Vamos a volver a esta conversación en diez años

      I went to a writing workshop sponsored by Sociedad de Escritores Ramon Romero with the Nicaraguan writer Ulises Juárez Polanco. I wrote my second short-short story in Spanish. You can read the first one in the previous post.

      This is the way these stories have come about: I have a conversation with someone and hear something that seems universal to me - experiencing the frailty of old age, coming to terms with the loss of a father, the ways men can mess up relationships even when they are important to them - but, the context seems specifically Nicaraguan and I wonder if I really understand what is going on for the person. Then, in two cases at least, I write fiction based on the conversation and my understanding of it. It seems to me that if I can write a story that rings true I am at least on my way to a deeper understanding of the culture.

     So here is the story as written in Spanish and translated into English:

Vamos a volver a esta conversación en diez años

Después de la clase de Ingles, los dos amigos, Memo y Chema, fueron a tomar a El Refugio. Memo era mas joven que Chema por diez años. Tuvo veinte años y Chema tuvo treinta.

En el bar, hablaron sobre varias cosas; sobre como el Ingles es un idioma loco, sobre beisbol y el inicio de los juegos de los Tigres, sobre cual chica de la clase de Ingles era la mas caliente, sobre si vale la pena ir a EEUU para trabajar.

La mesera era una mujer gordita y guapa. Cuando ella llegó con las Toñas, pasó tiempo en la mesa platicando y sonriendo. Siempre tocó el hombro de Chema y le preguntó, “?Que quiere, mi amor? ?Algo mas, mi amor?”

A las seis de la tarde, había doce botellas de Toña vacías en la mesa. Chema miró su celular y dijo a su amigo, “Tengo que salir pronto. Mi esposa me busca. Ya esta enojada conmigo.” Los amigos tomaron en silencio un rato. Luego, Memo le dijo lo siguiente a Chema:

“No voy a votar. Se que Daniel va a ser presidente, pero el no me gusta. No creó trabajo en Nicaragua. Cuando no hay trabajo, los hombre tienen que salir a buscar otras oportunidades. Mi papá fue a Los Estados Unidos cuando yo tuve ocho años. Fue para ayudar a la familia, pero el nos olvidó. Olvidó a mi mama, a mi hermanito, y a mi. Ahora tiene otra familia. No he hablado con el por ocho años. Cuando tuve quince años fue muy duro. Tuve que ayudar bastante a mi mamá. Ahora soy hombre y me  vale verga. Es mejor. Aprendi. Se que tipo de hombre quiero ser. Cuando este con mi pareja y mis hijos, siempre me quedaré con ellos. Voy a trabajar y cuidar de ellos. Nunca voy a olvidar a mi familia.”  

La mesera volvió. Ella presionó su cadera contra el hombro de Chema. Ella le preguntó, “?Algo mas, mi amor?” El puso su mano en la de ella y le respondió, “?Como no, guapa? Traigame una Toña bien fría y una orden de alitas bien picante.”

Chema  le dijo a su amigo joven, “Cuando tuve su edad, pensé lo mismo que me acaba de contar, pero con tiempo las cosas cambiaron. Vamos a  volver a esta conversación otra vez en diez años. Vos habla conmigo cuando tengas treinta años y cuando estés casado por diez años.” 

We’re going to return to this conversation again in ten years.

After their English class, the two friends, Memo y Chema, went to get something to drink at The Refuge. Memo was younger than Chema by ten years. He was twenty and Chema was thirty.

In the bar they talked about this and that; about how English was a crazy language, about baseball and the start of the Tiger’s season, about which girl in the English class was the hottest, about if it would be worth it to go the United States to work. 

The waitress was a plump, good looking woman. When she arrived with their Toñas, she spent time at the table, chatting and smiling. She always touched Chema’s shoulder and asked, “What do you want, my love? Can I get you anything else, my love?”

By six o’clock, there were twelve empty Toña bottles on their table. Chema looked at his cell phone and said to his friend. “I got to go soon. My wife is looking for me. She’s already pissed at me.” The friends drank in silence for a bit. Then Memo said the following to Chema:

“I’m not going to vote. I know Daniel will be president, but I don’t like him. He hasn’t created jobs in Nicaragua. When there are no jobs the men have to leave to look for other opportunities. My father went to the United States when I was eight. He went to help the family, but then he forgot about us. He forgot about my mom, my little brother, and me. Now he’s got another family. I haven't spoken to him in eight years. When I was fifteen it was very hard. I had to help my mom a lot. Now I’m a man and I don’t give a fuck. It is better. I learned. I know what kind of man I want to be. When I’ve got a wife and kids I’m going to stick with them. I’m going to working take care of them. I’ll never forget about them.”

The waitress returned. She pressed her hip against Chema’s shoulder. She asked him, “Anything else, mi love?” He put his hand in hers and said, “Why not, good looking? Bring me a real cold Toña and an order of real spicy wings.”

Chema said to his younger friend. “When I was your age I thought the same thing that you just told me, but with time things changed. We’re going to  return to this conversation again in ten years. Talk to me when you’re thirty and you’ve been married for ten years.”

