I think there comes a point in all of our lives (or maybe two or three) when our world is fundamentally turned upside down. You encounter a place or a person or have some impactful experience, and it changes your entire way of looking at the world. For me, that encounter was El Salvador.
I travelled to El Salvador this past week and arrived back in Managua late Friday night. We divided our time between the capital (San Salvador), the campo (a community called Santa Marta), and a smaller town in the mountains called Suchitoto (where I met Sister Peggy, the nun from New Jersey, who was quite possibly one of the most wonderful women in the world. Within the first two minutes of talking to her, she dropped this line: "And look at the U.S. now! We've found ourselves in all this shit in Iraq and we don't know how the hell to get out." Next thing I knew, she was quoting the book of Mark and telling us that we are all children of God. Does it get any more endearing than that?)
But back to El Salvador. We spent the week learning about their history, their civil war, and the current state of the country. In everything we did, the goal was really just to understand hardship by interacting with people who have endured so much of it. As my host mom in Santa Marta said to me shortly after meeting her, "Ah, yes. You've come here to learn about our suffering."
I'll be honest: before going to El Salvador, I knew next to nothing about its history. And even if I had, I'm not sure it would have prepared me for all that I experienced there. To write about the atrocities and suffering on a blog doesn't at all do it justice, but words are all I have at this point, so that's what I'll do. Here's a quick look at the history of the country...
Boiled down, El Salvador's story is one of mass poverty at the hands of a small economic/political elite; for as long as can be remembered, the majority of the population has been landless and oppressed. In 1932, indigenous groups tried to organize an uprising against the landlords and the government, but the National Guard responded to this by killing 17,000 indigenous people. This event, known as la matanza (the massacre) created an alliance between the military and political elite, which continued to oppress the majority of the people through the 20th century.
In 1980, more than 75% of El Salvador's population lived in poverty, and over half lived in extreme poverty (unable to afford the basic food basket). It was around this time that workers, farmers, priests, and others began to mobilize, demanding social change. As the movement spread and numbers grew, the government responded with even MORE oppression and violence. In 1980 alone, more than 1,000 people were killed PER MONTH, the overwhelming majority of whom were civilians, and most were carried out by the National Guard. In March 1980, the Archbishop of El Salvador (and a national hero, for good reason), Oscar Romero, was assassinated the day after he pleaded soldiers to stop obeying orders and end the violence (he said: "In the name of God then, and in the name of this suffering people, whose laments rise to Heaven, each day more tumultuously, I beg you, I beseech you, I order you in the name of God: Stop the repression!").
After his death, the war unravelled even more and the number of deaths continued to accumulate. The strong majority of these were committed by the military's "death squads" which would raid and wipe out entire communities suspected of organizing resistance. According to the U.N.-sponsored Truth Commission, the intellectual author of these death squads was also the founder of the political party ARENA, which still holds power in El Salvador today. (In fact, just three days ago I sat in the National Assembly, in a room enshrined to this man, talking to a delegate from ARENA. It was, to say the least, eerie and unsettling.)
In all, more than 75,000 people were killed (in a country of less than 5 million) in the 12 years before the peace accords were signed in 1992. This comes out to 1 in every 56 Salvadorans, and it doesn't take into account disappearances. In essence, not a single family or community went unaffected.
In Santa Marta, we listened to the testimony of one of the women from the community. This was a community ADVERSELY impacted by the war. They were heavily, heavily persecuted by the military... so much so that in 1981, the entire community fled to Honduras and stayed there as refugees until 1987 when a group of them decided to return to Santa Marta. Her testimony of the war years included accounts of torture, rape, disappearances, and mass killings. As I sat there hearing about atrocities more awful than I could have ever imagined, it took all of my strength to convince myself that this story was real, and that it was hers. I felt like I was living a nightmare just LISTENING to her--the idea of actually living through it was more than I could take. In fact, the only coherent thought I could form was a single, short word: Why?
And then came the kicker. Because then we learned that the United States supported El Salvador's government throughout the entire war: through the killings, the human rights violations, all of it. In fact, not only did we let it happen, we gave the equivalent of $1.5 million PER DAY for 12 YEARS over the course of the war. And with that, the question "WHY?!" came crashing down on me all over again, like a 5,000 pound weight.
