Adios, viejo

This story was written in Spanish and translated into English. It is a children's story for adults about saying goodbye.

Parte 1

En la mañana, cuando el viejo estaba todavía acostado en su cama, llegaron todos sus hijos, nietos y bisnietos para decir adios.

Su hijo mayor le preguntó: ?Papi, a donde vas?

El viejo le respondió: No se.

El bisnieto mas joven le dijo: ?Papi, porque se va?

“Es mi tiempo, mi principe. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy alegre.”

(In the morning, when the old man was still laying in his bed, all his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren came to say goodbye.

His oldest son asked him, "Dad, where are you going?"

The old man responded, "I don't know."

His youngest great grandchild said, "Pop, why are you going?"

"It is my time, my prince. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very happy day.")

Parte 2

Mas tarde en la mañana, cuando el viejo estaba sentado tomando un cafecito en  ropa interior, llegaron todos sus amigos para decir adios.

?Loco, a donde vas? le pregunto Memo.

El viejo le respondió: No se, hermano.

Pancho le dijo: ?Maje, porque te vas?

“Es mi tiempo, mis compadres. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy amistoso.”

(Later in the morning, when the old man was sitting and drinking a cup of coffee in his underware, all his friends arrived to say goodbye.

"Crazy-one, where are you going?" Memo asked him.

The old man responded, "I don't know, brother."

Pancho said to him, "Buddy, why are you leaving?"

"It is my time, my companions. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very friendly day.")

Parte 3

A medio día, cuando el viejo estaba almorzando, vestido con pantalones, llegaron todos sus amantes para decir adios.

La flaquita y la gordita dijeron: ?Desgraciado, a donde vas?

“No se.”

La negrita y la morena le preguntaron: ?Porque se va, maldito?

“Es mi tiempo, mis amores. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy caliente.”

(In the middle of the day, when the old man was eating his lunch, wearing his pants, all his old girlfriends came to say goodbye.

The lithe one and the voluptuous one said, "You wretch, where are you going/"

"I don't know."

The black one and the brown one asked him, "Damn you, why are you going?"

"It is my time, my loves. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very horny day.")

Parte 4

En la tarde, cuando el viejo estaba acostado en su hamaca, vestido en pantalones y camisa, llegaron todos sus enemigos para decir adios.

Chancho le preguntó: ?Hijo de la grand puta, a donde vas?

“No se.”

“?Porque se va, imbecil?”

“Es mi tiempo, hombres. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy indulgente.”

(In the afternoon, when the old man was laying in his hammock, dressed in his pants and shirt, all his enemies showed up to say goodbye.

Piggy asked him, "You son of a whore, where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you going, asshole?"

"It is my time, fellows. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very forgiving day.")

Parte 5

  A noche, cuando el viejo estaba esperando su tiempo, vestido con toda su ropa bonita incluyendo su sombrero elegante, su cinturón de piel de culebra, y su corbata con la piedra de turquesa, llego la señora.

Ella le dijo: Yo se donde vas, mi amor.

“Si.”

“Yo se porque tu se va.”

“Si.”

“Llevamé contigo.”

“Si. Por supuesto! En mi corazón. En mi sangre. En mis huesos. Escuche me, mi vida, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy glorioso.”

El viejo subió volando en el aire, encima del techo, encima de los arboles, encima de los nubes, y se desapareció. 

(At night, when the old man was waiting for his time, dressed in his prettiest clothes, including his elegant hat, his snakeskin belt, and his tie with the turquoise stone, his wife came.

She told him, "I know where you're going."

"Yes"

"I know why you are going."

"Yes"

"Take me with you."

"Yes. Of course! In my heart. In my blood. In my bones. Listen to me, my life, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very glorious day.

The old man flew up into the air, above the roof, above the trees, above the clouds, and disappeared.)

   

Multi-generational Global Citizenship

This post is part of Blogging Abroad's 2017 New Years Blog Challenge, week one: Global Citizenship.

