This is How We Roll

As I've mentioned here before, the public buses in Nicaragua are, more often than not, old yellow school buses.  All of these buses have seen better days, and a hard life on the dirt or potholed roads here tend to take their toll.  One day, I was on the bus, traveling to help with a medical brigade, when the seat I was on just gave up and fell off, almost exactly like my left toenail.

"What's the point of it all, really?" the seat asked before falling to the floor.

 Because everyone else was traveling to the same brigade, the bus was packed.

So standing in the aisle when the seat fell wasn't much of an option.  Instead, I just chose to stand in the same spot where I had been sitting.  My neighbor, on the other hand was able to sit on the seat cushion that was now on the floor.

It worked out well for him.

 When we eventually arrived at our stop, I, along with half of the bus, tried to get off the bus, only to realize that it was so crowded that it would be almost impossible to exit out of either the front or the back doors.  That's when someone cleverly opened up the emergency side door, and we were all able to make it out.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do public transportation Nica style.

Kindness of Strangers

Many people ask me how nicaraguans view my presence here as a United States citizen, in light of the not-too-friendly foreign policies that the U.S. has supported in the past.  I always have the same response - no one has ever made me feel discriminated against for my nationality.  Even if people talk critically of the U.S.'s role in the Contra War, they are quick to recognize that a country's policy and people are two completely different things.

That being said, there are the rare times when I feel that, for my age or sex or accent, some people just really don't like me.  There is one nurse at a local health post who harbors, if not a fiery rage, then a slow-boiling dislike for me.  Every time she sees me, she looks like she's gotten a whiff of something horrible, and just recently, when I went to do some satisfaction surveys at the health post, I heard her saying, "I don't know what that girl's doing over there, some stupid shit she just made up," knowing full well that these surveys were a requirement from the Ministry of Health.  It annoyed me, but I handled it in my new favorite way, which is to make things as awkward as possible.  From my chair, I just stared at her.  And stared.  And stared.  She knew what I was doing, but couldn't call me out on it without acknowledging what she had said about me, and admitting that she knew about the satisfaction surveys, thus showing just how petty she was acting.  I finally stopped when I saw her visibly squirm, and returned, with a smile, to interviewing patients for the survey.

After a few minutes, a young woman who had been sitting close to the nurse came over to talk to me.

"You're not from here, are you?" she asked.

"No, I'm from the United States," I answered.

She nodded and continued, "yeah, some people are different, they look different, they speak different, and so, some people treat them different, but that's not right."

I quickly agreed, and kept talking in the hypothetical, until the look on her face told me that she was speaking of the here and now.  I stopped talking, and we just sat there looking at each other.

There will always be those who choose to look at our differences, who choose to reflect their inner negativity on others, to turn them into ugly enemies.  And there will always be those who reach out to others with love, even if it's to someone they've never met, even if that person is different.  

The young lady finished her survey, and as she left, I thanked her.  I tried to put a lot into the word, everything she had made me feel, all the love.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Photos by Elida

When I was just beginning my time in Los Chiles, I was making it my daily routine to walk to the health center in the morning.  It soon became part of my daily routine that a little voice would scream out "TERESA!!!" every time I walked by a certain house.  I'm not sure how she learned my name, but the little girl who lives in the house right across the way certainly did learn it, and took every opportunity to let me know it.  Very loudly.  When I learned her name, I started yelling it back to her whenever she would yell me my name, and so every time I walked to the health center, the call and response of TERESA!!!  ELIDA!!! was inevitable, and soon became a comforting ritual to my day.  And it wouldn't have happened if not for Elida.

You see, Elida is what we call in Nicaragua a bandida, which is a trickster, joker, or general causer of trouble...in a good way.  Just look at her face. 

Please note what her shirt says: You're just jealous cause the voices talk to me

In this photo, she has climbed onto the table where a relative had set up a stand to sell repocheta (shredded cabbage and refried beans on top of a fried corn tortilla), because Elida gets what she wants, dammit.  This also explains why mere minutes after I took this photo of her, Elida suddenly had control of my camera, and was taking all the photos she possibly could.  I present to you now, with no further ado, the photography talents of  Elida.

