Hello friends.
A brief introductory note: This blog posting was meant to be posted on Sunday but the power went out for the latter part of the day. Much has happened since. I met a vibrant 80-something year old who wanted me to stay in his house while he took my flight back to Canada (so if my airport greeting party (there better be a party) sees a crazy 80-year old spouting off Spanish jokes wearing my backpack... then I have taken him up on his offer. Don't worry, though, he said that he would teach you all Spanish), I tried unsuccessfully to photograph a frog feeding, I fell in love with the world's stupidest insect, and I witnessed the scariest cliff-diving demonstration that I believe that I will ever see. More on all of that later, though, because it is on to Sunday's blog posting. Doo doo doo doo doo doo (that's the "going back in time" music from the movies)...
As a part of my project, I have spent the majority of the last week in a couple of rural communities. This has been an incredible experience and I have met some really wonderful people and families. I could get sappier but I don’t imagine that that is why you read these things. For that purpose, leaving Estelí has given me a completely new set of experiences that I will dutifully share below. This is only a tease, however, as not only do I have two more communities to visit, but I’m running dangerously low on time devotable to blogging because of a rainstorm that washed out the road into and out of the last community that I visited (meaning that I had to stay a little longer than expected). But more on that later. Enjoy!
In every community that I am visiting, I am facilitating a workshop and then spending the night with a family in the community. I should clarify, however, that the term “community” has seemingly no relation to geographical proximity in these areas. In the first community, for example, the workshop went really well but people kept joking throughout the morning about how far I was going to have to walk to get to the place that I was staying. They would point to the top of a far away hill and say “bye Vicente, see you tomorrow!” I chuckled, thinking that this was like people in Canmore who point to the top of a mountain and say “Oh, we live way up there”, when in fact they live about five minutes up said mountain. After the workshop, though, as we walked and walked and walked straight uphill for what seemed like hours, I realized that perhaps I should not have chuckled. Perhaps I should have saved every ounce of energy that I had for the hike. When we finally arrived at the house, we were, in fact, frighteningly close to the top of the hill and, although the view was beautiful, I could barely breathe. I had sweat coming out of places that had never sweat before. I couldn’t congratulate myself for making it though, because my exhaustion made me a sissy, not a hero, because: (1) the kids in this family have to do this hike every day to go to school and (2) as soon as we arrived, with me passed out on a chair, craving a puffer or something, one of the schoolkids grabbed a shovel and started working. Incredible. Perhaps as a testament to my atrophying muscles and my poor physical form, my legs were aching for four days following the hike up and down.
The hike was made a little bit more exciting because we were quite literally racing the rain. I am pleased to announce that we won by about 3 minutes. The hike down was also exciting (read: terrifying) because I ended up doing it completely myself. I was going to go down with the school kids (who likely would have laughed at my sweat and exhaustion), but apparently I took too long saying goodbye because they had already left. The people on top of the hill made it sound like they left seconds ago and that a brief jog would easily close the gap. Not thinking about what might happen if I didn’t find the kids, I set off jogging down the hill. Either the kids walked way faster than I could jog, hid in the bush and laughed as I jogged by, or took a shortcut because I never saw the kids. Do you know what can be scary? Going down a mountain road in the hills of Northern Nicaragua by yourself. Why is this scary? Because (1) I didn’t pay much attention to the road on the way up, (2) the sweat burning my eyes made me scared of blindness, (3) there are so many hills that you can’t really see your final destination, (4) on an earlier walk, I was so disoriented that when I pointed to a house and said “oh, is that where you live, you know, to orient myself?”, my guides laughed and answered that they live in the complete opposite direction (i.e. my orienteering confidence was pretty low), and (5) I don’t watch enough Survivorman to know what to do should I really get lost. Don’t worry, though, because I made it!
Hey, fun Nicaraguan fact: Did you know that cats here only have 7 lives. I don’t know what happened to the other two. It’s too bad, too, because they could really use the extras given the abuse that small children (and grown adults) put them through.