When I was thirteen in 1958 I went to Havana with my father for a long weekend. We lived in Miami at the time and he worked as a baggage handler for Pan American Airlines. The trip, including a couple of nights at the Hotel Nacional, was essentially free. A father-son trip like this was out of character for my dad and me. I was very affiliated with my mother and he and I didn’t have much to say to each other. I would guess there was some unspoken reason for the trip; some instigation on my mother’s part, some crises in their very stormy relationship. Who knows? But there I was in Havana at the height of the “gangsterismo” era, with the corrupt, murderous dictator Batista just hanging on by his finger tips. However, still enjoying the full support of the US government and still profiting massively from Mafia kickbacks for gambling, prostitution, and drugs. At the time, I knew nothing about this nor about the looming revolution. It is possible that bombs were going off in Havana, possible that revolutionaries were being hauled off to be tortured and murdered.

My father hit the casinos and I hit the streets. My memories are 58 years old and, of course, not to be fully trusted, but I think I was pretty much on my own. If I did anything with my father other than sleep in the same hotel room, I don’t remember it. I do remember wandering along the Malecón and watching boys about my age swimming and fishing naked from the sea wall. I remember walking along broad avenues, back streets, and wide plazas where it seemed every surface was covered in intricately patterned ceramic tile. I remember music in the parks, on the street corners and blasting from the bars. Everything had a sexual charge. I was 13, of course everything had a sexual charge.

As near as I can reconstruct it, I was in Cuba for between 48 and 72 hours. The family history is that my father lost all his money and we flew home early. As with many events in my family, this could either be accurate or it could be the version of the events that made the best story.

I believe this brief vacation was the start of my concept of myself as a global citizen; as someone who looks at the world with a broader perspective than can be provided by citizenship in only one country. The trip was on the eve of the triumph of the revolution. Within months, maybe within weeks, Batista would flee and a victorious Castro would enter Havana. The timing primed me to pay attention to everything that happened afterwards and substantially contributed to my left-wing, radical thinking in terms of politics, economics, history and culture.

Flash forward 58 years and I’m 71 years old and a Peace Corps volunteer living and working with my wife Deborah Drew in Chinanadega, Nicaragua, acknowledged by everyone to be the hottest city in a very hot country. 

I am also the oldest volunteer currently serving in Nicaragua. A big majority of Peace Corps volunteers are in their early to mid twenties. 

Just before Christmas, my step daughter, Helen Devol, my wife’s daughter, comes to visit with her family; her husband Dave and their three kids, Sammy 17, Simon 14, and Tess 11. They are amazing kids! OK. So I’m their grandfather and not objective. So sue me. I know exceptional when I see it. I’m going to focus here on Simon, the fourteen year old.

In addition to being smart, funny, and good looking, he is also the most kinetic kid I’ve ever known. I don’t mean hyperactive or ADD. He is perfectly capable of sitting still and concentrating for extended periods when its called for, but his default setting is physical play. Any object he encounters in the environment is an invitation to climb, run, jump, bounce, flip, balance, etc. He carries an iPhone 7 with him and documents all his antics in photos and videos. He is a fireworks fanatic, a fascination he shares with his dad. They both love blowing shit up.

The point, besides how wonderful Simon is, is that he is a global citizen. Since he was 10 he has been going to the international children’s camps, LPC (Luethi-Peterson Camps). He spends four to six weeks every summer with a group of campers from all over the world and he has attended camps in Spain and Italy. Now he has had this experience of traveling around Nicaragua for two weeks. I am hoping it will have some of the same effect on him that my time in Cuba, at the same age, had on me. I see in him a desire for new experiences, a willingness to engage with whatever comes his way, a non-judging openness that is rare in US teenagers. 

We spend New Years Eve with our neighbors in Chinandega, eating roast pork, drinking rum, translating back and fourth between English and Spanish, and setting off fireworks. A little after midnight a “torro” emerges from the car wash down the street. It is a large cardboard construction in the general shape of a bull that has been loaded with fireworks of every size and description. The young men of the neighborhood get inside it (where they are relatively protected), light the fuse, and chase people up and down the street while the bull shoots rockets in all directions. Simon takes one look at the contraption and can’t believe his luck at being in this place at this time. With a huge smile he says, “Oh my god! This is really dangerous! My goal is to touch it while it is exploding.” He achieves his goal more than once.

