love him all the more. But when we invited him to join us and the Germans the other night, he told us that he hates the Germans. Why? I asked. They killed my grandmother, he said, only half-joking. They tortured mine, I replied, as if our German friends had anything to do with either tragedy.
It´s probably hard to learn about World War II if you´re not from one of the countries that won the war. It´s also hard when people like David and me say what we say and find comfort in it.
But sometimes the other travelers get under my skin, usually by asking me if I´m pro or anti Bush. I hate that question. I hate it because it´s obvious what they want to hear, and I hate it because it implies that those people who voted for Bush are either bad or stupid.
Two nights ago, a pretty Dutch medical student asked me the pro-anti-Bush question. We were riding through Nicaraguan jungle on the back of a pickup truck, and my butt hurt. The monkeys howling in the distance were beginning to irk me, and I was nervous that the poisonous coral snake might fall from a tree into my lap. Branches kept scratching at me, and I wasn´t in the mood to indulge yet another European tirade.
Instead of answering her question, I asked her if she had met any Americans in Nicaragua who like Bush. She said that she hadn´t met any Americans in Nicaragua. That´s because they´re working, I replied a little icily. Unlike you Europeans, we don´t get months off from work and grants from our government to go find ourselves in Latin America.
She ignored my retort, saying, I don´t understand why you Americans don´t rise up against Bush. I´ve heard many people in my parents generation ask the same thing, reminiscing Vietnam era activism. I think the answer is simple: Draft Ivy Leaguers, and you´ll get your activism.
That´s not what I told the pretty Dutch girl. Rather, I said that Americans seem to believe in their political system. We believe in our constitution, the oldest one in the world, which was written so that decision-making can´t get too out of hand. You could argue that Americans did rise up against Bush on Tuesday, I said, when they voted Democrats to head Congress. I also noted that many Latinos took to the streets earlier this year to oppose immigration policy.
You didn´t answer my question, she said. Are you pro or anti Bush? I told her that what I believe shouldn´t matter a lick. I´m not a citizen, so I can´t vote. Seemingly satisfied, she spent the rest of the truck ride ranting against the United States. The Australian and Canadian joined in, happily proclaiming the U.S. a police state. Hating on the States is a traveler´s favorite pasttime.
I´ve heard these rants before, from my French relatives. Americans are fat and unhealthy, Americans hate Arabs, they hate Jews, they cheat their own people of health care, they are too stupid to rise up against Bush. The travelers start out timidly at first, but once they get going, fueled by the group, they don´t consider that we´re from the U.S., that we might have something to contribute. But they want to lecture us about where we are from, and more often than not, we let them.
On my better days, I try to understand them. It is frustrating to watch the all-powerful U.S. do whatever it pleases in the world. It is frustrating to many Americans as well.
Levi hates the anti-America rant from Canadians, but the Canadians don´t bother me so much. Rather, the Germans drive me nuts. Don´t get me wrong -- the Germans on this trip have been kind, warm and willing to switch to English just to include us.
But one day, the Germans got a little off-track. They started talking about how we Americans weren´t very educated about what´s going on in our country. When I suggested that they may not be all that enlightened about World War II, one woman lashed out. We are sick of having World War II shoved into our heads, she said.
One more beer in me, and I would have said that my grandmother must have been tired of Germans shoving themselves into her during those five years. I did say that my grandparents were tortured during the war, and that though they never spoke of the torture, they talked about the war incessantly while we were growing up. Same as Americans must know about slavery, internment camps and how reservations came to be, Germans must know about the second world war.
There´s an Israeli we´ve befriended who has dismissed the German travelers. He´s a big, goofy guy, filled with stories, jokes and insecurities that make us love him all the more. But when we invited him to join us and the Germans the other night, he told us that he hates the Germans. Why? I asked. They killed my grandmother, he said, only half-joking. They tortured mine, I replied, as if our German friends had anything to do with either tragedy.
It´s probably hard to learn about World War II if you´re not from one of the countries that won the war. It´s also hard when people like David and me say what we say and find comfort in it.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Photo album
These are the Germans at our language school in Xela. Levi and I have decided that we really like Germans. Aside from being punctual, they´re super fun and chatty. Plus they have fabulous accents when they speak Spanish.