I was consumed by that question for days, and I was convinced that, if I just asked enough of the right questions, I would eventually get to the bottom of it. Something would click, the pieces would fall into place, and it would all make sense to me. So I spent the next few days TIRELESSLY asking questions... talking to whoever was there and asking them whatever was on my mind. But it didn't get any clearer; in fact, the whole WHY question just seemed to loom larger.
It was on the bus ride out of Santa Marta that I gave up trying to figure it out--maybe partially out of defeat and exhaustion, I don't know. But it occurred to me that no matter how many of the "right" questions I asked, I would never really understand it. I was trying to make sense of something that had no logical reasoning behind it. Or, as my friend Samuel said, "There's sense behind it, Kendall, but it's all political. You're just frustrated because you're looking for moral sense." Considering for a second that he was right, I decided to turn off my tendency to reason through things for once in my life and just decided to accept it for what it is: a tragedy that I will likely never understand.
This seems to be a trend for the semester. I think I came here trying to get a better grasp on the world and instead... my idea of the world is just getting turned inside out, repeatedly. I keep stumbling upon questions, wrestling with them, kicking them, often GETTING KICKED by them, and eventually walking away--sometimes with answers, but more frequently without. Maybe that is progress, in a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of a way. Maybe the best thing I can learn is just how small my understanding of the world is.
I don't know. But I do know this: as painful and as frustrating and as overwhelming as this whole process is, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I'd rather be exposed to the worst of the world if it means someday being able to do something about it. I know that these experiences are changing me, molding me for some purpose... and that is where I find my hope.
"Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand..." Jeremiah 18:6
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Green Bananas:
a phrase coined by Donald Batchelder in an essay he wrote about his time in Brazil. In the essay, he talks about how his encounter with green bananas revealed to him an enlightening piece of Brazilian perspective and culture. Over time, this phrase has come to stand for those rare cultural experiences, which, if pursued, provide a lens into another culture and our relationship to it.
Every now and then, someone in our group will look a little shell-shocked and say: "I just had a green banana." In other words: "I just had a really bizarre experience and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet."
We are asked to write about a couple of green bananas throughout the semester, and even though this one happened a while back, I thought I'd share it on here because I think it sheds some light on daily (or isolated) Nicaraguan experiences and my attempt to process through them. So here you go. My green banana:
---
It was midway through brushing my teeth--right at that point where the saliva is building and begging for a way out--that I realized I didn’t know where to spit. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I would need to ask this question. Out of habit (and I suppose some cultural conditioning), I just assumed that I would spit where I always spit when I brush my teeth: in the sink. But seeing as there was no sink, I unexpectedly found myself at a loss for what to do.
So there I was, in the dirt-floor, no-electricity kitchen of my campo host family, stuck with a mouthful of toothpaste and no outlet in sight. In a panic, I surveyed my surroundings, looking for a solution to my current dilemma. I was frantically looking around when my host mom showed up at the doorway and stared--half sympathetically, half skeptically--at my distressed self. (Though it was pitch black, I was wearing my headlamp, making it a little difficult to remain low-profile.) It’s hard to imagine exactly what I looked like in that moment, but if I had to guess, I would say I vaguely resembled a deer in the headlights with a toothbrush lodged in its mouth.
In the midst of the chaos, this moment generously granted me the kind of word retrieval that only comes in the most desperate of situations. In a rare flash of brilliance, I looked at my mom and asked, as coherently as possible, “Dónde se escupe?” I have no idea when I learned the verb “to spit,” or how I managed to remember it, or even if I conjugated it correctly. But somehow my host mom understood me and, in response, motioned in the direction behind me. I turned around to follow her point, but all I saw was the table where, two hours earlier, I had helped her make tortillas. Certain that I had misunderstood, I looked back at my mom for clarification, only to find her still pointing at the same table. “There?” I mumbled incredulously, trying to keep the toothpaste in. She looked at me squarely and said, in all seriousness, “Yes, of course. The pigs eat that too.”