 

http://www.hotelnacionaldecuba.com/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malec%C3%B3n,_Havana

https://luethipetersoncamps.org/

An Old Guy And The Youth Culture Of Peace Corps

El Viejo

     Another volunteer, Danica Liriano, recently asked me if I would write something for the Diversity Committee about "ageism". This request got me thinking, even more than I usually do, about being the oldest volunteer in Nicaragua. (Every new volunteer group causes me a little nervousness that someone might show up and take the title away from me!) Let me start by saying I have not experienced anything that felt like prejudice or even stereotyping based on my age. In fact, I have felt very accepted and valued by my training group, my sector, my site mates, and Peace Corp staff. I think, I've made some great friends, maybe some life long friends. In my case, if I'm lucky, I might have these people as friends for ten years!

     So, I don't see the dynamic as being "ageist" in the sense of being discriminatory. That being said, there is a pretty pervasive assumption of youth in Peace Corps. I have felt like I had two cultures to adjust to; the Nicaragua culture and the youth culture of the organization. There is a default setting, where norms and expectations are based on everyone being in their twenties, since I haven't been in my twenties for forty years, it can be a little disorienting. I'll realize that something is going on that makes me feel out of step, then I'll think, "Oh yeah, that's because you're older than the parents of everybody else in the room!"

    Let me give some examples.

    The whole language of host families doesn't work for me. During training I lived with Reyna and Pedro, a great couple in their early fifties. There was no way I could think of them as "mom" and "dad". We turned it into a kind of running joke about the "hijo" being older than the "padres", but the assumption of youth was built into the vocabulary in such a way that I felt different when the topic of the people who were hosting us came up. "Dueno" and "duena" or "amo" and "ama" might have worked better for me, but my Spanish isn't good enough to know for sure what the connotations of these words are.

    Soon after arriving in Chinandega, the Volunteer Support Committee announced an outing. The summary of the invitation was that the group would go to Leon, stay at a hostel, climb a volcano, go boarding, camp out overnight, and descend the next day. My reaction was, "You mistake me for a much younger man!" Here's my idea of a great outing in Leon: stay someplace air conditioned, have a leisurely latte in front of the cathedral, go to the top of the cathedral, go to the art museum (world class if you haven't seen it!), take a nap, look for a cultural experience in the evening, and end the day with a game of Oh Hell. (I got to add that while this outing had no appeal for me and made me feel a little invisible, my wife, Deb Drew, who is only two years younger than me, was very excited by it. She went and had a great time.)

      Our site mate, Zach Moore, came back from his COS conference and was very enthusiastic about the focus on post Peace Corps planning. He said they had workshops on things like resume writing, networking, government job searches, etc. I turned to Deb and said, "There's no way in hell I'm sitting through two days of career planning! I've had a career! I'm retired for Christ's sake!" She said, "Calm down, honey. You don't really need to worry about that now. Its two years away." I said, "But... but... if I have to sit through that, they have to hear about organ donations, living wills, and pre-paid mortuary services!" She patted my hand.

    The young volunteers are much more sexually active than I am. In my opinion this is as it should be. It is biologically determined. The survival of the species depends on young guys taking every opportunity that comes their way to spread their seed and young women fertilizing as many of those eggs as possible. The biology is not hip to the fairly new phenomena of birth control. So it keeps going, “Procreate, procreate, procreate, you little bastards!” To me, the biology says, “Take it easy old guy. You’ve done your part. Put your feet up. Take a load off.” I’ve heard more than once that making love is the Peace Corps hand shake, that may be an exaggeration, but there is that kind of energy buzzing around, and sometimes it is like a fly annoying me while I’m trying to nap in my hammock.

I haven’t been drunk in forty years. A couple of times a week, I have a beer or two or on a big night a couple of rum drinks. What I’m after is a little relaxation, a slight blurring of the sharp edges. Being around people who are drinking to drunkenness, until they pass out, until they throw up, until the bouncer threatens to throw them out is so culturally discordant to me that I’d be lying if I said I was acceptant of it, but here I am in a setting where it is not at all out of the norm.

Here’s how technologically inept I am compared to volunteers in their twenties: I had no idea what a “#” was or what it could do. I’d heard the expression used, but it went right over my head. Polly Wiltz had to explain it to me and she did it without condescension! (I still haven’t used one. #can’tteachanolddognewtricks.) It seems like every week someone expects me do be able to do something technologically that is a struggle for me. For example use Brigit, SurveyMonkey, and all that shit you can do on Google, File a grant on the Peace Corps website, order medications online, etc., etc. Actually, I like learning all this stuff, but that is the point; I have to learn it and in the youth culture of Peace Corps it is assumed that everyone already knows how to do it.

