In The Shadow of the Volcano

 

            Chinandega is located on a coastal plain. The Pacific Ocean is only twenty minutes to the southwest. Going in the opposite direction, also about twenty minutes away, is Nicaragua’s tallest volcano, Volcan San Christobal. There is a smaller volcano between the road and San Christobal called El Chanco. Located about halfway up the slope of El Chanco is the farm of Rey and Marcelina Lira. Our landlords, Juan Carlos and Ruth Viales, invited us to go with them to visit this farm. They told us that it was on the mountain, that there was no water or electricity, and that we’d get transported in an oxcart from the highway to the farm and then from the farm almost to the top of the volcano where there is a cell phone tower and great views. Of course we said we were in.

            Juan Carlos described the farm as “humilde”. The most obvious translation of this word is humble, but I think that misses something. It seems to me that when Nicaraguans describe something as “humilde” there is a sense of respect attached to the word that is hard to capture in English. You might not guess it from life as it is led in capitalist America, but the notion that a lack of means does not reflect on a person’s worth has a long history. Probably no one has said this more clearly than Luke (6:20-21) channeling Jesus: "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God." Maybe it is the deep Christianity of Latin America that loads “humilde” with a sense of respect.

Rey Lira and his oxen. Juan Carlos Vinales riding in the cart.

            Juan Carlos, Ruth, Deb and I took a taxi out of Chinandega. About five miles outside the city we came to a dirt road that went off through the fields toward the slopes of El Chanco. Juan Carlos tried to raise the farmer on his cell phone, but didn’t get an answer. We started walking up the road. It was a gentle slope and it was early enough so that it wasn’t too hot. After we had walked about twenty minutes we met Rey coming down in his ox cart. I had trouble understanding how the two families are connected. There seems to be a mutual friend that connects them and they all seem to go back years to their days in the army. It is easy to see why you’d want to have Ray as a friend. He was lively, chatty, and funny. He took to Deb and me right away and joked with us and teased us the whole day. Any time we asked questions or showed interest in something he went out of his way to give us explanations and demonstrations.

            The oxen were huge and seemingly placid, but we were warned not to come up behind them because sometimes they kick. There is such a contrast between their size and strength and the fact that they are totally compliant. It seems obvious that it would be impossible to make them do anything they didn’t want to do and yet they do exactly what they are supposed to: pull anything, no matter how heavy, no matter how far. One of the things Ray showed me was how the oxen are hooked up to the cart. The yoke is lashed to their horns and a line is looped around their inside ear. To get them to turn right you tug on the left hand oxen’s right ear and vice versa. Ray said he switches them back and forth because otherwise they start walking funny and thinking they know which way to turn. (Keep in mind this explanation is based on my understanding of a Spanish conversation, which means there is maybe a 75% chance I got it right.)

            We climbed aboard the cart and the oxen pulled us up the rocky, rutted path for another thirty minutes. The cart lurched and swayed and bounced. It was like a slow motion amusement park ride, but with beautiful views all around. One of the most spectacular birds I’ve ever seen is the Mot Mot or Guardabaranca, the national bird of Nicaragua. It has a long forked tail with fan shaped tassels on the ends. They are unmistakable in flight. We must have seen two dozen of them on this leg of the cart ride.

The farm

            Ray and his family live in an open structure that is made of wood and tin. There is a walled sleeping area, however most of their living space has only a roof. The floors are dirt. There is no electricity or water. They cook on a grate over a wood fire. The house is smoky. They have cows, pigs, chickens, horses, the oxen and plenty of dogs. Near the house there are plantains, avocados, limes, oranges, papayas, and mangos. Further away they cultivate fields of beans and corn. They cart their produce and milk down the mountain to the highway where it is picked up for sale in the market in Chinandega. They cart water back up the mountain. As with most Nicaraguan families, it is fluid who lives on the farm at any given time. There are Rey, his wife Marcelina and two young adult sons. Others come and go. The younger of the two sons, Juan, was around and spent the day with us.

            Juan is a beautiful young man. He is attentive and soft spoken in a way that registers as gentleness. He makes this impression despite the fact that we had a long conversation about killing snakes. He told me about killing a boa that was eating one of their chickens. It was about six feet long. Then he went on to tell about the rattlesnakes he had killed. There are many of them. You have to be careful. Deb asked if he saves the skins. He said no just the “mantequilla” – butter. He saves the fat from the snakes; snake oil. I asked him if he could show me. He brought out two bottles from the house, one containing oil from the boa and the other rattlesnake oil. He told me that they are used to treat scorpion stings. The snake oil takes away all the pain. Juan also showed me his collection of rattles. He was able to shake them to make the unmistakable castanet sound of a rattlesnake coiled and read to strike.

Juan and snake oil

Juan and rattlesnake rattles

We got back in the ox cart and took the ride to near the top of the volcano. I asked Rey about his family’s history of living in this area. They have been here for many generations. He told me about the tragedy of the Las Casitas Volcano. It is in the same string of active volcanoes as San Christobal and El Chanco, but a little closer to León. In October of 1998 Hurricane Mitch passed just a little to the north and six feet of rain fell in three days. One wall of Las Casitas collapsed and sent a mud and rock slide of horrendous proportions down the mountain. Two towns were buried and 2,500 people died. Reportedly, aid was held up by President Alemán, one of the people who came to power in “free” elections fostered by the US in hopes of undermining the Sandinista revolution. The area of the disaster is heavily Sandinista. (This account is based in part on what Rey told me and in part on a section of The Moon Guide for Nicaragua.)

            Very near the top of the volcano on which the farm is located, incongruously, there is a huge cell phone tower, the only evidence of the 21^st century for miles. It was walled in, but Rey knew the caretaker and he let us come in and look around. He invited us to step into a large, refrigerated equipment shed. Inside it was the temperature of a meat locker. We strung hammocks at the edge of the hill and looked out over the Gulf of Fonseca with mountains in Honduras and El Salvador visible in the distance. I napped.

            Rey and Juan trotted down the hillside into the fields below to pick beans. They were soon well below us where we watched them work for the next hour. Then we watched them climb back up carrying huge gunnysacks of beans.

Ray and Juan coming up the hill

            Back at the farm, Ruth and Marcelina made us chicken soup for lunch. Ruth had brought many of the ingredients from Chinandega, but the chicken had been running around the yard that morning. After lunch, everyone worked on separating the beans from their stems and leaves. We were given a big sack of beans to take home. That night we shelled them and made soup.

Shelling the beans from the farm

 

The soup!

           Just after spending the day at the farm, I was reading the New York Times. In a article about the life shortening despair of white, working class Americans, Paul Krugman wrote, “It’s probably worth noting, in this context, that international comparisons consistently find that Latin Americans have higher subjective well-being than you would expect, given their incomes.” Living in Nicaragua this comes as no surprise. It even leaves you open to the possibility that the notion that income will correlate with subjective well-being is bogus.

            Being a Peace Corps volunteer in Nicaragua does not make me want to renounce my privilege or even permanently give up the comforts of my life in The States, but it does put these things in perspective and everyday is a confirmation that you can’t know the value of something only by knowing its price.