As (another) aside, I don’t know if I have mentioned that the rains have started. Almost every night, and sometimes during the day, it rains with a vengeance (both in Estelí and in the communities that I visited). The rains here have a way of ruining conversations, because the sound of even a light rain on a tin roof is pretty loud and the sound of a sizable downpour is deafening. This really puts a damper on conversing. I must confess, though, that sometimes that break is well-appreciated on my part because the days that I spend surrounded entirely by Spanish (i.e. working in Spanish, talking in Spanish, listening in Spanish, etc.) are absolutely exhausting. Not sweating-exhausting like the hike, but I have no doubt that if my brain could sweat, my “all Spanish” days would take on a disgusting new dimension. As it stands, however, they just tire me out beyond belief, which is why at times I consider the rain to be a welcome excuse.
Where the rain is not welcome is when it wipes out roads. My planned one night stay in the community was extended because of the rains that made the road into and out of the town impassable. So impassable, in fact, that one of the residents of the house that I was staying in was on her way back from the big town at the bottom of the hill when the bus she was in got stuck. In the pitch dark, without a flashlight, she ended up walking all the way up the muddy hill in the rain (an endeavour that took her anywhere between 4 and 5 hours) to finally arrive unexpectedly at 10:30 at night. I didn’t ask why she didn’t turn around and walk the one hour back to the big town. I imagine she had a good reason.
When I was driving up to the community, I already had a feeling that this might happen because even without big rains, we had four river-esque crossings to negotiate. Unfortunately, someone (the government? Contractors?) has a tendency of leaving rural road projects abandoned at various stages – some have barely begun, others look near completion – and it is these areas that end up flooding or getting washed out. When the projects are not abandoned, they park huge trucks in the middle of the road, blocking the passage of cars on their way to various communities (but that is a rant for a different day).
Getting information in a community without cell phone coverage (and, for at least 24 hours, no power) is quite an adventure as well. Everyone had a different idea about whether the bus would arrive or not. One person was sure that the buses wouldn’t come until Monday, another said that the community was completely cut off and would remain so indefinitely, and yet another said that he had seen several buses rumble by already. I also have no idea where the information comes from. Someone can leave the house for three seconds to go dump out some water, not talk to anyone in sight, and return with a wealth of new information on the bus schedule.
The main source of information, the radio, (which unfortunately didn’t work when the power went out and stayed out) is also something that I have come to love in Estelí and Nicaragua. My favourite radio features are:
- The constant, never-ending reminders of what time it is. Before and after every single news story, halfway through songs, between commercials, and at several other intervals, the DJ happily announces what time it is. He or she often does so in a few ways in a single sentence, which in English would amount to: “It is three forty-five PM, quarter to four in the afternoon, three o’clock and forty-five minutes, fifteen minutes until we reach four o’clock of the PM”. That this method of sharing the time takes a full minute itself is of no concern.
- The huge number of birthday wishes (interrupted by time reminders, of course) that occur several times an hour. It almost seems as though every man, woman, and child in the country with a birthday that day is mentioned. If you have never before heard a birthday segment go on for 7 minutes, you don’t know what you are missing. It’s incredible.
- Interrupting songs to promote the radio station. At any point during any song, the DJ may throw on the “You’re listening to Radio ABC, the radio station that loves you most” recording. Ideally, this occurs during an instrumental section, but there really are no guarantees.
In terms of music in general, Nicaraguans are very, very musical. This is one of several characteristics wherein they and I differ a great deal. I consider music to be background noise. I enjoy having it on but don’t ever pay attention to it. As such, I don’t know many song lyrics, song titles, artists, or really any information about songs or music in general. Here, however, seemingly every single person knows the words to every single song. Whether this is a neighbour belting out “Si Yo Era Chico” at the wee hours of the morning or the bus driver and his attendants belting out some song about tears (lagrimas) while careening down a muddy slope, the love of music runs deep. It seems to defy most stereotypical musical categories, too, because young women sing along to ranchero songs while big, buff men are more than happy to sing along to sappy Enrique Iglesias-esque pop tunes.