    None of the above is meant to say that anybody is doing anything wrong. Rather, my point is that when you're in a minority, in my case being an old guy in an organization where most people are much younger, you may have to be assertive about getting the majority to be inclusive of what you need. For example, I'm going to have to say, "So, look, what is my COS conference going to consist of, because there is no way in hell I'm sitting through two days of career planning!"

    

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.

 

15 Beds In 37 Days: How I Got To Nicaragua

 

            Since I left Rhode Island, I have been thinking about writing a post for this blog called “15 Beds In 37 Days: How I Got To Nicaragua”. I thought it would be written much earlier and that it would explain, to myself and others, what I was doing going to Central America for another two year stint as a Peace Corps volunteer. Well it hasn’t gotten written yet, but it hasn’t left my mind either. So, here goes an attempt at getting down on paper an explanation of how I find myself sitting at a wooden table, covered with a yellow oil cloth, pecking at my eight year old computer, the one I bought when I got home from my last Peace Corps service in Honduras in 2007, looking out on my street in Chinandega, Chinandega, Nicaragua.

Bed #1 – Peace Dale, Rhode Island, Sunday, January 25, 2015

            Deb and I left Rhode Island on Monday, January 26, 2015. The news that morning was all about the impending snowstorm. “’Historic' storm set to slam Northeast; airlines cancel flights… The National Weather Service, which isn't prone to exaggeration, is using terms like "life-threatening" and "historic" to describe the weather system taking aim at the Northeast, with the worst expected to hit Monday night into Tuesday. The first big storm of the year may drop up to 3 feet of snow on Boston and New York before it ends Tuesday, with freezing rain and strong wind gusts possibly reaching 70 mph. Blizzard and winter storm warnings have been issued from Maryland through Maine and into Canada.” (CNN) Through January, it had been a mild winter, but this storm would be a turning point and the Northeast would be snowed in for much of the next three months. I expected to spend the night in some motel in New Jersey and probably be stuck for a day until the roads were passable. However, we slipped right under it. There were flurries through Connecticut and across the George Washington Bridge. They petered out on the New Jersey Turnpike and about the time we were passing Philadelphia the sun came out. We made Silver Spring in time for dinner.

            Actually, a small part of what fueled my interest in living in Central America for a couple of years was the desire to escape winter. I think of myself as fully a New Englander, but I’m not crazy about New England winters. A couple of years in a warm climate had appeal. Be careful what you ask for!

Bed #2 – Silver Spring, Maryland, Monday, January 26, 2015

            We slept on the guest bed in Mark Feldsenthal and Sandy Moore’s basement.

            When Deb and I returned to the USA in 2007, after our Peace Corps service in Honduras, we had Peace Corps fly us to Portland, Oregon where Deb’s daughter Helen lives with her family. We spent a month there, bought a car, computers, and cell phones and made a very leisurely, loopy cross-country drive back to Rhode Island. We were on the road about six weeks. It was a wonderful way to come home. The USA is vast and gorgeous and there is nothing like a road trip to see and understand that. We decided to get to Nicaragua by driving south-southwest then west then north-northwest across the country from Rhode Island to Portland then having Peace Corps fly us from there to Managua. I liked the symmetry of this plan. Also, it would provide for a month long, good-bye visit with the west coast kids and grandkids. One of our grandsons, Sammy was fifteen and would be getting his license within the year. We figured the family could use an extra car and planned to leave the Corolla with them.

            From Silver Springs we drove south through Virginia following the Shenandoah River just to the west of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Even on the interstate, US-81, even in the dead of winter, this is an amazingly beautiful valley of rolling farmland up against old, soft mountains.

Bed #3 – Knoxville, Tennessee, Tuesday, January 27, 2015

            Some motel on the west side of Knoxville just off the interstate.

            Lunch in Nashville.