The view from her house.

The blue building pictured is the school Pablo Antonio, which is open every other weekend for students who have to travel from distant communities, or non-traditional students, like young mothers.

Sar, the dog who lives at the doctors' house.

 We often joke that his name is short for Sarnoso, which means mangy.

Elida's relative who was selling repocheta, and me, willing model.

A neighbor friend.

Truck going by the evangelical church that Elida and her family attend.

My friend, Edgar, who teaches English at Pablo Antonio

Elida's mom's feet on the porch

And a selfie.  Well done Elida.

Feet and Falling Apart

I decided to paint my toes today.

I'll give you a second.  This is like one of those charming "like" when you see it photos.  Got it?  Good.  So yesterday my left pinkie toenail decided it was done with me, and bailed.  To be honest, it wasn't looking great for a while, so it was probably for the best anyway.  Still, though, this is one of the many things that has happened to my body here in Nicaragua with seemingly no explanation.  My skin and feet have taken the brunt of it.  I've gotten rashes, inflamed bug bits, cracked and sore skin, as well as illnesses with no clear cause.  Volunteers will occasionally joke that Peace Corps will take at least a few months off our lives.

Thankfully, everything I listed above wasn't too serious, so I think I'll be fine in the long run.  As for toenail, it will grow back, my body will cope with everything else the environment can throw at it, and I will be stronger for it, if at least just emotionally.  See, while my body has kind of crumbled around me, I have started to take better care of my physical appearance to try to counterbalance everything else.

My skin might be blotchy and uneven but I'm going to wear that cute hair clip my host sister gave me.  A bacterial infection is no excuse not to at least wash my hair.  I might have a fever with pains, but I'm going to look damn good when I go to the hospital to get my blood drawn to check for dengue.  And it's not just for when my body is in a bad state.  When work isn't going well, when people are being gossips, or when my neighbor's rooster just won't stop being a jerk, it is nice to know that I have just a little control over something in my life.

I don't ever manage to look like a movie star, but that's not really my goal.  It is just to feel put together, so I can prove to myself and others that maybe, if I look like half of my clothes aren't covered in mold (even though they are), I can do that final VAST completion report.  And even if things don't turn out the way I want them to, at least I feel good about myself.

So my toenail might be MIA, but the rest of my nails look fabulous.  Sometimes that's the only battle that I'm going to win...and I'm learning to be ok with that.

Happy New Year

It is a new year.  As is the Nicaraguan tradition, the life-size dolls representing the old year have been burned, and it is time for me to get my act together.  My resolution is to be a more put together adult.  That means better cooking, trying to stop my hair from being crazy, responding to emails at a decent time, and updating this blog more often.  We'll see how long that lasts.  I predict it will go something like this.

I will try though.  So to celebrate the new year, here is a craft to do on your own, or with your pregnant women's group.  I know you all have one of those.  These little origami stars are fun on their own, or strung up as a garland, or as little earrings.  As you'll see later.

First, start with a strip of magazine paper that is about half an inch wide.  Don't make it much wider, unless your strip of paper is extremely long, or it will be too flimsy to do the last few steps.

I show two strips of paper here, but you only need one to make a star.

Bring the top of the paper down, then pass it through the loop to make a knot.

Don't pull so hard that the paper rips, just enough to make sure that nothing's too loose.  This takes some practice, don't worry if it takes a few times to get it right.  At the end, it should look a bit like it does in the photo below.

The tail on the left might turn out a little longer.

 Flatten your knot, pulling it to maintain its shape.

Just don't pull so hard you rip the paper!

 Tuck the tail on the left into the pocket of the knot.

That's the hardest part done!

Now, start folding the long tail around your flattened knot, making sure it always lines up with one side of the knot.

Keep going until you have just a little left.