Taking a saint for a stroll: The Catholic church around here likes to take its plastic saints for a walk around the block on large, ornate wooden flats. But I especially love this photo because it´s the only one we have of indigenous Guatemalans, a stylish people. Their skirts and shirts are woven with bright red, orange, yellow and turquoise thread. The women wear silk sachets through their hair, the men wear cowboy hats and embroidered pants with big bulky belts. But the guidebooks tell us that they´re a shy people who would rather not be bothered, so we didn´t snap their mugs. 
The women in the Catholic procession photo were staring at these people, above. These are angry people outside of BanCafe, which had gone bankrupt several days before I took this photo. They all lost their money because of some money funneling deal. I still don´t know whether they got their money back.
That´s Levi in Xela. The woman taking the photo next to him is Mariko, a wonderful language school pal from Chicago.
It rained a lot in Xela. We left two weeks early because, to quote Levi, we didn´t come to Central America to get a cold. But the experience was good, and I now understand now why Guatemalans choose Washington state and Nicaraguans choose Miami.
That´s Berta, my Guatemalan host mom and Guatemalan version of Nurse Ratched. She´s another reason we left Xela two weeks early. When I was in a bad way in the bathroom, she used to yodel out to me, ESTUDIANTE! ¿TIENES DIARRHEA?
Levi and me at the beach on the Pacific Coast of Guatemala. The guidebooks told us it was an ugly beach, but they didn´t realize that folks from the PNW aren´t picky when it comes to sandy beaches.
Maxine, the Quebecoise girl I met in San Pedro, her Honduran boyfriend Daniel and her dog, Chicklet, named for the gum. Maxine sells jewelry and does fire dances.
Interested in more photos? Check out Levi´s blog.
This is what they mean when they tell you not to behave like an American in Central America
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
If you read La Prensa this morning, you would believe that Nicaragua was going to have another vote. If you read El Nuevo Diario, the more left wing national paper, you would believe that U.S.-backed Montealgre is going to challenge the election. But The New York Times, in all its authority, has delivered the news plainly -- Ortega has won. I think the Nicaraguans are too shocked to believe it.
Check out Levi´s post about USAID and all the money they´re sending to Nicaragua for anti-Ortega propaganda. He literally followed the money, holed up on the computer for hours, checking out government receipts. Talk about CAR skills!!!
Check out Levi´s post about USAID and all the money they´re sending to Nicaragua for anti-Ortega propaganda. He literally followed the money, holed up on the computer for hours, checking out government receipts. Talk about CAR skills!!!
How to be a successful beggar
As we were sipping our granadina fruit drink in Parque Central yesterday, the most darling little beggar girl came up to our table. Before she even opened her mouth, we waved her away. No, we said. No money.
It´s not that we don´t want to help out, but giving to one kid means giving to the other 25 who will descend upon you once you open your wallet, seizing upon your white liberal guilt.
But this one wasn´t deterred. She looked at Levi and said, Mister, I want five cordobas. This was a little surprising, as most of the kids ask for one cordoba with a look of absolute despair. But this girl, with her short brown haircut and tattered yellow dress, behaved like a Barnard woman in the making.
When I suggested one cordoba, she cocked her head toward me and said, I just told you I need five. I need to eat. One isn´t going to get me anywhere. She sighed a little as though I was an absolute dunce and then slapped Levi´s knee, causing the coins in his shorts to jingle.
OK, Levi said. How about two? She rolled her eyes, looking impatient. Two would be fine, she said. A little cheap, but she would deal with that. Levi ended up giving her five, and her big brown eyes lit up. She gave him a Bill Clinton handshake, looked meaningfully into his eyes and said, Gracias, señor. Levi looked like he wanted to give her skinny little self a hug.
This tiny one is clearly one of the more successful beggars in the Parque. The others wait to see how she fares, descending upon successful clients as their wallets are still open. The others come asking for only one cordoba though, the equivalent of about $0.06, and they look at you as though they´re going to cry. Some cry on command and most tourists become uncomfortable. Instead of opening their pockets, they walk away briskly.