I had a flashback to dinner earlier that night, when my mom swept all of our food scraps off that table and gave them to the pigs. Unable to afford any more time with that mixture in my mouth, I just did as I was told and spat it all out onto the table in exasperation. Then I watched as my host mom “cleaned up” the mess in the same (seemingly ineffective) manner she had cleaned up our tortilla mess hours earlier: she threw some water on there and allowed the downward slope of the table to wash it all away, in the direction of the hole that had been cut in the wall for draining purposes. Sure enough, as the water flowed down the table, through the hole, and out the kitchen, I heard the pigs come running from their pen to consume my toothpaste slop. “See?” my mom said proudly. “They love it.”
I tried very hard in that moment to not appear as stunned as I felt, to act as if pigs always clean up my toothpaste mess and I had just had a brief memory lapse in this regard. In spite of my best efforts, however, I’m fairly certain my face indicated exactly how I felt: completely and utterly shocked... and to be quite honest, a little disgusted. I couldn’t get over the fact that I had just brushed my teeth on the same surface as I had used to made my dinner two hours earlier--and the same surface as I would likely use to make my breakfast the next morning.
Suddenly feeling a bit queasy, I climbed into bed.
Though I was entirely drained from the day--both physically and mentally--I couldn’t stop thinking about my tooth-brushing incident. I was embarrassed by my reaction of disgust and intrigued by how logical my host mom’s system of cleaning and hygiene seemed to her. It was in this period of exhausted reflection that I realized the cultural dissonance. In order to make sense of this situation, I needed to understand the fundamental values of our two very conflicting societies.
I come from a society that values, among its highest priorities, order. In every crevice of the United States one can find rules, regulations, and protocol written for the slightest procedures to ensure that everything operates in an orderly fashion. These regulations are especially important when health or well-being is in question (i.e. keeping food preparation separate from waste). Nicaragua, on the other hand, is a society that holds utility among its highest priorities. The question for a Nicaraguan is not, “How is this potentially harmful, and what procedure can we develop to fix that?” but rather, simply, “What can this be used for?” It’s a shift in thinking; one is preventative, the other is proactive. The difference between my host mother’s reaction to the situation and my reaction to the situation illuminates this distinction perfectly. Whereas I was concerned about the potential health implications of spitting on the same surface that is used for cooking, this seemed perfectly logical to my host mom. As far as she was concerned, the pigs would eat the leftovers of both, so why not use the same space and let them both drain to the pig’s trough? In her eyes, nothing--not even toothpaste spit--should have to go to waste.
As it turns out, we did prepare tortillas on that same surface the next morning. And in spite of my better judgment, I ate them. And I didn’t get sick. For me, this was my first lesson in relying less on regulations, and more on resourcefulness. Because you never know the potential value something holds until it is used for the unthinkable.
---
A little follow-up note: as can only be in the case when you're in another culture, no matter which one it is, green bananas have happened on occasion. Some are less impactful than this one, but they all have all helped me understand Nicaragua a little better. This week (tomorrow), I head to El Salvador, where we'll learn a little about their revolutionary history and how it relates to that of Nicaragua. I'm sure my time in that country will have its share of cultural experiences. With regard to this trip, Aynn said (direct quote): "Get ready to turn yourselves inside out again." Not sure what that means? But I'll let you know when I get back next Friday. Thanks so much for keeping up with me! Love to you all.
Every now and then, someone in our group will look a little shell-shocked and say: "I just had a green banana." In other words: "I just had a really bizarre experience and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet."
We are asked to write about a couple of green bananas throughout the semester, and even though this one happened a while back, I thought I'd share it on here because I think it sheds some light on daily (or isolated) Nicaraguan experiences and my attempt to process through them. So here you go. My green banana:
---
It was midway through brushing my teeth--right at that point where the saliva is building and begging for a way out--that I realized I didn’t know where to spit. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I would need to ask this question. Out of habit (and I suppose some cultural conditioning), I just assumed that I would spit where I always spit when I brush my teeth: in the sink. But seeing as there was no sink, I unexpectedly found myself at a loss for what to do.
So there I was, in the dirt-floor, no-electricity kitchen of my campo host family, stuck with a mouthful of toothpaste and no outlet in sight. In a panic, I surveyed my surroundings, looking for a solution to my current dilemma. I was frantically looking around when my host mom showed up at the doorway and stared--half sympathetically, half skeptically--at my distressed self. (Though it was pitch black, I was wearing my headlamp, making it a little difficult to remain low-profile.) It’s hard to imagine exactly what I looked like in that moment, but if I had to guess, I would say I vaguely resembled a deer in the headlights with a toothbrush lodged in its mouth.