100 Maneras En Que Un Viejo Puede Morir

I went to a writing workshop given by a Nicaraguan writer named Arquímedes González Torres. I wrote a short-short story in Spanish! This is a new use of Spanish for me. Usual I speak functional, day to day Spanish. It was exciting and challenging to try to use my second language to convey something more evocative and suggestive. Here it is with a translation.

100 Maneras en que un Viejo Puede Morir

Había un hombre viejo sentado en una silla plástica en el patio tomando un cafecito. El estaba pensando sobre una flaquita morena que conoció por tiempo corto cuando tuvo diez y ocho años. No la había visto a ella por cincuenta años, pero no había una semana durante todos los años  en que el no tenia la imagen de ella en su mente.

El miró a la planta de pitaya. Había fruta madura.  Hace cuarenta años un murciélago cagó en la parte superior de la pared y la planta creció. El viejo ha estado comiendo fruta deliciosa de esta planta para medio de su vida. El trajo su escalera de madera y su machete. Subió para cortar la fruta. 

La esposa gritó, “?Viejo, que estas haciendo?  ?Estas loco? No tiene veinte años. A su edad, cada día, hay cien maneras en que usted puede morir.”

El viejo bajó y presentó la fruta a la esposa. “Aqui tienes, mi corazón,” le dijo, “por favor hazme fresco.” Regresó a tomando su cafecito negro, fuerte y dulce. El nieto estaba dibujando con tiza en el piso. La esposa estaba cantando en la cocina un canción sobre flores y pájaros. Así es la vida del viejo, pero también el tuvo una vida de memoria donde una chica flaca, sin zapatos, esta besando sus labias y el corazón de este hombre todavía tiene diez y ocho años. 

100 Ways An Old Man Can Die

There was an old man seated in a plastic chair in his patio drinking a cup of coffee. He was thinking about a skinny, dark skinned girl he knew briefly when he was eighteen years old. He hasn't seen her in fifty years, but during all those years there hasn’t been a week when he hasn't had the image of her in his mind.

He looked at his pitaya plant. There were ripe fruit. Forty years ago a bat shit on the top of the wall and the plant grew. The old man has been eating delicious fruit from the plant for half his life. He got his wooden ladder and his machete. He climbed up to cut the fruit.

His wife yelled, “Old man, what are you doing? Are you crazy? At your age, everyday, there are a hundred ways you could die!”

The old man came down and presented the fruit to his wife. “Here you go, my heart,” he said to her. “Please make me juice.” He went back to drinking his black, strong, sweet coffee. His grandson was drawing with chalk on the floor. His wife was singing in the kitchen a song about flowers and birds. This is what the old man’s life was like, but also he had a life of memory where a skinny, barefoot girl is kissing his lips and where his heart is still eighteen years old.  

(The illustration is an old drawing I made about ten years ago.)

There is a close of service date coming up.

There is a small patio area in back of our house. Soon after we arrived here in Chinandega, I was walking through the market and saw some pants for sale. I decided I’d buy a couple to plant by the fence that separates our back yard from our neighbor's. I enquired about the plants and was told that one would produce white flowers. I took it home and borrowed a shovel to dig a hole for it. My neighbour, Carolina, said, “You know that plant is going to get very big.” I said, “In two years I’m going to leave, and it will be your problem.” Fortunately, Carolina thinks all my jokes are funny, or maybe she thinks it is funny that I try to make jokes in Spanish. Anyway, she laughed and repeated it to her grandmother who also laughed.

It has been touch and go for that plant. At first it withered down to a twig and a couple of dried out leaves. Then it came back and was looking quite robust, but ants got at it and whittled it back down. With the start of the rains this year, it got very healthy, grew to a waist high bush and is flowering profusely. The neighbors admire it. I admire it every morning when Deb and I sit out there to have our morning coffee and play cribbage. I take photos of the blossoms. These are my thoughts about that plant: the both of us, me and the plant, are putting down roots in Nicaragua. However, I know that my time in Nicaragua has an expiration date. It may be in June of 2017. It may be later, but eventually I’m going to uproot myself and go back home. The plant is going to stay. The neighbors are going to stay. What I leave behind is going to be somebody else's problem.

It is an interesting aspect of being a Peace Corps volunteer that an essential part of the service is community integration. We live as a member of the community and have strong ties of friendship and family. However, we are clearly extranjeros, foreigners. And it is also clear that we are not immigrating permanently. From time to time, someone will say to me, “John, with your US money you are a rich man here. You could live here like a king.” I reply, “I think about it, but I miss my family and friends too much. That is why I have to go back.” That is reasoning that Nicaraguans understand and respect. Everyone has a father or brother or son who is living as a foreigner in the US or Costa Rica or Spain. They are there for economic reasons, but the longing for home is pretty universal.

Therefore, I think one of the challenges Peace Corps presents is how to live with intensity and authenticity as a member of the community while knowing you are extranjero and that there is a close of service date coming up. I really fit in in Chinandega. I have friends and a host family that looks out for me. I’m part of the community health system and I’m part of the cultural life of the city. I introduce people to each other and they say, “Oh, you know John, too? Small world.” I don’t hold back on getting involved. However, I maintain as part of my consciousness that my presence here is temporary. I have conversations about leaving when it comes up. People ask me, “When you go home will you come back to visit?” I say, “Yes but only as a vacation. I won’t be living here.” One buddy says all the time, ”John, in 2017, I’m going. I’m going North.” I say, “Wait till June then you can come and visit me.” He says, “OK. June 2017, I’m going.” Of course, everyone will be fine without me. They were fine before I showed up. I think I’ll be missed, and life in Chinandega will go on. People tell fond stories about volunteers who have come and gone. They’ll tell fond stories about me. “John, buena gente.”