Otherwise, Levi and I are in love with Granada. The plan was to be here for a day or two, and now it´s been nearly a week. We love the embittered old Dutch man named Ed who serves up a mean breakfast around the corner. We love the cheap rum drinks and dipping our toes in the ice cold pool. We love that the hotel ladies and night guard will talk politics and life. We love the heat, the architecture and that the sidewalks are tiled in various colors. It´s a rich city, of course, and we don´t fool ourselves that we´re experiencing Central America lite. Not quite Costa Rica but not as dusty and desperate as the Guatemalan highlands.
It´s not that we don´t want to help out, but giving to one kid means giving to the other 25 who will descend upon you once you open your wallet, seizing upon your white liberal guilt.
But this one wasn´t deterred. She looked at Levi and said, Mister, I want five cordobas. This was a little surprising, as most of the kids ask for one cordoba with a look of absolute despair. But this girl, with her short brown haircut and tattered yellow dress, behaved like a Barnard woman in the making.
When I suggested one cordoba, she cocked her head toward me and said, I just told you I need five. I need to eat. One isn´t going to get me anywhere. She sighed a little as though I was an absolute dunce and then slapped Levi´s knee, causing the coins in his shorts to jingle.
OK, Levi said. How about two? She rolled her eyes, looking impatient. Two would be fine, she said. A little cheap, but she would deal with that. Levi ended up giving her five, and her big brown eyes lit up. She gave him a Bill Clinton handshake, looked meaningfully into his eyes and said, Gracias, señor. Levi looked like he wanted to give her skinny little self a hug.
This tiny one is clearly one of the more successful beggars in the Parque. The others wait to see how she fares, descending upon successful clients as their wallets are still open. The others come asking for only one cordoba though, the equivalent of about $0.06, and they look at you as though they´re going to cry. Some cry on command and most tourists become uncomfortable. Instead of opening their pockets, they walk away briskly.
Otherwise, Levi and I are in love with Granada. The plan was to be here for a day or two, and now it´s been nearly a week. We love the embittered old Dutch man named Ed who serves up a mean breakfast around the corner. We love the cheap rum drinks and dipping our toes in the ice cold pool. We love that the hotel ladies and night guard will talk politics and life. We love the heat, the architecture and that the sidewalks are tiled in various colors. It´s a rich city, of course, and we don´t fool ourselves that we´re experiencing Central America lite. Not quite Costa Rica but not as dusty and desperate as the Guatemalan highlands.
Ortega o Montealgre?
So we don´t know who has won this election. Ortega devised this funky electoral process because he´s in charge of the electoral process in Nicaragua. Here´s how it works: If a candidate receives 35 percent of the primary and is five percent ahead of the next guy, then that candidate wins. Prior, a candidate needed 40 percent to win the presidency in the primary. Ortega devised this system because he could get a majority.
(Ortega has lost the last three presidential elections with the same percentage of the popular vote -- about 35 to 38 percent. How to win? Change the system.)
At the moment, Ortega is at 38.5 percent. The next guy has five points less. That means he won, right? Well, the papers say no so maybe I don´t understand how this process works after all. In any case, the party continues in the streets, if a little anxiously.
Both Daniel and Montealgre seem to be schmucks. I read Ortega´s stepdaughter testimony alleging that he molested and raped her beggining at age 11. That her mother, Ortega´s current wife, then called her a slut for coming out against Ortega particularly irked me.
That´s not the only reason Ortega rubs me the wrong way. Sure, he´s for the people, but he promises them homes and pay in the form of U.S. dollars. He tells them that he´ll reduce charges on Western Union transfers from $20 to $5. That´s horseshit. Like Western Union is going to agree to that? And what about the other financial institutions? Yeah right.
I also don´t like that Daniel has embraced the Catholic Church after years of proclaiming atheism.(Who becomes Catholic? That´s the sort of religion that you´re born into, not converted into.) Also, he used to be Mr. Super Feminist, but now he´s come out against abortion. He backed a measure passed by the Nicaraguan congress last last month that abolished all abortions, even those resulting from rape or incest.
Montealgre would be a worse choice. He´s a banker in debt. That can only mean one thing -- imminent corruption.
Of the five candidates, Jarquin, the Sandanista dissident, seems most honest. He talks about the Nicaraguan poverty candidly and how he would work with the U.S. to improve the situation. He doesn´t speak about peace, love and flowers but about a plan to maintain stability and reduce corruption. Nor doesn´t oppose abortion because it´s hip to hate on abortion. Then again, easy to be honest when you know you don´t have a shot in hell of winning the election.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Lost blog entry
So I lost a blog entry that noted our arrival to Nicaragua. The highlights...