In the midst of the chaos, this moment generously granted me the kind of word retrieval that only comes in the most desperate of situations. In a rare flash of brilliance, I looked at my mom and asked, as coherently as possible, “Dónde se escupe?” I have no idea when I learned the verb “to spit,” or how I managed to remember it, or even if I conjugated it correctly. But somehow my host mom understood me and, in response, motioned in the direction behind me. I turned around to follow her point, but all I saw was the table where, two hours earlier, I had helped her make tortillas. Certain that I had misunderstood, I looked back at my mom for clarification, only to find her still pointing at the same table. “There?” I mumbled incredulously, trying to keep the toothpaste in. She looked at me squarely and said, in all seriousness, “Yes, of course. The pigs eat that too.”
I had a flashback to dinner earlier that night, when my mom swept all of our food scraps off that table and gave them to the pigs. Unable to afford any more time with that mixture in my mouth, I just did as I was told and spat it all out onto the table in exasperation. Then I watched as my host mom “cleaned up” the mess in the same (seemingly ineffective) manner she had cleaned up our tortilla mess hours earlier: she threw some water on there and allowed the downward slope of the table to wash it all away, in the direction of the hole that had been cut in the wall for draining purposes. Sure enough, as the water flowed down the table, through the hole, and out the kitchen, I heard the pigs come running from their pen to consume my toothpaste slop. “See?” my mom said proudly. “They love it.”
I tried very hard in that moment to not appear as stunned as I felt, to act as if pigs always clean up my toothpaste mess and I had just had a brief memory lapse in this regard. In spite of my best efforts, however, I’m fairly certain my face indicated exactly how I felt: completely and utterly shocked... and to be quite honest, a little disgusted. I couldn’t get over the fact that I had just brushed my teeth on the same surface as I had used to made my dinner two hours earlier--and the same surface as I would likely use to make my breakfast the next morning.
Suddenly feeling a bit queasy, I climbed into bed.
Though I was entirely drained from the day--both physically and mentally--I couldn’t stop thinking about my tooth-brushing incident. I was embarrassed by my reaction of disgust and intrigued by how logical my host mom’s system of cleaning and hygiene seemed to her. It was in this period of exhausted reflection that I realized the cultural dissonance. In order to make sense of this situation, I needed to understand the fundamental values of our two very conflicting societies.
I come from a society that values, among its highest priorities, order. In every crevice of the United States one can find rules, regulations, and protocol written for the slightest procedures to ensure that everything operates in an orderly fashion. These regulations are especially important when health or well-being is in question (i.e. keeping food preparation separate from waste). Nicaragua, on the other hand, is a society that holds utility among its highest priorities. The question for a Nicaraguan is not, “How is this potentially harmful, and what procedure can we develop to fix that?” but rather, simply, “What can this be used for?” It’s a shift in thinking; one is preventative, the other is proactive. The difference between my host mother’s reaction to the situation and my reaction to the situation illuminates this distinction perfectly. Whereas I was concerned about the potential health implications of spitting on the same surface that is used for cooking, this seemed perfectly logical to my host mom. As far as she was concerned, the pigs would eat the leftovers of both, so why not use the same space and let them both drain to the pig’s trough? In her eyes, nothing--not even toothpaste spit--should have to go to waste.
As it turns out, we did prepare tortillas on that same surface the next morning. And in spite of my better judgment, I ate them. And I didn’t get sick. For me, this was my first lesson in relying less on regulations, and more on resourcefulness. Because you never know the potential value something holds until it is used for the unthinkable.
---
A little follow-up note: as can only be in the case when you're in another culture, no matter which one it is, green bananas have happened on occasion. Some are less impactful than this one, but they all have all helped me understand Nicaragua a little better. This week (tomorrow), I head to El Salvador, where we'll learn a little about their revolutionary history and how it relates to that of Nicaragua. I'm sure my time in that country will have its share of cultural experiences. With regard to this trip, Aynn said (direct quote): "Get ready to turn yourselves inside out again." Not sure what that means? But I'll let you know when I get back next Friday. Thanks so much for keeping up with me! Love to you all.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Volcanic Eruptions (or lack thereof)
Hi everyone! Here's a little update on things...