            On the third day of the trip that would take me to Nicaragua, while sightseeing in Nashville, I came upon this sign:

            I have paid attention to Nicaragua since the 70’s as one particularly shameful chapter in the long shameful history of the USA’s imperialistic interventions in Central America. Near the beginning of that history there was William Walker (May 8, 1824 – September 12, 1860), an idiotic cartoon of a man. He was dead by thirty-six, executed and buried in Trujillo, Honduras. It’s a wonder he lived that long before somebody took him out. He raised mercenary armies to invade Mexico, Nicaragua, and Honduras. He did this to create new slave holding states to bolster the position of the southern states in the USA. He did it for his own glory and enrichment, and, of course, because he was crazy. He managed to kill thousands and destroy beautiful colonial cities before Central America united and got rid of him. Read Nicaraguan poet, Ernesto Cardenal’s long, beautiful poem “With Walker in Nicaragua.”

(http://www.uhmc.sunysb.edu/surgery/walker.html)

            Walker acted as a renegade mercenary and not as a representative of the US government. However, his out of control egotism and entitlement were not that different than official US actions that would follow for the next 150 years. Certainly, Ronald Reagan seemed to be channeling William Walker.

            Also in Nashville, I got to see The Red Grooms exhibition “The Blue and The Gray” at The Tennessee State Museum. Grooms has been one of my favorite artists since New York in the sixties and seventies. I had no idea he was from Nashville, nor that he had returned to the south. This show consists of fifty wonderfully varied paintings, prints, and multimedia works through which Grooms meditates on the Civil War. I found this show inspiring as an example of politically engaged art that is not didactic. It seemed to me an invitation to think about or rethink a piece of our history. I’d love to do a similar body of work, perhaps about our political history with Latin America.

 

            I think of Peace Corps service as political engagement. When Deb and I were invited to be volunteers we were given the choice to serve in Nicaragua, Peru, or South Africa. In part, I favored Nicaragua because, in some very small way, it feels like paying down a debt. Sending me there on the US dime is at least on the other side of the ledger from all the harm that has been done.

Bed #4 – Memphis, Tennessee, Wednesday, January 28 and Thursday, January 29, 2015

The National Civil Rights Museum in The Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee is a powerful testament that, “The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.” However, it is an even more powerful documentation of all the lives lost, blood wasted, tear shed, bones shattered and hearts broken to keep this country on a moral path. Walking through the exhibitions as a privileged white guy I felt full of sadness, rage, and fear for my soul. The museum documents everything that is wonderfully right about America and everything that is desperately wrong. We have not even come close to dealing with the legacy of slavery and racism in this country. We could have ten more black presidents and still not come close unless we get really serious about truth, reconciliation, and reparation for all that has gone before.

Believe me on this one, you owe it to yourself to visit this museum. http://civilrightsmuseum.org/

The window from wich Martin Luther King was shot

Also in Memphis, great barbeque, great beer, and a cool air B & B in an artist’s loft downtown.

Bed #5 – New Orleans, Louisiana, Friday, January 30 through Monday, February 2, 2015

            As I write this, August 29, 2015 the ten year anniversary of the devastation of New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina has just passed. The New York Times ran an opinion piece by John Biguenet that said,

 “But it didn’t just happen to us. Our disaster was man-made. As the United States Army Corps of Engineers finally admitted nearly a year later, its own negligence and incompetence were responsible for the flooding of the city. Despite that admission, the corps relied on the legal immunity Congress had provided it to evade all financial judgments.

That left us at the mercy of bottom-line insurance companies and the largess of the federal government. Unfortunately, the government in 2005 was led by individuals who objected to the costs of rebuilding an entire city and who seemed intent on writing off New Orleans. Only days after the storm, the Republican speaker of the House, J. Dennis Hastert, summarized the prevailing attitude of his party: “It looks like a lot of that place could be bulldozed.”

            It is amazing to me that anyone who witnessed the incompetence with which the Bush administration dealt with the destruction of a major American city could ever consider putting Republicans back into power.

            I have been to New Orleans four or five times and love it. There is no place like it. One of these days, I’m going to move there for a while, but this time we just met up with Reid, Liz, Birkin, and Tracy for a great four day stay.

            On this trip cross-country, I had a little art project going on. I had some laminated cards with one of my Buddha prints on one side and a Buddha joke and my email on the other. I left them places in the hopes of hearing from people who found them. I had the most fun with this in New Orleans where the Buddhas met the stenciled koi art of Jeremy Novy. http://verticalgallery.com/collections/jeremy-novy

Mercedes found a Buddha on the street car and sent me a selfie.

