Toilet Paper: Right or Privilege?

As is often the case, I wait until the last moment to go to the bathroom.  I race in, sit down, pee and reach for the toilet paper which is not there.  “Damn!” In my hurry I once again forget that in Nicaragua we cannot assume that toilet=toilet paper.  If I am lucky, I have my backpack with me where I keep a supply of toilet paper for emergencies like this.  If not, I am out of luck and have to resort to a little shake and hope for the best. 

In the States, we expect toilet paper always.  If it is running low or out, we can tell the management and they are appreciative and take care of things right away.  Not so in the rest of the world.  It is easy for us to assume we have a right to toilet paper but I think it is important to remember that it is in fact another one of our many privileges. 

This is how it works here: as I mentioned before, there are many toilets without toilet paper.  Another popular arrangement is one toilet paper dispenser outside the stalls. That is a tricky arrangement because if you forget, there you are again on the throne without the goods. Sometimes I have observed women taking this common toilet paper in vast amounts and I think, “They need that much for one trip to the toilet?” and then I remember that they might be taking some home. Poverty shows its face in many unexpected ways. 

In the women's room at our local mall: "Take the paper before using the toilet"

Public toilet paper on the wall outside the stalls.

At bus terminals there are public bathroom where you pay 5 Córdovas (about 20¢) for an ample supply of toilet paper to take into the stall.  And then there are the places that always have toilet paper like the coffee shop and the convenience store by the bus station and we frequent them regularly. 

For men, it is completely different story because they pee everywhere and anywhere.  There are signs asking people not to urinate in certain areas but the smell of urine wafts up from the sidewalk or wall regardless of the posted requests.  There is a piece of wall left over from a building down the street from us where men often pee and John has told me it is known as the peeing wall. 

On the wall outside a local private school: "School area: prohibited to urinate here"

This is my favorite sign outside the church near our house:
"Selling prohibited in this area; Please do not urinate;
God bless you"

These are the thoughts I have wanted to share about toilet paper and privilege.  The process has made me aware of so many things we take for granted in the developed world that we could feel are our right but they aren’t.  We just happen to have them.

A Visit to the Barber

Since arriving in Nicaragua, I have been wearing my hair very short.  It is easy and I like it.  During training I asked a volunteer who came to do some presentations for us where she got her hair cut and she said she goes to the barber.  It is cheap and they do a good job.  I tried it in my training town and was satisfied.  Our site mate Zach told me about his barber Myron so I decided to try him out a few months ago.  He did a lot of clipping and buzzing and the used a razor around the edges, which made me a little nervous but in the end I was pleased with the hair cut. 

Today (about two months since the last cut) I went back.  As soon as I walked in Myron said, “Deborah! Cómo está?”  I was a little embarrassed because I did not remember his name. I won’t forget it again.  He was busy with another customer whom he was getting ready to shave.  Another barber was working on a little boy who was sitting absolutely still for the process.  Myron’s two nephews appeared and while I waited for my haircut, I watched the two of them getting theirs.  There was lots of buzzing, product and fussing, once again with the razor.  They were still and delightful to watch.  The barbers were having fun joking around with them. 

Myron shaving the customer before me

Little boy sitting still while barber works the razor

Nephew waiting his turn

When it was my turn Myron did quick work with the buzzer and the razor.  I noticed he had his beard in a rubber band and I asked him if he was growing it.  He said he had a long beard once and would like one again but he is not sure because of the heat.  I told that my son has his long beard in two braids that go to his waist.  His eyes lit up and he asked if I had a picture so I promised to bring one next time. The final product was just what I wanted and I was particularly pleased with the price: 30 Córdovas, which translates to a tad bit over a dollar.

My new haircut

The Day of the Dead

Today is the Day of the Dead.  In the USA we do not take a day to honor our dead.  Here in Nicaragua, all government businesses are closed: no schools, no health centers, and no post office.  The day is free for everyone to go to the cemetery and visit the graves of their family members.  Our 80-year-old neighbors left yesterday to return to his home of origin to visit the graves of his parents.  It is a 5-hour trip: bus, taxi, bus and taxi.  They will return exhausted tomorrow but satisfied that they have met their annual obligation.  Who knows how many more years they will be able to make that journey. 

The cemetery is on the other side of town so John and I hopped in a cab this morning.  Typically, there were already two people in the cab, an elderly woman on the way to the market whom we all called mother, and a man decked out in his mariachi outfit and holding his mariachi guitar. He was also on his way to the cemetery so he and the cab driver welcomed us without hesitation.  We found out that William (the mariachi man) was on his way to meet the rest of his group to play in the cemetery.  John was asking him all sorts of questions about his group and I knew he was scheming for his farewell birthday party 18 months from now (stay tuned). 

John and William

The road was blocked about 6 blocks from the cemetery and the streets were lines with concessions selling toys, hats, blow up animals, lots of flowers, food, soft drinks and water.  We entered the cemetery and were greeting by two young men with shovels and machetes ready to clean up a grave for us.  The place was full of people carrying flowers, garden tools, paints and food.  We saw a baby sleeping in a hammock over his grandparent’s grave, families sitting together laughing, and others standing more solemnly arm and arm. As always, the ice cream man was there as well as the man who sells the Nicaraguan version of snow cones and someone selling fried pork

rinds (chicharón).They never miss any event.

Ice Cream Man

Venders outside the cemetery

Baby in the hammock

Carrying flowers

More flowers

There was a large group of people in one area so went over to see what was going on to find a burial in process.  The whole time we were there I was aware of a strong sense of purpose.  People were there to clean up the graves and decorate them.  They were planting, weeding, and painting and the colors were bright and happy. If they were not at their gravesites yet, they were on their way with bunches of flowers.

Solemn couple

Eventually we caught up with the mariachi band and they played for us.  Although no Nicaraguans were asking them to play, when they played for us a small crowd gathered and when they finished one man said, “More!” but I don’t think he was willing to pay.  We left and went to our local air-conditioned coffee shop and made a list of all our observations as we appreciated yet another Nicaraguan tradition that makes so much sense and is not part of our culture. 

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