Yesterday (Saturday) was spent exploring Volcán Masaya National Park with Jessica. The volcano was said by the Spaniards to be "the gateway to hell" and the Lonely Planet guidebook describes it as follows: "There's always lava bubbling at the bottom and a column of sulfurous gases rising above; in 2001 an eruption hurled heated rocks 500m into the air, damaging cars and narrowly missing people. The brochure explains that this is 'adventure tourism'... But you have to go."
So, we went. (And I mean, honestly, with a reputation like that, how could we not?) It was a long hike to the top in the Nicaragua heat (as my favorite Nicaraguan expression goes, I was sweating oceans), but absolutely worth it. From the top, we had a beautiful view of Lake Managua, the smell of sulfurous gases (who doesn't love that), and we didn't even get hit by an explosion of heated rocks. Slightly less eventful than I had expected, but all in all, a successful and wonderful experience.
The view...
Lava rocks from the 1700s (slightly impressive, right?)...
As for Managua life, things continue to go well. I made a new friend this past week... He is 70 years old and lives a few doors down from me. He spends nearly every hour of every day sitting in a plastic chair in front of his door. Just sitting, nothing more. But always with a smile on his face. The other day, I walked by and said "Buenas!" as I always do, and he asked me what time it was. And thus began our friendship. Now, every time I walk by, we talk about the weather, what we did that day (I usually have more to say on this subject), and other things that friends talk about. I don't know what his name is (that's this week's goal), but he is quickly becoming my favorite Nicaraguan (especially because my former favorite Nicaraguan, my four year old brother, recently discovered that the bathroom door locks from the inside AND the outside, and has since started playing a game where he locks me in the bathroom every time I use it).
As for the language factor, I've recently found myself having conversations that I would normally care nothing about, but because they're in Spanish, I get completely wrapped up in them. It's almost as if Spanish has become a game to me... it doesn't matter who I'm talking to or what I'm talking about. The only important thing is that I'm talking. (The other day, for example, I got really into a conversation about boxing with my Nicaraguan uncle, and had to stop midway and wonder: who was this girl that suddenly cared so much about boxing?)
Rat update: Yup, they're real. Not just my imagination. In addition to seeing one last week, I also found an empty plastic bag in my room that used to be filled with the Muddy Buddies that Claire sent (Claire: Jason and I ate the first half of it as a reward for surviving the Campo, and we were saving the second half for later, and now it's gone. Discovering that empty bag was probably the most devastating experience of my life.) Prayers that the rats would die are encouraged.
The food: certainly an aspect of life that keeps things interesting here. From the beginning of this abroad experience, I've really tried to embrace all Nicaraguan food and just eat whatever is put in front of me. Though (as you all know) this doesn't come totally naturally to me, I'm not going to lie: I've done a pretty solid job. Only on a few occasions have I not been able to choke something down (last night was one of those times... Doña María Inés brought out hard-boiled eggs mashed with guacamole. Yikes.) In fact, I've done SUCH a good job that this past week, Armando (my four year old brother) said, in admiration, "Kendall, eres una comedora!" (You're an eater!) And my host mom, nodding enthusiastically, added something about being thrilled that I'm not as picky as her students in the past. I forced a smile, but actually felt like someone had just played a big fat joke on me. Had I known all along that I wasn't expected to eat/"like" everything...
Meanwhile, as promised, I finally took some pictures of my street/house to give you all a sense of where I live. Here's a quick tour...
The andén:
The house (it's the middle one with the white gate):
My bedroom:
Our back yard/porch:
This is called the "pila" and it's where we wash dishes and clothes:
Alright, that's all for now! Life here is good. I'm really just trying to soak up the richness of every minute and every experience. I'll update more before I leave for El Salvador this week. Miss and love you all.
Yesterday (Saturday) was spent exploring Volcán Masaya National Park with Jessica. The volcano was said by the Spaniards to be "the gateway to hell" and the Lonely Planet guidebook describes it as follows: "There's always lava bubbling at the bottom and a column of sulfurous gases rising above; in 2001 an eruption hurled heated rocks 500m into the air, damaging cars and narrowly missing people. The brochure explains that this is 'adventure tourism'... But you have to go."