The thought that is coming up next, may be more weighty than the bush with the white flowers can support, but así es. (…so it is.) All of this is related metaphorically to mortality, at least it is when you're seventy. Go back in the paragraph above to the sentence that says, “I don’t hold back on getting involved.” Read to the end of the paragraph, but imagine it is about somebody at the end of their life thinking about the inevitable. It all fits, right? And how about this one: “…the challenge… is how to live with intensity and authenticity… while knowing… that there is a close of service date coming up.”

Simon's Book: pictures of and reflections on roosters, baseballs, beer, fans, virgins, and much more.

As many of you know, one of my grandsons, Simon Devol, made me a small book, about 4" X 6” , last Christmas. I started using it as my sketchbook and over a period of about 6 months filled it with 32 observational drawings of things I see here in Nicaragua. This book forms one narrative, a kind of visual journal, of my life in Nicaragua.

I have sent the book back to Simon, in hopes he'll make me another one! However, I've continued to work with the drawings. From the thirty-two originals, I picked ten, not necessarily the best ones, but the ones I wanted to do more with. Then I modified them on my iPad using the app Sketchbook Pro. These digital images are more polished, smoother, better drawn, but I’m not sure they are any better than the sketches. I have been getting them printed out, pretty large about 18" X 24", on vinyl with grommets in the corners like banners.

I am planning to exhibit them. If all goes well they will be on display in my favourite coffee shop, Kfe Los Balcones, next month. https://www.facebook.com/KfeLosBalcones/

So here are the images and some stories about them in no particular order.

Simon’s Book #6, Los Gallos

I’ve been drawing roosters for a long time. I can’t remember how it got started, but they keep reoccurring in drawings, paintings, and prints. My biggest single sale of artwork, $1,000, was for a set of four roosters painted on paper mache hemispheres. My most popular piece is a print based on spray paint and stencil rooster designs. There must be fifty of them out there. 

This is not a generic rooster. It is a double portrait of a specific one: the handsome guy who lived in the courtyard of the family I stayed with during training in El Rosario. He was extremely loud and aggressive. When we had Spanish classes at my house, the other volunteers who were training in the same town hated him. A young woman I’m very fond of, Rosalyn Zock, threatened to do him harm on a regular basis. On the other hand, I was quite taken him. I forgave him waking me up at all hours, because I found his strutting around, bragging, and gallinaceous trash talking comic and charming. He didn’t come to a good end. Poultry seldom does. The man next door got a much bigger rooster. While not nearly as good looking, the new one  was double my guy’s size. All they wanted to do was fight. I think the owners just got tired of all the effort it took to keep them from bloodying each other. The handsome one disappeared. It could be he became lunch one day. I don’t want to think too much about that.

Simon’s Book #3, Los Béisboles

I love that Nicaragua and the US share a passion for béisbol! It is great irony, in my opinion, that the two countries in the region that have been the most defiant of US imperialism, Cuba and Nicaragua, are just as fanatical about the game as we are. I visited Cuba in 2000 and 2002. I took a bunch of baseballs with me to give as gifts to people I met. They were much appreciated and I wanted to do the same in Nicaragua. Soon after I got here, I started soliciting balls and other equipment from people back home. Thanks to the generosity of my friends, I've given out over 100 baseballs to kids in Chinandega. A few duffle bags of mixed equipment has been hauled down by visitors, but most of the baseballs have arrived by US post. This is not a cheap proposition. It costs about $50 to mail a dozen baseballs. I haven’t priced them, but I could probably buy baseballs here for less. However, that would leave out the interpersonal aspect. Whenever I give away a baseball, I say, this is from a friend of mine in The United States.

Three of my grandsons are pretty serious baseball players and through them I’ve become a bigger fan than I ever was previously. I’ve spent many hours watching little league games, going to see The Pawtucket Red Sox play at McCoy stadium, and also attending major league games at Fenway Park. Deb and I had a great road trip with our grandson Sammy to Cooperstown. The game itself is great, but what really matters is the way people connect through the game. At least two of my grandsons are going to visit Nicaragua. I hope to get them to some games and also set them up to play with Nicaraguans while they are here.

After my trip to Cuba in 2000, I did a drawing of a baseball that was exhibited in a gallery in Boston. A couple bought it for their son’s bedroom. They were art collectors and they thought it would get the boy off on the right foot.