 

            So, the combination of Memphis and New Orleans begs one of the thorniest questions about joining the Peace Corps: why go to another country when there is so much social justice work that needs doing right here at home? I think the answer is just selfishness, frankly. There is nothing inherently more important about work to be done in the developing world as opposed to work that I could do at home. However, I want the experience of living in a different culture, learning a new language, and waking up everyday to something I’ve never experienced before. I know when I get home I’ll stay engaged as a contributing member of my community. Hopefully, I’ll even up the ante.

Bed #6 – Austin, Texas Tuesday, February 3 and Wednesday, February 4, 2015

            I would like to develop an index for rating cities according to their street art, Mexican food, walking trails, and the residents they attract. Austin would be in the top ten based on all four criteria. After all, Hannah Bronsnick lives there! What more do you need to know.

Bed #7 – Carlsbad, New Mexico, Thursday, February 5, 2015

            There was a lot of road on this road trip. We made some great stops, but we didn’t meander between destinations. There were many days when we were in the car for eight hours, with the only breaks being lunch and dinner and rest areas. We listened to a lot of pod casts: This American Life, The Moth Story Hour, and New Yorker Stories. We roamed the radio dial for NPR and oldies stations. We also read Unbroken by Carolyn Hildebrand aloud to each other. (Many tears were shed.) We looked out the windshield at 2,000 miles of beautiful country.  Coming back, I’d like to do the drive with no deadline for finishing, go on smaller roads, and be more open to diversions.

            On Friday morning we were at the doors of the Visitor Center when Carlsbad Caverns National Park Opened. We had a half hour before we could descend to the caverns. We cruised the gift shop and bought ourselves replacement wedding rings for ten dollars apiece. When we first got married, in 1993, we had bought beautiful braided gold bands. However, in the 22 intervening years they had been lost. Deb left hers in her scrubs at Westerly Hospital after a birth and they were carried away by the laundry service. A gang of machete wielding teenagers robbed me of mine on a beach in Guatemala. (Now that is a good story!) We both had replacements we wore, but we kept talking about getting some we really liked. The ones from the Carlsbad Caverns gift shop are plain stainless steel bands with a simple pattern cut in them. As I write this I’ve had the ring on my finger for seven months. It is my wedding ring, at least until a good story comes along to take it away from me. One of the reasons I’m doing Peace Corps again is because I get to do it with my wife. I am such a fortunate guy to be closing out my life with this woman.

            We were the first ones on the elevator going down into the caverns. We rode down with the park ranger who turned on the lights for us. We wandered along the self-guided trail for half an hour before anyone else showed up. We both took a ton of photos, none of which came close to what was before our eyes.

Bed #8 – Albuquerque, New Mexico, Friday, February 6 and Saturday, February 7, 2015

            If I wasn’t a New Englander, I bet I’d live in the Southwest. It is actually the landscape that resonates with me the most of any I’ve passed through. On the drive across New Mexico, I think, for maybe the twentieth time, I could live here. I feel at home. I could live here and paint the landscape. After I got over trying to be Georgia O’Keefe, I could come up with something good.

            I’d probably live in Albuquerque, too, because it feels like a real place. It is a good art town as well.

Bed #9 – Needles, California, Sunday, February 8, 2015

            The only reason to go through Needles, California is to get somewhere else. However to drive most of the length of California up through the central valley is a great treat.

Bed #10 – Berkley, California, Monday, February 9 and Tuesday, February 10, 2015

            We had a good time in Berkley and hung out with some great friends and family. However, having hit the Pacific, it felt to me like the trip had come to an end. I was ready to get up to Portland and spend time with the kids and grandkids.

Me and Mike Cellemme in Berkley

Bed #11 – Crescent City, California, Wednesday, February 11, 2015

            We stayed at a motel on the beach and took a walk along the shore to watch the moon rise. We listened to the waves all night long.