So, we went. (And I mean, honestly, with a reputation like that, how could we not?) It was a long hike to the top in the Nicaragua heat (as my favorite Nicaraguan expression goes, I was sweating oceans), but absolutely worth it. From the top, we had a beautiful view of Lake Managua, the smell of sulfurous gases (who doesn't love that), and we didn't even get hit by an explosion of heated rocks. Slightly less eventful than I had expected, but all in all, a successful and wonderful experience.
The view...
Lava rocks from the 1700s (slightly impressive, right?)...
As for Managua life, things continue to go well. I made a new friend this past week... He is 70 years old and lives a few doors down from me. He spends nearly every hour of every day sitting in a plastic chair in front of his door. Just sitting, nothing more. But always with a smile on his face. The other day, I walked by and said "Buenas!" as I always do, and he asked me what time it was. And thus began our friendship. Now, every time I walk by, we talk about the weather, what we did that day (I usually have more to say on this subject), and other things that friends talk about. I don't know what his name is (that's this week's goal), but he is quickly becoming my favorite Nicaraguan (especially because my former favorite Nicaraguan, my four year old brother, recently discovered that the bathroom door locks from the inside AND the outside, and has since started playing a game where he locks me in the bathroom every time I use it).
As for the language factor, I've recently found myself having conversations that I would normally care nothing about, but because they're in Spanish, I get completely wrapped up in them. It's almost as if Spanish has become a game to me... it doesn't matter who I'm talking to or what I'm talking about. The only important thing is that I'm talking. (The other day, for example, I got really into a conversation about boxing with my Nicaraguan uncle, and had to stop midway and wonder: who was this girl that suddenly cared so much about boxing?)
Rat update: Yup, they're real. Not just my imagination. In addition to seeing one last week, I also found an empty plastic bag in my room that used to be filled with the Muddy Buddies that Claire sent (Claire: Jason and I ate the first half of it as a reward for surviving the Campo, and we were saving the second half for later, and now it's gone. Discovering that empty bag was probably the most devastating experience of my life.) Prayers that the rats would die are encouraged.
The food: certainly an aspect of life that keeps things interesting here. From the beginning of this abroad experience, I've really tried to embrace all Nicaraguan food and just eat whatever is put in front of me. Though (as you all know) this doesn't come totally naturally to me, I'm not going to lie: I've done a pretty solid job. Only on a few occasions have I not been able to choke something down (last night was one of those times... Doña María Inés brought out hard-boiled eggs mashed with guacamole. Yikes.) In fact, I've done SUCH a good job that this past week, Armando (my four year old brother) said, in admiration, "Kendall, eres una comedora!" (You're an eater!) And my host mom, nodding enthusiastically, added something about being thrilled that I'm not as picky as her students in the past. I forced a smile, but actually felt like someone had just played a big fat joke on me. Had I known all along that I wasn't expected to eat/"like" everything...
Meanwhile, as promised, I finally took some pictures of my street/house to give you all a sense of where I live. Here's a quick tour...
The andén:
The house (it's the middle one with the white gate):
My bedroom:
Our back yard/porch:
This is called the "pila" and it's where we wash dishes and clothes:
Alright, that's all for now! Life here is good. I'm really just trying to soak up the richness of every minute and every experience. I'll update more before I leave for El Salvador this week. Miss and love you all.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The "other" Nicaragua
Hello, everyone!
So, I spent the past week on the Caribbean Coast in a community called Pearl Lagoon which (in addition to sounding like it's straight out of Peter Pan) was a place where I was able to learn a LOT about the coastal life in Nicaragua.
Above all, I learned that when Nicaraguans tell me that the Caribbean coast is like a different country, they are absolutely right. The irony in this, however, is that few Nicaraguans from the Pacific side have ever travelled to the Caribbean side, and vice versa. So when they say that they are like two different countries, they aren't necessarily drawing on the differences between the two sides, they are simply saying that they don't consider the coast to be authentically Nicaraguan. And there are many reasons for this...