Simon’s Book #7, La Virgin de Guadalupe

My interest in images of The Virgin of Guadalupe also pre-dates living in Nicaragua. However, she is ubiquitous here as she is everywhere in Latin America. Really, she is the most revered religious symbol in the western hemisphere, the Catholic impress from Tierra Del Fuego to Quebec . The Virgin of Guadalupe is a depiction of Mary, mother of Jesus, as she appeared to a Mexican peasant, Juan Diego, now a saint, too, in 1513. She insisted to the campesino that she had to have a church built on the site of their meeting. She was quite insistent, appearing to him on five different occasions. Juan Diego took the request to the Bishop who turned him down, but The Virgin kept sending him back, finally supplying him with miracles to prove the validity of the proposition. As an artist, this is the miracle that resonates the most with me: The Virgin made a particular type of rose bloom out of season. With her own hands, she arranged the flowers so they lined Juan Diego’s cloak. She told him to go before the bishop and open his cloak. He did as he was told and the flowers fell to the floor at the Bishops feet. Additionally, they left the inside of the cloak imprinted with a stunning portrait of The Virgin.

Now it so happens that at the very site where The Virgin appeared to Juan Diego, the Aztec goddess Tonantzin had been worshipped for decades.  In the Aztec language of Nahautl, Tonantzin means “Our Mother”. The history of Catholicism in the new world is one of layering new doctrine over older beliefs, creating a patina. What came before may be obscured, but it still glows through.

The Virgin of Guadalupe is closely associated with revolution. She is a poor peoples’ virgin and has been carried into battle as a symbol of resistance to oligarchy, most notably in the world’s first great popular rebellion of the twentieth century, the Mexican Revolution (1910-20). 

One of these days I’m going to do a series of paintings of Elvis, Jesus, and The Virgin of Guadalupe on black velvet. Maybe I’ll throw in Che Guevara, Liz Taylor and James Dean, too. I’m going to find an abandoned drive in movie and hold the exhibition there. On opening night, I’ll show a double feature of King Creole and Jail House Rock. If Liz and Jimmy Dean make the cut, subsequent nights will include Suddenly Last Summer and Butterfield 8, East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause and of course Giant! Popcorn and cotton candy will be served. Yeah! thats my idea of art.

Simon’s Book #4, Los Viejos and Simon’s Book #9, Los Macho Ratones

These two drawing are based on masks made by Marlon Jose Vega Flores. Deb’s training town was Diriamba. Her language instructor took her training group on a cultural excursion to Marlon’s workshop and home. She couldn’t wait to get me there because she knew how much I would love it. Marlon is a folklorist, musician, dancer, and craftsman. Several generation live and work in the small house not far from the cemetery in Diriamba. For my money, he is one of the best artists, in any form, I know. The family workshop turns out masks, figurines - from doll size to life size -, jewellery and other objects based on El Güegüence or Macho Ratón of Diriamba. This is a satirical street theater performance, including elaborate costumes, masks, dance and music  presented annually during the festival of San Sebastián in mid January. The play dates from the 16th century, making it one of the oldest literary works of the Western Hemisphere.  In 2005, UNESCO proclaimed it a "Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity”. The general theme is the sly and humorous resistance of the indigenous population to colonial rule.

Deb and I have three of Marlon’s masks hanging on our wall here in Chinandega. They are much appreciated by our neighbors. Last week a girl borrowed one to take to school for show and tell. It made me nervous, but she returned it without a problem. 

Check out Marlon on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marlonjose.vegaflores?fref=ts . If you would be interested in buying his artwork, I’d be glad to act a a go-between.

Sometime before I leave Nicaragua, I’m planning to do an apprenticeship at Marlon’s workshop. I want to learn to carve and paint the masks.

Simon’s Book #21, Café

Every morning, either Deb or I, get out of bed and boil water on the hotplate to make a pot of coffee. We own a fachenta (fancy, snooty) French press. We take our coffee out on the patio and drink it while we have our morning game of cribbage. It is a rare morning that we don’t follow this routine. If it is raining we have our coffee and game inside. The cups we drink out of were the models for this drawing. This routine is nothing new. We also follow it in the US, although back home, because there are more demands on our time, we don’t pull it off with the same regularity. Deb and I have been together right around twenty-five years. We have built up layer upon layer of shared experiences; family and friends, travel, adventures, joyful times, heartbreaking times, wonderful things we remember and a whole bunch of things we’ve forgotten. To claim that these cups are a portrait of our relationship would be to ask them to carry more weight than they are capable of. However, they’d make a good thumbnail to click to open the bigger picture.

One of the central features of my Peace Corps service is that I’m doing it with Deb as my partner. As in the States, we go our separate ways much of the time, but she is there to come home to. I get to tell her my stories and I get to hear hers. Thanks, honey.

There is a whole other story associated with this drawing, too. My favourite coffee shop in Chinandega is Kfe Los Balcones. I am friends with the owner, Elisa Gurdian Tijerino. She is a very generous and supportive woman who has taken an interest in my artwork on Facebook, especially Simon’s Book. We are planning to exhibit the drawings in the coffee shop. So, I’m pretty loyal to Kfe. However, there is another, newer coffee shop in town called La Esquina (The Corner). It also, like Kfe, is air conditioned and has wifi. When it first opened I tried it and posted on the Peace Corps Nicaragua website to let other volunteers know about it. I was kind of bragging because that made four air conditioned coffee shops with wifi in Chinandega! However, I felt disloyal to Kfe and a little worried that Elisa would see what I had written. So, I did another Facebook post with this drawing and a testimonial to the glories of the lattes at Kfe. Elisa loved it and had a poster made that is hanging in the business.