Bed #12 – Portland, Oregon, Thursday, February 12, through Sunday, February 22, 2015

Bed #13 – Sandy, Oregon, One of the nights between the 12^th and the 22^nd of February

Bed #14 – Orcus Island, Washington, Monday, February 23 through Thursday, February 26, 2015

Back to Bed #12 – Portland, Oregon, Saturday, February 27 through Monday, March 2, 2015            

My family is bi-coastal. I have a daughter, three step kids, and seven grandchildren in New England. Deb’s three kids have all settled in the Pacific Northwest and between them there are five more grandkids. So I go to Portland an Sandy, Oregon and Orcus Island in Washington at least once a year and usually two or three times. It is familiar territory, I know my way around, and I like it a lot.

            In terms of explaining why I am doing Peace Corps again, the hardest thing to reconcile is why I am willing to step away from the family for an extended period. Of course I’ll see them during the two years and I’ll have as much electronic contact as I can manage, but in fact I am choosing to sharply reduce my presence in their lives and theirs in mine. I feel sad and conflicted about this. (As I write this six months in, I miss all of them a lot.) I think I am willing to take this leave of absence as a grandfather because all of my grandkids have wonderful parents who take very good care of them. My grandkids love me and have a good time with me, but they are fine without me. I also hope that I am setting them a good example. Being a role model of how to be adventuresome, how to get out there in the world, and how to keep living into old age. I’m betting that they will remember this about me just as they will remember the fun that we have when we are together.

            We spent three weeks with Deb’s kids and their families. It was all lovely. In some ways it made it easier to go. In some ways it made it harder.

Me and baby James on Orcus Island

            Tuesday morning, March 3^rd, we got on the airplane and flew to Miami for “staging”, which is Peace Corps talk for doing all the final things that need to be done to leave the country for two years.

Bed # 15 – Miami, Florida, Tuesday, March 3 and Wednesday, March 4, 2015

            When you’re in Miami, you’re already in Latin America, but Latin America run on the American dollar and lots of them. A good jumping off place.

            On Thursday, March 5 we flew to Managua, Nicaragua.

 

Peace Corps Goal #3 and a trip to Matagalpa

 

Peace Corps has three goals. Officially stated they are:

• To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women
• To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served
• To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans

            (I wish they would go ahead and add a fourth goal, since, although unstated, it is clearly a primary reason for the existence of Peace Corps: Provide a group of adventuresome, wonderful, young US citizens with the financial and logistical support to live in a developing country for two years in order to mature, become bilingual, deepen their understanding of poverty in the world and the intricacies of international development, build a resume, and generally prepare themselves for leadership.

            I can even fantasize about a fifth goal that I’d like to see publicly stated: Provide older Americans, in retirement or other periods of transition, with the opportunity to apply their skills and life experiences to international development projects and enhance their understanding of the political, economic, and cultural impact of The United States in the rest of the world. Sometime soon I’ll write more about being an older volunteer.)

In terms of goal number one, I’m a productive volunteer. I know during my two years here I will be busy and I’ll develop some worthwhile projects. I don’t anticipate that big changes will occur because I lived and worked in Chinandega for two years, but I do think I’ll have a positive impact. However, that being said, I got to admit that the biggest part of my energy and excitement are for goals two and three. For me, goal two - to help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served - involves being a member of the community and a good neighbor. I take very seriously, being a next-door ambassador and letting people see first hand what people from the US are like.

However, for what I’m writing here, I want to focus on goal number 3 - To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans - which was very much on my mind during a recent trip to the city of Matagalpa.

 I went to Matagalpa by myself and Deb stayed home in Chinandega. A group of volunteers had organized a girl’s soccer camp during which they were presenting information on sexual health including HIV/AIDS awarness. They organized their presentation around a narrative that ran through all five days of the camp. I had done a set of illustrations for the narrative and I got invited to come for a day and observe the Camp. It was wonderful!

Then I wandered around Matagalpa for a day and a half on my own. Whenever I am away from Deb and having a good time, I think, “Boy, I can’t wait to tell Deb about this” or “I got to come back here with Deb.” This time, in addition to planning how I’d share the experience with Deb, I found myself thinking, “I got to blog about this! I got to share this with people back in the States!” In general, my experience of being in Nicaragua is being so rich and thought provoking that I am very motivated to let you in on as much of it as I can. That’s goal number three!

Therefore, here are some impressions of and stories about Matagalpa.