Tuck the rest of the tail away.

 You should now have a little pentagon.

 Using your thumbnail, make a dent in each of the five edges.

Ta da!  Now you have your own little star!

You can do a lot of different thing with these little guys, like make them into earrings and take very awkward selfies of yourself with them.

Happy 2014

Don't Dengue. Just Don't.

It is the rainy season here now, which always sees an increase in diarrheal illnesses and dengue fever, as the rain water collects, and breeds mosquitoes and disease.  This year has been especially bad for dengue though, which for those fortunate enough to not know about, is caused by a virus passed through mosquito bites and leads to fever, intense headaches, joint and muscle aches, and if it is the hemorrhagic kind, bleeding from the mucosa, organ failure, and death.  My local area had twenty-three reported cases this past month, which is a pretty high number, considering how sparsely populated we are.  Many of my fellow volunteers have gotten it in this or past years, and say that it lives up to its other name of rompehueso, or breakbone fever.

The Ministry of Health has upped its campaign against dengue this year in response to the increased number of cases, which means that I've been working with my local health center to create education material that encourages the community to work with the efforts to kill the mosquitoes that transmit the virus, and to eliminate or clean any stagnant water reservoirs.  This also means that ministry staff have been going out into homes putting a chemical called abate in family cisterns, and fumigating entire neighborhoods.

It is a sound you can hear from about a block away, and sounds exactly like a leaf-blower, since that is essentially what they use to spray the air with a chemical cocktail sure to kill untold number of mosquitoes and little grey cells.  It causes people to flee to the streets, clothes covering their noses and mouths, trying to avoid the toxic fog. 

When they came by my street this morning, my neighbors ran for it, grabbing whatever was most important to them to save.  One of my neighbors grabbed her infant daughter, another her pet lovebird, another his drink.  I stayed where I was, not knowing my landlord (who I just found out spent a week in the hospital with dengue) had opened up his office below me, so the back balcony that I had assumed was safe, was actually filled with the fumes as well.

Nope.

I couldn't exactly go out my front door either.

Double nope.

I resorted to wandering around my place, a clean t-shirt placed firmly over my face, searching for the place that looked least like it had a fire burning in it.  Eventually I stood on my front balcony, waving at my neighbors as they milled around, hoping all of this would keep us all safe for the rainy season.

Here's to hope...and carcinogens.

An open letter to the rats in my room

Dear rats,

Our relationship has been rocky ever since I first discovered you in my room.  I know I didn't make you feel welcome when I first heard, and then saw, you rooting around in my trash.  You must not have taken favorably to me moaning, "no, no, NO," as I pulled the covers over my head, and pretended you weren't there.  Then I started hiding my food away from you, which I can understand hurt your feelings, since it is not something a good host does, but that's the thing - I don't want you here.  I've known rats (actually just one we named Annie) in the past; a sweet, clean, and clever domesticated rat who would crawl into my overcoat pocket and fall asleep.  You are nothing like Annie, you're her backwater cousins she tries to forget she has.  You are loud and rude and filthy and harbors of awful diseases.  You root through my trashing hoping against hope you will find something to eat, and when you don't you start gnawing away at anything you can find.  First you went for my crayons and I was like, ok, fine if you want to eat colored wax, yeah go knock yourself out, then you started on my books.  Then my clothes. Then my bag of warm-fuzzies, were I keep all the letters and notes my friends and family have sent me.  Then, most disturbingly, you left your stillborns on my floor to clean up.  If you wanted to start something, you sure as hell are going about it the right way.  This is war.  Prepare for battle.




Note:  I wrote this a while back, before I moved, but I never posted it, for fear that my mom would be on the next flight down to try to convince me to come back.  Now that I am in my new place, which doesn't have any rats, I feel like it is safe to post.  Oh, and there was war between the rats and me, and like all war, it was horrific and traumatizing even for the victorious.  I found three separate nests and had to do things that I'm pretty sure are against the Geneva Convention.  I don't want to talk about it.