For starters, there isn't a roadway in Nicaragua (or a relaiable one, at least) that connects the Pacific region to the Caribbean region. In other words, you physically can't get from the east to the west without taking a boat or a plane. This blows my mind. Can you imagine not being able to drive to get anywhere west (or east, depending on where yoú're starting) of the Mississippi? ...In the 21st century? Unbelievable. So obviously, the coast is incredibly isolated from the rest of Nicaragua. And I can attest to this. To get there, we took a 6 hour bus ride and then two different motor boats through rivers and lagoons, totaling another three hours. (The boat rides, by the way, were so picturesque that I think even Walt Disney himself would find Pearl Lagoon worthy of its name.)
Once in Pearl Lagoon, I learned about all of the other factors that make the coast a different place. Unlike the rest of Nicaragua, the official language is not Spanish. In fact, their predominant language is (and I'm not kidding)... SPANGLISH. It is absolutely bizarre. You'll start speaking to someone in Spanish, and midway through the conversation realize that they switched over to English at some point. This system worked perfectly for me, as I tend to speak Spanglish to ALL Nicaraguans, which hasn't worked so well for me in the past. But there, I fit right in. In addition to English/Spanish, they also speak indigenous dialects.
Meanwhile, the coastal region is made up of six different ethnic groups, which each have their own traditions and customs. At present, these groups are working really hard to achieve the delicate balance between preserving their customs, on one hand, and on the other, finding common ground with the other ethnic groups so that they can collectively resist outside interference and exploitation. Unfortunately, they haven't had much success on this front in the past and have been exploited for several hundred years now: first by foreigners, and then by Nicaragua after it was incorporated in 1894. Though it is technically "autonomous" today, they are still trying to actualize this and figure out exactly what it means.
This was the saddest part of the trip for me, and the reason why I didn't fall in love with the Caribbean, as I had expected myself to do (how could you not, right?). In the midst of this absolutely breath-taking beauty sits a smattering of run-down, physically unattractive communities that are underfunded by their own government and lack the means to improve. If Nicaragua is one of the poorest countries in the hemisphere, the coast really is the poorest of the poor.
How's that for an impromptu history lesson?
Ok, but the GOOD NEWS is that it's not ALL bad. For one thing, the coastal people sure know how to eat. They are essentially sitting on an endless supply of mariscos (seafood) and this, along with coconut, makes up the bulk of their diet. In addition to shrimp and snapper, I also had lobster for the first time and found out that I really love it. Leave it to me to travel to a developing country only to find out that I have expensive food preferences.
Another highlight, of course, was the swimming in Pearl Lagoon. This came on a whim, after our group of 9 had been waiting on our boat, under the sun for over 30 minutes while the captain was doing who-knows-what. One person joked about what the boat driver would do if he came back and we were all swimming, and the next thing I knew we were all jumping off the boat into the lagoon, fully clothed. (By the way, in case you were wondering, the boat driver came back 2 minutes later and instead of getting mad, just mumbled something about us being idiots for getting soaked before an hour long boat ride in the wind. It WAS freezing, but totally worth it.)
So we headed out on Sunday morning, and instead of getting back Sunday night (as planned), we returned Monday morning. Along the way, in the middle of nowhere, a river had flooded and the bridge was under water. In true Nicaragua fashion, there was no detour. Our options were: a) wait until the river goes down, which locals estimated would take anywhere between 6-10 hours (helpful, really) or b) turn around and find a hostel for the night. Seeing as we were miles away from food and a bathroom, we went with option B (and ended up staying in the "Hotel Alma"... aka the Soul Hotel. Gotta love that. I think we came to the conclusion that it hadn't been cleaned since the Sandinista Revolution in the 1980s). So yesterday morning, we returned... smelly, unshowered, and excited to see Managua.
So now its onto Managua life! It's good to be back into the routine. I'll keep you posted as more comes up. Thanks for keeping up with me, everyone! Love to you all.
So, I spent the past week on the Caribbean Coast in a community called Pearl Lagoon which (in addition to sounding like it's straight out of Peter Pan) was a place where I was able to learn a LOT about the coastal life in Nicaragua.
