Sink or Swim

I seriously considered titling this entry "Diving head-first into the shallow end of the pool," but a) it was too long, and b) I thought it might come across as a little melodramatic. In any case, that has, more or less, been the theme of my week. I'll explain...

This week, starting on Tuesday (election day! more on that later) we began the infamous ISP period. ISP, for those of you unfamiliar with SIT, stands for the Independent Study Project. It is (in addition to being the most terrifying thing of my recent life) the climax of all SIT study abroad programs, because it involves each student designing a research project on ANY topic, and going to ANY part of the country to do the investigation. You are entirely on your own for a month (I guess the whole "independent" part of the name kind of gives that away), left to figure things out, explore the world, and fend for yourself. Like I said... sink or swim.

So this is how I intend to spend my month. When I entered the program, I had a vague idea of what I wanted to study: women, health care, and leadership. I wasn't exactly sure how those three things were going to relate, but those were my areas of interest so I hoped that somehow they might fall together. At some point, I stumbled upon research of organizations that have taken the approach of using women as the agents of social change to acheive two things simultaneously: 1) the intended social change, and 2) the empowerment of women. So, for example, if the goal is to increase literacy, you would train a woman to teach her community how to read... in doing so, you not only increase literacy, but you place the woman in a leadership role within her community. Maybe this isn't a recently developed strategy, but the idea was new to me, and I instantly fell in love with it. It just makes so much sense!... does it not? So I decided that what I wanted to study was this model of social change, but as applied to medicine. And I wanted to do it in a rural area of Nicaragua, where the people don't have much access to health care.

Since that beautiful epiphany, I discovered and connected myself with an organization called Atención Primaria en Salud - Nicaragua (roughly translates to Primary Health Care). This organization does exactly what I described above: they identify the regions/communities that are most impoverished and in need of health care infrastructure in Nicaragua, ask each community to elect one of their own to be the "health promoter," and then train the promoter in the skills of basic, primary care. As it turns out, 80% of these promoters are women, which is so critical, particularly in a machista society like Nicaragua's. So what I plan to do is a three-week investigation of one of the communities where APS works, and study how the health of the people has been transformed, as well as the role of women within their community. (If you're interested, here's the organization's website: http://www.apsnicaragua.org).

But here's the best part: not only do I get to study this wonderful program, I get to do it in what is supposedly the most beautiful part of Nicaragua. For the next three weeks, I will be on the Isla de Ometepe, which, in addition to being the largest island in a fresh water lake in the world (fun fact of the day), it is also "Nicaragua's candidate for Eighth Wonder of the World" (according my guide book). Or, as my host mom tells me almost daily, "it is the the most beautiful place in the world... in the whole, entire WORLD." I find this particularly endearing because every time she says this, it takes about three minutes for her conscience to set in and then always adds, "but then again, I've only seen it at night, passing by." Needless to say, I'm excited to meet Ometepe, climb its two volcanoes (did I mention it is made from two volcanoes?), see the howler monkeys, perhaps take in a day at the beach, explore its waterfalls, and of course, study its health care programs. I guess I should note that I will be living in the campo of this beautiful island with a host family (in similar conditions as my previous campo experiences), and as the director of the organization warned me: "You'll be lucky if you have a latrine." But if you ask me, that's a small price to pay for living in the most beautiful place in "the world."

But as excited as I am and as much as I'm looking forward to it, I'm also dealing with a substantial amount of nerves and fear. My lofty, dream-like expectations for the month were brought back down to Earth this past Tuesday, when I began my research period. This is where the "jumping head first into the shallow end" part of the story comes into play...

Before heading out to Ometepe, my advisor (the director of the organization) thought it would be a good idea to spend a week around Managua, getting to know the urban programs and the overall philosophy of the organization. So on Tuesday, I began my whole adventure by taking a taxi at 7:30am to the other side of Managua, where his clinic is located. After talking with him for a few minutes, we got in his car and he drove me to a nearby barrio (neighborhood) in Managua, and dropped me off with the health promoter of that community. As my luck would have it, the promoter had already finished her healthcare duties for the day... and now, hosting missionaries from Honduras and El Salvador, she was heading out to do door-to-door evangelism in the neighborhood. My advisor assured her that it would be no problem, that I just wanted to get to know her and shadow her for the day, whatever her activities may be. Forcing a smile and a nod, I waved good-bye to my advisor and spent the morning and afternoon going door-to-door, shadowing the missionaries as they proselytized and prayed with each house of the community. Or, more accurately, I spent the morning and afternoon wondering what in the WORLD I had gotten myself into. Around 3pm, we had to bring the missionary activity to an end (unfortunate, I know), because the promoter had a meeting to attend. So we went, and when no one had arrived by 4:30, we decided it probably wasn't happening, so we returned to her house. At 6:00, having not eaten since breakfast that morning, I flagged down a taxi and asked him to take me back across Managua to my neighborhood.

Exhausted and discouraged, I sunk into the back seat. My driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and said, "You're from the U.S.?" I replied yes, and then suddenly remembered that the elections had been going on all day. I had just been so out of touch with the world. I got a burst of energy and leaned forward and asked him, "What's the news? What are they saying?" He laughed at me, shook his head and said, "Chelita [little white girl], the polls still haven't closed." But he graciously continued to tell me what they had been saying on the radio all day. (Side note: let's just say that later that night, when the results were announced, there was BASTANTE celebration in our neighborhood. It was SO exciting to watch it all happen from here.)

When I arrived at my house that night, I sat down to eat dinner with my host sister, as we do every night. She asked me how my day was, and I just BURST into tears, letting out all of my frustration from the day. As if that wasn't bad or embarrassing enough, I then had to try to explain, in Spanish, through the sobbing, all that had happened. Even though she was completely taken aback (our daily ritual of eating together had never unfolded quite like this before), she listened intently and patiently, filling in the words I couldn't think of and kindly not even correcting me when I used incorrect grammar. When I finished, she waited a few seconds, and then said this: "Kendall, you and I, we're the same. We don't trust ourselves, we don't know how to say no, we're not forceful enough, and we spend too much time trying to please other people."

I wouldn't have minded if she had thrown in some positive qualities in that list of things we share in common, but I have to hand it to her, she described me with near-perfect accuracy. What followed was a twenty-minute pep talk, which (in spite of the fact that it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand every fifth word), was one of the best motivational speeches I have ever received in my life. Essentially, she told me that I need to trust myself, that I am stronger than I think, and that whether I think I can handle this or not, God will be walking with me every step of the way.

So with that, I took a deep, grateful breath and prepared myself for the month. Having already come to terms with the fact that it probably wouldn't be a month of hiking volcanoes and living the island life, I now also reassured myself that it wouldn't be the opposite: I refused to spend the month feeling paralyzed, terrfied, and inadequate. It will be difficult and a challenge, there's no doubt. But I am excited for the adventure it holds, realizing that I don't go alone.

"He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them..." (John 10:3-4).

And so... just so you all know, I head out to Ometepe on Monday, the 10th. I will be on the island for about 2.5-3 weeks, and then I'll spend the rest of the time writing up my research in a 25-30 page paper. While I'm living there, I don't expect to have much internet access, although I plan to head into the "city" on Ometepe once or twice so that I can read email and maybe post an update on here.

Until then, know that I miss and love you all! Your prayers for this month are appreciated, and if you've successfully read all of this post, I am very grateful. Take care of yourselves!