1. We arrived in Nicaragua's capital on Tuesday morning after three days of bus riding. At the El Salvadorean border, we got ripped off by a trio of hustlers. We also watched Flight 93. I think the bus driver was trying to inspire us in case we got hijacked. In Central America, private buses are known for getting stopped on prominent highways.
2. In Managua, we stayed at a hostel with a bunch of other reporters. The NYTimes reporter was wearing a pro-choice tee and her boyfriend was carrying around a Sandanista flag. Nicaragua just voted out all abortions, including those resulting from rape, so it's a touch controversial. Sort of like wearing a 'I dig Darwin and Doin' it' to a creationist convention and expecting to get good quotes.
3. We were going to go to Leon, the Sandanista capital, but a semi truck filled with cocaine spilled over on the road so we headed to Granada. Also wanted to be somewhere a little safer.
Five minutes until the first election results.
1. We arrived in Nicaragua's capital on Tuesday morning after three days of bus riding. At the El Salvadorean border, we got ripped off by a trio of hustlers. We also watched Flight 93. I think the bus driver was trying to inspire us in case we got hijacked. In Central America, private buses are known for getting stopped on prominent highways.
2. In Managua, we stayed at a hostel with a bunch of other reporters. The NYTimes reporter was wearing a pro-choice tee and her boyfriend was carrying around a Sandanista flag. Nicaragua just voted out all abortions, including those resulting from rape, so it's a touch controversial. Sort of like wearing a 'I dig Darwin and Doin' it' to a creationist convention and expecting to get good quotes.
3. We were going to go to Leon, the Sandanista capital, but a semi truck filled with cocaine spilled over on the road so we headed to Granada. Also wanted to be somewhere a little safer.
Five minutes until the first election results.
Nicaragua election results 10:30
The fireworks are going off but no one knows a thing. Granadinos are driving by honking and screaming. The night guard came into the hostel and said that Daniel Ortega has won. But how could anyone know anything except that, perhaps, he has a lead thus far? If Ortega doesn't win, watch out. If he does, well, I think it's one of those damned if you do or don't situations.
Today, I interviewed a 17-year-old who believes Ortega is a liar. Her grandmother said she refuses to vote because she doesn't believe the world will change. And yet, the biggest photo on their wall is of Che. Che is good but Ortega is a liar.
The woman at the ice cream shop asked me tonight who I would have voted for. I asked why she wanted to know, and she said that she didn't understand why all these Americans come in, praising Ortega. Do they know what he did to us, she asked? I said that liberal-minded Americans and Europeans like the idea of the revolutionary, that they wish they had one for themselves. I don't know how true that is but it's all I could spit out in Spanish.
But even those who don't like Daniel admit that he's empowered the people in the barrios. He's made poor people who normally feel resigned about the electoral process feel as though they have a chance. And that ain't nothing.
The suspense isn't killing me, to be honest. It's the lack of booze. It's a trillion degrees here and everyone is pining for an ice cold beer (and me, a $0.50 mojito). But the government has imposed a three day prohibition during the elections. I should consider myself lucky. The Germans here have no idea what to do with themselves.
Today, I interviewed a 17-year-old who believes Ortega is a liar. Her grandmother said she refuses to vote because she doesn't believe the world will change. And yet, the biggest photo on their wall is of Che. Che is good but Ortega is a liar.
The woman at the ice cream shop asked me tonight who I would have voted for. I asked why she wanted to know, and she said that she didn't understand why all these Americans come in, praising Ortega. Do they know what he did to us, she asked? I said that liberal-minded Americans and Europeans like the idea of the revolutionary, that they wish they had one for themselves. I don't know how true that is but it's all I could spit out in Spanish.
But even those who don't like Daniel admit that he's empowered the people in the barrios. He's made poor people who normally feel resigned about the electoral process feel as though they have a chance. And that ain't nothing.
The suspense isn't killing me, to be honest. It's the lack of booze. It's a trillion degrees here and everyone is pining for an ice cold beer (and me, a $0.50 mojito). But the government has imposed a three day prohibition during the elections. I should consider myself lucky. The Germans here have no idea what to do with themselves.