Above all, I learned that when Nicaraguans tell me that the Caribbean coast is like a different country, they are absolutely right. The irony in this, however, is that few Nicaraguans from the Pacific side have ever travelled to the Caribbean side, and vice versa. So when they say that they are like two different countries, they aren't necessarily drawing on the differences between the two sides, they are simply saying that they don't consider the coast to be authentically Nicaraguan. And there are many reasons for this...
For starters, there isn't a roadway in Nicaragua (or a relaiable one, at least) that connects the Pacific region to the Caribbean region. In other words, you physically can't get from the east to the west without taking a boat or a plane. This blows my mind. Can you imagine not being able to drive to get anywhere west (or east, depending on where yoú're starting) of the Mississippi? ...In the 21st century? Unbelievable. So obviously, the coast is incredibly isolated from the rest of Nicaragua. And I can attest to this. To get there, we took a 6 hour bus ride and then two different motor boats through rivers and lagoons, totaling another three hours. (The boat rides, by the way, were so picturesque that I think even Walt Disney himself would find Pearl Lagoon worthy of its name.)
Once in Pearl Lagoon, I learned about all of the other factors that make the coast a different place. Unlike the rest of Nicaragua, the official language is not Spanish. In fact, their predominant language is (and I'm not kidding)... SPANGLISH. It is absolutely bizarre. You'll start speaking to someone in Spanish, and midway through the conversation realize that they switched over to English at some point. This system worked perfectly for me, as I tend to speak Spanglish to ALL Nicaraguans, which hasn't worked so well for me in the past. But there, I fit right in. In addition to English/Spanish, they also speak indigenous dialects.
Meanwhile, the coastal region is made up of six different ethnic groups, which each have their own traditions and customs. At present, these groups are working really hard to achieve the delicate balance between preserving their customs, on one hand, and on the other, finding common ground with the other ethnic groups so that they can collectively resist outside interference and exploitation. Unfortunately, they haven't had much success on this front in the past and have been exploited for several hundred years now: first by foreigners, and then by Nicaragua after it was incorporated in 1894. Though it is technically "autonomous" today, they are still trying to actualize this and figure out exactly what it means.
This was the saddest part of the trip for me, and the reason why I didn't fall in love with the Caribbean, as I had expected myself to do (how could you not, right?). In the midst of this absolutely breath-taking beauty sits a smattering of run-down, physically unattractive communities that are underfunded by their own government and lack the means to improve. If Nicaragua is one of the poorest countries in the hemisphere, the coast really is the poorest of the poor.
How's that for an impromptu history lesson?
Ok, but the GOOD NEWS is that it's not ALL bad. For one thing, the coastal people sure know how to eat. They are essentially sitting on an endless supply of mariscos (seafood) and this, along with coconut, makes up the bulk of their diet. In addition to shrimp and snapper, I also had lobster for the first time and found out that I really love it. Leave it to me to travel to a developing country only to find out that I have expensive food preferences.
Another highlight, of course, was the swimming in Pearl Lagoon. This came on a whim, after our group of 9 had been waiting on our boat, under the sun for over 30 minutes while the captain was doing who-knows-what. One person joked about what the boat driver would do if he came back and we were all swimming, and the next thing I knew we were all jumping off the boat into the lagoon, fully clothed. (By the way, in case you were wondering, the boat driver came back 2 minutes later and instead of getting mad, just mumbled something about us being idiots for getting soaked before an hour long boat ride in the wind. It WAS freezing, but totally worth it.)
So we headed out on Sunday morning, and instead of getting back Sunday night (as planned), we returned Monday morning. Along the way, in the middle of nowhere, a river had flooded and the bridge was under water. In true Nicaragua fashion, there was no detour. Our options were: a) wait until the river goes down, which locals estimated would take anywhere between 6-10 hours (helpful, really) or b) turn around and find a hostel for the night. Seeing as we were miles away from food and a bathroom, we went with option B (and ended up staying in the "Hotel Alma"... aka the Soul Hotel. Gotta love that. I think we came to the conclusion that it hadn't been cleaned since the Sandinista Revolution in the 1980s). So yesterday morning, we returned... smelly, unshowered, and excited to see Managua.
So now its onto Managua life! It's good to be back into the routine. I'll keep you posted as more comes up. Thanks for keeping up with me, everyone! Love to you all.
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