As I reread the above paragraph, I wondered if Facebook makes everyone feel like they are in Junior High School or is it just me. To tell the truth, I still frequent La Esquina. If I’m in that part of town and I’m hungry it is hard to pass up their hot dog called El Chapo. Yes! A hot dog named for a notorious narcotraficante! It features lots of jalapeños, chipotle sauce, and chopped onions. It leaves me with a glowing mouth and a clear conscience. 

Simon’s Book #29, Toña

I drink Toña. Deb drinks Victoria Clásica. They are both made by the same brewery, Compañía Cervecera de Nicaragua (CCN). There ain’t much difference between the two, but you can pretty much divide Nicaragua into Toña drinkers and Victoria Clásica drinkers. People have strong preferences. My favorite beer joke definitely applies: drinking Toña (or insert other brand) is like making love in a canoe; fucking close to water. The real appeal is that it is cold. Beer is served just above slushy temperature. There are some places that serve it in frosted mugs so there is actually ice floating in the beer. If we are drinking at home, we open the first one, but keep the second and third in the freezer.

I’d say on an average of once a week we stop by our favorite bar, El Refugio (The Refuge) and drink a couple of cold ones. We like this bar because although the music is loud, it is not too loud to have a conversation. Also, the clientele includes women, not necessarily the case in other bars around town. The way they keep the tab at El Refugio is by letting the empties accumulate on the table. If it gets to be more than twenty four, they’ll bring you a case and put it on the floor by your table. On more than one occasion I have seen two guys drinking alone with a full case of empties. For parties of three or more it is a given. I aspire to having a case, but the way I drink it is not going to happen. Three beers is a big night for me.

From time to time Deb and I will have a conversation that goes something like this:

“I think we drank beer every day this week.”

“Yeah. It might have been every day last week, too.”

“My pants are getting tight.”

“I think its time for a break.”

“OK. I’m on board.”

Then well go on the wagon for a week or two, but when its in the 90s the siren song of Toña is hard to resist for vey long.

There is Toña, but then there is Flor de Caña. That is a whole other story.

Simon’s Book #23 and #24, Semana Santa

These are copies of images that were painted on the streets of Chinandega last Easter, Semana Santa. 

I am fascinated by the impulse to make visual art. It seems clear that it is universal. There are artists everywhere creating paintings, drawings, photographs, sculpture, crafts, and graffiti that, on some level they are compelled to make. One source driving this compulsion, that is particularly evident in Nicaragua, is religion. Nicaraguan have a deep love of God and always express their gratitude for his divine presence in their lives. It is built into the language. In almost every context, the word “gracias” is followed by “a Dios.”  “How are you today?” “Bueno. Gracias a Dios.”  Also, in making almost any plan for the future, it is acknowledged that our lives are in God’s hands. “Hasta luego.” “OK, si Dios quiere.” (“See you later.” “OK. God willing.”) These phrases exist in English and are used in similar ways, but in Nicaragua it is a much more profound part of people’s psyche. And there is an impulse to make this internal love of God visible in the world. The resulting artwork takes many forms, none more accessible than the paintings that decorate the streets for Easter week. Using lime mixed with water for paint, most households join in patterning their block with imagery related to the last supper, the crucifixion and the resurrection. The quality and creativity of the work is quite varied. Much of the artwork is simple, basic versions of standard themes; flowers, crosses, ladders, hearts, and chalices. However, every block or two you’ll come across a piece were the artist’s individual vision emerges or where extraordinary skill has been applied. Walking around my neighbourhood during Semaña Santa is as good as going to any art gallery.

I’m not a particularly religious guy, but I identify with having something powerful inside you; a thought, a feeling, a vision, that you want to put out in the world and the necessary way to do it is with art.

Simon’s Book #13, León de León

León is a neighboring city to Chinandega. It is a city of great culture and learning. This is a drawing of the lions in front of the cathedral. It was a drawing that it was hard to get right. The lion kept coming out too Disneyish or too Wizard of Ozzy. 

During training, one of the questions that preoccupies volunteers is where they will be placed. Since I’m prone to a fault to think about what is going to happen in the future, I spent a lot of time fantasizing about where I was going to live for two years. I’d visit someplace new and immediately want that to be my site: “Rivas! Wow! Rivas is so great! I want to live there.” “Matagalpa! The climate! The coffee! I hope I get placed there!” “San Carlos…” Etc. One of my favourite fantasies was to live in León. I didn't actually visit there until later, but I knew its reputation as a town with universities, museums, great restaurants, gorgeous churches, important murals and a large international presence. It is also a pivotal location in the history of Nicaragua, including the revolution.  While all this turns out to be true, for me León is a great town to visit, but I’m glad I’m living in Chinandega and I’m glad León is a short bus ride away.

Simon’s Book #27, El Abanico/La Vida de Chinandega

This drawing resonates with me on a personal level in a manner I’m hard put to articulate. I think it is the best single representation of my life in Chinandega. While I was working on it and especially when I saw it printed out for the first time, I felt filled with gratitude and appreciation. I think this drawing contains a kind of anticipatory sadness I have about eventually leaving Chinandega and Nicaragua. In my imagination, I take “El Abanico” back to Peace Dale, Rhode Island and hang it out on the back deck. I look at it while I’m drinking my morning coffee and think, “Damn, that was a fine two year! I’m so glad I did that.”