I had been thinking about visiting Matagalpa for a long time. Back in the summer of 2014, not long after Deb and I learned we had been accepted to go to Nicaragua, we visited our friends Ted Bronsnick and Cathy Currier in Ithaca, New York. Cathy’s mother, Connie lives next door and we were telling her about our plans. She said, “Oh my second floor tenant, Bobby, was in the Peace Corps in Nicaragua.” So we banged on Bobby Frisch’s door and got him to sit on Cathy and Ted’s porch with us and tell stories about his experiences. He was a business volunteer in Matagalpa. I’m not sure of the dates, but I think about six years ago. One of his projects was to be the business manager for a local band in which he also played drums. He was so successful at promoting them that he landed a gig in Germany. In Germany everyone was impressed with what good English the drummer in the band from Nicaragua spoke. Bobby liked his time in Matagalpa well enough to stay on after he finished his Peace Corps service and open a backpackers hostel called La Buena Onda. (http://www.labuenaonda.com.ni/) Of course this is where I stayed. It is a favorite with Peace Corps volunteers, although there has been a recent falling out because drunken volunteers caused problems with the neighbors. Also, current volunteers don’t know the history. I told a few that La Buena Onda had been founded by a volunteer and they said, “No, some Dutch guy runs that place.” True enough, but there is more to the story.

Since Peace Corps Bobby has started a glamping company. Check out: http://www.firelightcamps.com/#an-elevated-camping-experience and schedule a trip to Ithaca!

After awhile Bobby’s wife Emma came and joined us on the porch. Connie said, “Emma, tell them about your television show!” Emma Frisch (http://www.emmafrisch.com/) is a food blogger who had just been a contestant on Food Network Stars. The season had been filmed, but Emma was sworn to secrecy about the out come. Deb and I went home and got totally hooked. Watched every episode!

By telling you about Bobby and Emma Frisch I don’t mean to suggest that being a Peace Corps volunteer assures you an interesting life, but if you draw that conclusion I won’t dissuade you. 

Bobby and Emma in Nicaragua.

Whereas Chinandega has a reputation for the harshest climate in Nicaragua, Matagalpa is said to have the best. It is in the mountains, with warm, spring-like days and some nights that even require a sweater. It was rainy while I was there, but the change in temperature was dramatic and a relief. Matagalpa also has a touristy feel. There are more foreigners around. You hear other languages being spoken; German, French, British-English, and Australian-English. There are businesses that cater to visitors; coffee shops, adventure tour companies, hostels, hotels, and schools teaching Spanish. Bulletin boards announce opportunities to volunteer and eco-tourism projects. Matagalpa is coffee growing country and there are high end and low cost ways to be guests on coffee plantations.

Like many Cities in Nicaragua, the center of Matagalpa is laid out on an axis between two churches. At one end are the Central Park and the Cathedral of San Pedro. Eight blocks west are Parque Dario and the Temple of San Jose. This square is smaller and quieter than the main park and cathedral and completely charming. 

I love the experience of unexpectedly coming upon a piece of artwork that grabs me. It can happen in a gallery or museum or by seeing an image sprayed on a wall. In Matagalpa it was the carved and painted doors of Temple San Jose. Mary is on the left hand door and Joseph and Jesus are on the right. These are wonderful images. They are such specific and real people. Despite their trappings of divinity, you feel like you know them. Joe is the guy who built your deck last year. Jesus is the kid who sometimes came to work with him and shot baskets in the driveway. Mary is his slightly loopy, born again wife who once came by in shorts and a halter-top to drop off some excellent zucchini bread. I don’t know if Saint Joseph is the patron saint of stepfathers or not, but he should be. One look at him and the kid he is helping to raise and you know the boy’s paternity means nothing to him. Jesus is just a kid who needs somebody bigger and stronger to take care of him, somebody to lay a comforting hand on his head, some encouragement, some teaching, and love. Joseph is on the job. Jesus may be headed for bigger things, but all that is twenty years in the future and right now he is just a kid. This is the story the carvings tell.

O.K. One more thing about Matagalpa, on the other side of the park from the church is, perhaps, the best ice cream shop in the world, at least it is in the running. Beseme, La Vida Mas Dulce (https://www.facebook.com/besameporfa). I had Tres Leches ice cream.