“El Abanico” is more or less a depiction of our living room. It shows one of the the two Macho Ratón masks that hang on the wall. I drew the smaller of our two fans, because I like its color and shape better. The big one that we have on 24/7 is more utilitarian, but less attractive. I included Toña, my favorite beer. More on Toña elsewhere in this post. There is no reality to the pattern on the floor. All of our floors are tile. For years I have been making patterns like this using spray paint and lace as a stencil. I happened to have a photo on my iPad and when I collaged it in I liked the way it looked.

The heat in Chinandega is omnipresent! On the one hand it is just background, but in another way it is the essence of the life here. I recently posted this on Facebook:

“Can I complain just a little? It is 93 today (feels like 117). This is not particularly unusual, but recently it has been wiping me out. I drink my rehydration salts, take three showers a day, and seek out an hour or so of air conditioning whenever I can. Usually this does it, but, for whatever reason, this week I feel put upon by the heat. Well at least tomorrow it is only going to feel like 111.”

Zach Moore, who proceeded Deb and I as a volunteer in Chinandega by a year and a half and was pivotal in helping us fit in here when we arrived, responded, “Solo recuerda que el calor es de la pasión y la riqueza de la vida en Chinandega! La vida más caliente es la vida más rica!” (Just remember that the heat is the passion and richness of the life in Chinandega. The hottest life is the richest life!) He added, “But still... yeah. It's friggin hot.” I miss that boy.

Nicaraguan Folk Dancing

When we first arrived in Nicaraguan and were receiving our orientation for 3 days in the hotel across the street from the airport, the Peace Corps training staff arranged a professional folk dance performance for us.  It was lovely and as was true in Honduras, I was entranced by the dancing and the costumes and wanted to learn how to do it. I figured when I got to my site, I would find a group of adults who danced together and see if I could tag along to learn some dances.  It turned out to be not quite so easy. 

Two of the younger members of the group practicing

Nicaraguans have a long history of folk dances with influences from the African/Caribbean people on the coast to the Spanish invaders to the indigenous people.  Their dances usually tell a story or reflect some aspect of their history.  The costumes are a major part of their performances and almost all the dancing is done to prepare for a performance. Contrary to the folk dancing I have done in LPC and at the Ecole, there are no casual dance evenings just for fun. They dance to perform and work hard to perfect their skills. 

Men with hats and women with long flowing skirts

Once we got to Chinandega we started asking around about who taught dancing and whether or not there was a school or classes for adults.  Traditionally the dancing is taught to children for performing at school functions and in parades. There are no classes for adults. Lo and behold, the young man around the corner from us studies at the university during the week and dances on Sundays.  He told me he started on Saturdays with a man named Raoul Peñalba when he was younger and now he is in the performance group, which practices on Sundays.  He asked Profe Raoul if I could come and watch some Sunday. 

Skirts are flying! You can see Profe Raoul watching the practice and his portrait in the background

I introduced myself to Profe Raoul and told him I was interested in learning some Nicaraguan dances.  He said I was welcome to come on Sundays and do the warm ups with the group and watch them practice.  I had fanaticized that we could do a bit of an exchange and I could teach them some of the international folk dances that I know but they are on a tough work schedule and it didn’t feel right to impose myself on them. His group puts on one two-hour show a year and they practice all year every Sunday for that performance in December.  There are about 30 kids (people) ranging from 8 to mid 30s and they dance in groups of 1 (solos), 2 (a few duets), 6, 10, 15 etc.  There are dances for the younger ones, some for men only, some women only, and a few solo songs thrown in also.  This year there is a rock and roll number in the mix. 

Practicing their rock n roll number

Most of the dances involve a lot of skirt action. The skirts are very full and all the girls have practice skirts – for the performance they will all be very coordinated with matching shoes and flowers in their hair and lots of make-up.  The boys practice with hats and sticks depending on the dance. For a while they were practicing a dance with machetes but that got scratched from the program unfortunately. Some of the dances require fans and for these dances a straighter skirt is worn (not the full gathered skirt).  One famous dance called the Güegüense requires masks – some of horses and some of Spaniards.  The history behind the masks is that the dancing could be done by either a man or a woman and with the masks, no one needed to know who was who. 

El güegüense

Every Sunday that I am in town, I go to the Profe’s house to join in the warm up dancing in front of the big mirror.  I am way in the back so I can’t see myself and I work hard to keep up with them.  They have all been doing these dances for years and know all the steps backwards and forwards.  For the performances Profe Raoul works out choreography with the steps they have learned and they practice and tweak it throughout the year.  There is no set way to do any dance and if I Google a dance, I can see various performances to the same music that are all very different.  Profe Raoul holds his students to a level of professionalism that is very admirable.  He expects them to be punctual (not a usual standard in Nicaragua), to be quiet when others are practicing, to be supportive of each other, to pay attention and to listen to his guidance and advice. If anyone has unexcused absences, they are eliminated from the performance and replaced by more reliable members. They love him.  He gets mad and yells and then makes them all laugh.  He makes fun of them if they are not dancing properly and makes them laugh at themselves.  For Father’s Day, they bought him a cake and celebrated his fatherly role in their lives.

Look how much he is sweating.  There is a lot of attention to flirting during the dances which the older folks have mastered but the younger dancers are too embarrassed to take seriously. 

After the warm up dancing, I sit and watch them practice.  I love it but I am not learning enough. I decided to ask one of the older women in the group if she would be willing to teach me privately and she agreed.  For 100 córdobas an hour (about $3.50) Cinthia comes and dances with me and guides me.  I made a video of her dancing and then practice by following her steps. It is not easy and I am not particularly good at it but I love it.  I had a practice skirt made for myself and decided to do a little performance for my health group during our recent mid service training talent show.  It was a “corrido” (sort of like cowboy music) and Cinthia worked out the choreography for me. I filmed her doing it and practiced and practiced and practiced and the made a ton of mistakes when I performed it.  We videoed my performance so I could show Cinthia when I returned to Chinandega and she said, “You are good at improvising.”

Practicing one of the fan dances. My teacher Cinthia is in the front with the red fan

Solo performance

And finally, here I am practicing in my very own skirt.

What I actually do as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nicaragua.

Peace Corps has three big goals for its volunteers:

1. To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained Volunteers.

2. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.

3. To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

Mainly I write about goals 2 and 3, in hopes of presenting a more nuanced view of US citizens to Nicaraguans and to inform people back home about this wonderful, little country. Goal 3 is especially important to me, because the political history of our relationship to Nicaragua is so despicable. 

However, I actually spend about 20 hours a week, sometimes less, sometimes much more on goal 1; my actual work as a public health educator in the Peace Corps in Nicaragua.

I’m spending two years of my life trying to convince Hispanic guys to use condoms when they have sex. (Actually, it is another two years, because I did the same work in Honduras ten years ago.)

The project I’m part of, health, has three objectives:

1: HIV/STI (Sexually Transmitted Infection) Prevention

2: Teenage Pregnancy Prevention

3: Improved Maternal and Infant Health outcomes

I don’t do much on the third one.

Nicaragua has a relatively low rate of HIV infection. Unfortunately, it seems to be steadily growing and there are some risk factors that make it worth paying attention to from a public health perspective. These include a culture of machismo in which multiple, simultaneous partners is the norm for men, acceptance of men visiting prostitutes as part of their sex life, often including their first sexual experience, an uncircumcised population, high rate of other sexually transmitted diseases, a concept of homosexuality that only defines the receptive person as gay, and much resistance to condom use. Likewise, unplanned pregnancies at an early age are very common.

So, yeah, its all pretty much about promoting condom usage, with a pitch for abstinence - meaning delay of first sexual experience and abstaining from sex if you don’t have a condom available - and mutual fidelity thrown in. More on how “mutual fidelity” goes over in Latin America later.

Here are some examples of what this work actually looks like:

I am introduced to a young Nicaraguan man named Cesar Torrez who is a volunteer health educator in a small town, Puerto Morazan, about 20 miles outside of Chinandega. He has a youth group he meets with two afternoons per week. He invite me to come to his youth group. The forty minute bus ride to Puerto Morazan is through cane fields with mountains in the distance. The village is on an estuary. Fishing and shrimp farming are sources of employment. I get directions to the high school and walk a half mile through the village, across a rusty bridge, and arrive at the school. A while later, Cesar arrives and slowly his youth group begin to trickle in. Eventually, there are five boys and three girls. They are between 15 and 18 years old. The young people sit in a row and Cesar stands at the front of the room and gives them a lecture about sexually transmitted diseases. Their attention wanders. They whisper to each other. There is some flirtation going on. They check their cell phones. After about a half hour, Cesar says to me, “Will you show them how to use a condom?” I had thought the invitation had just been to observe the group, but I’ve done this so many times, I don’t mind. Cesar has condoms, but nothing to use as a penis. The first thing I do is get them to move their seats into a circle. Next, I get them to introduce themselves by saying two true things and one lie. I say I have seven kids, twelve grandkids, and four tattoos. I actually only have three tattoos. They have to guess which is the lie. When it is their turn, it is almost impossible to come up with a credible lie. They have all lived together in this small town, all of their lives. However, they have fun with it and laugh a lot. I give them each a condom and get the broom from the corner. Indicating the broom handle, I say,  “This is a very long, but very skinny penis. I think it will work to practice on.” I have their attention. We go through the steps for using a condom: check the expiration date, make sure the package is sealed, open the package with your fingers, don’t use your teeth, make sure the condom hasn’t dried out, put it in your palm with the right side up, it should look like a sombrero, pinch the nipple between your finger and thumb to get the air out. Place it on the end of the erect penis (A.K.A. broom handle) and roll it all the way down, have sex, while the penis is still erect, hold the condom around the base and withdraw, slip the condom off the penis being careful not to spill the semen, throw it away. Everyone takes a turn. They are animated and interested, they tease each other and give advice and corrections. After the demonstration, I blow up one of the condoms and tell them to stand up and form a circle. I put the inflated condom between the first boys knees and give them the task of passing it around the circle without using their hands. Nicaraguan kids are very shy and easily embarrassed, but they will basically do anything you tell them, especially if you are an old gringo. They get into it. Boys pass to boys, boys pass to girls, girls pass to girls. It is boisterous and erotic. Nicaraguan kids have the information. Almost anyone can tell you to prevent HIV you should use a condom when having sex, but they don’t do it. My job, then, is to present in a manner that does more than just impart information. I’m trying to change behavior. I think a lot about, and Peace Corps gives a lot of training about how to do this. It is a big question, but one part of the answer is give practice during the presentation of the behavior you want to see. I don’t know how many of these kids have touched or tried to use a condom before, but now they all have. Additionally, they have had a fun time doing it. The bet is that when it comes time to have sex they will be somewhat more likely to use a condom. Who knows? I plan to go back to Puerto Morazan and continue working with Cesar.

Across the street from my house there is an apartment rented to some itinerant construction workers. Some are from León and some from Managua. Most go home for the weekend, but others live full time in the apartment. There are always six to eight guys there, ranging in age from their mid twenties to their late fifties. I talk to them in the street the way I do to all my neighbors. I’m particularly close with one of them, a young guy named Jonathan. He has a wife and kids in Miami, but got deported because of a minor run in with the law. This is a common story in Nicaragua. Jonathan speaks just enough English that it is harder to communicate with him than it would be if we stuck to Spanish. Usually, I talk to him in bad Spanish and he answers me in worse English. One day when Deb is away, I accompany Jonathan and an older guy to get soup and beers for lunch at a neighbourhood restaurant. I have a really good time with them. I tell them about my work and then I pitch them the idea of doing a presentation to all the guys in the house. I had been thinking about this for awhile because itinerant workers, guys away from their families and home for extended periods are at high risk for infection with sexually transmitted diseases. Jonathan and the older guy say, “Sure.” We set a day and time. A couple of days later, I cross the street with my materials and give an hour and a half presentation to eight of them. I get them involved. We do some ice breakers and some games. I get them talking about their opinions and experiences. When the conversation is really flowing, fast and slangy, I only get about 50% of it. It is clear that they are not buying my ideas about prevention: condom usage, abstinence - in these guys case settling for a blow job if you don’t have a condom -, and especially, fidelity to one partner. The group is teasing and pointing the finger at one guy in particular, a bulky, good looking guy of about thirty. He has a wife and family in Managua and also seems to have quite a reputation as a lady’s man. At one point he offers the standard reason for not using condoms: “Carnita a carnitas es mejor!” (Actually, I love this phrase. There is a lot of poetry to it in my opinion. “Carnita” is the diminutive of carne or meat. So, how would you translate it? “It is best when you got the darling, little meat against the darling, little meat!”) I end up saying, I’d like to invite you to think about your wife and family. It doesn't matter to me who you do it with, but consider doing it in a way that you don’t bring a disease home and give it to your wife. Of course the conversation goes on and nothing is resolved. I leave them with a bunch of condoms. The other day, Jonathan said to me in the street, “ ‘ey, man. You got condoms? Yeah, da guys want more, you got ‘em.” Who knows what that means? I am more than willing to supply those guys with condoms. I can get all they want for free from the health department. 

Another volunteer, a young woman named Rosalyn Zock, whom I’m very fond of calls me. She tells me she is organising a pool tournament in her town as an HIV education event. The participants will receive information between games of pool and later they will have to answer questions about what they have learned. Rosalyn asks me if I can do a poster for her. She says she would like a picture from the point of view of someone who is about to take a shot. She wants to show his hands holding the cue, getting ready to shoot the cue ball and break up the other balls, only its not a pool cue he is using its his penis. I say, “Whoa, Rosalyn! That’s a bit graphic.” This is something of a role reversal, because in the past I have a history of saying things that are a little too explicit for Rosalyn’s tastes. Could it be that Peace Corps is changing one or both of us? I tell her I will try to do a poster, but it may take a week or more. She says no hurry. I get an image stuck in my head so I finish it up in one sitting and send it off to her. She says she loves it. I keep looking for ways to make sex education in a public health context sexy and funny. I’m pretty sure scare tactics don’t work. “Wear a condom or you’ll get a fatal disease and die!” Nobody wants that thought in their head when they are getting ready to make love. Maybe though, if condoms are funny, playful, and a little sexy, it will increase the likelihood of putting one on when the time comes. Who knows?

I like this work. I do it a lot, in many different contexts, with many different people. It is complicated and challenging, especially doing it in my second language and in a culture different than my own. 

Here is a gallery pictures to go with these thoughts:

My poster for Rosalyn Zocks Pool Hall tournament.

A sticker design I did, but decided not to use. Some people loved it, but others thought it was too "political." I'm not sure how it registers culturally.

Cesar Torrez, the guy I work with in Puerto Morazan.

At a Health Fair doing informal condom demonstrations with some kids in the street.

My favorite group! Young men who are in a program to teach them to care for and train horses, called Escuela de Arte Ecuestre, Cortijo El Rosario

The guys at Escula de Art Ecuestre, playing pass the condom.