In both communities that I have stayed in, I have stayed amongst a plethora of chickens, chicks, roosters, dogs, cats, and a pig or two. My favourite are the chickens. Particularly the catching of chickens. The speed and agility required to catch a chicken is something that I do not possess. It is also something that a few old gentlemen and ladies don’t possess (if you’ve never a four-foot something women chase a chicken, you haven’t lived.). The successful chicken catchers can catch, transfer, and release a chicken with the single swoop of a hand (e.g. from the living room into the chicken room). Also, if you have never seen a chicken with its legs tied together try to escape from under a basket, it is a sight to behold. He made it quite some ways, but was then transferred to a spot under a large pan. And then into the large pan. With veggies and herbs. A very natural progression. Also, if you are wondering why Nicaraguans are so good at baseball, it may be because the rural kids catch chickens by throwing rocks at them first. An exercise that would take me about four days takes them just a few throws and a few minutes.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
¡¡I'm back!!
I know that I have used the “I’ve been crazy busy” and “I was out of the country” excuses before so I won’t bother repeating them here. Let us instead rejoice that a new blog posting has finally been, um, posted. I will be in and out of Estelí, Internet connectivity, time, and project stuff over the next two weeks so this particular entry may have to hold you over for a while. I can’t promise that it will be good but I will do my darnedest. I should also say that I have no idea what I have and have not written about already so this might be repetition. Think of it as a way to fact-check (or triangulate, as we researcher types might say) what I’ve said before. I hope that I am consistent. I doubt that I am.
In the most pressing of news, I may or may not have been given a strange nickname by one of the staff members in the organization that I am working with. You see, my name has caused a great deal of confusion here. This is as a result of a few things. First, I got caught up in the previously described habit of Spanishizing my name at the Spanish School. Thus, Vince became Vicente. This was fine because at no point did I submit or share any type of written work with my name on it so I was always Vicente. When I started my work with the organization, however, things got weird. I was writing my name on attendance sheets (alternating between Vincent and Vicente), introducing myself as Vicente (as I had become accustomed to doing), and responding to everything (from Vicente Fernandez [a famous ranchero singer] to Beenson). While Beenson may seem to be quite a ways from Vincent, I should explain that the “b” and “v” in Spanish are essentially interchangeable, to the point that very academic documents have spelling mistakes with “b”s substituted for “v”s and bice bersa. The sound of both is closer to our “b” than our “v”. There’s your Spanish lesson for the day. Back to the nickname, all of this labelling nonsense came to a head this week, when someone demanded to know what my name was: Vicente or Vincent (pronounced Beenson). After being berated (that’s an exaggeration) about names being universal and immutable, I confessed that yes, my name is Vincent, which I, too, pronounced Beenson. I then created even more confusion by saying that actually I shorten it to go by Vince. This was repeated back to me as “Beans” and hence, I may or may not have become “Frijole” (the Spanish word for beans). That was a really long story with a largely unsatisfying ending. I apologize, my dear reader.
Do you know what name is nowhere near Vicente, Beans, Vincent, or Beenson? Santiago. Apparently someone had gone the last three months thinking that my name was Santiago. I don’t have a clue how she got to that and really don’t even have a humorous hypothesis to share with you. I can’t help but think, however, that my Spanish would be much, much better if I was a Santiago.
My trip back home to Canada was wonderful and very much needed, thank you for asking. I enjoyed excellent company that I had missed dearly, delicious Hilde cake (ditto on the missing), a big blanket (ditto), Killer Bunnies (ditto), and an airplane de-icing (not so much, but I do like the winter, I won’t lie), amongst other great things. I would be lying if I said that I was not overwhelmed at times (Market Mall can be a scary place after several months away), but it was no coffee conference, I can tell you that. Oh, Atlanta, how I don’t miss you. I also still hate you, CNN, in case you were wondering.
One thing that was noticeably absent in Canada, other than public displays of affection, announcement cars, heat exhaustion, and all of the things I normally write about was mangos. I have reason to believe that I have told you about our backyard mango trees (since most of what I write is intended to inspire jealousy), and I am incredibly, incredibly pleased to report that they have started to bear fruit. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, mango trees bear way more fruit than two people can handle so I have had to adopt a mostly mango diet to avoid waste. This diet includes mango juice, mango chunks on pancakes, mango jam, “cusnaca” (a mango yogurt/smoothie type concoction), mango chunks without pancakes, as well as a variety of mango and other fruit combinations. There is also an exercise component to this diet which includes gathering mountains of mangos every morning and evening, dodging mangos as they fall from above, carrying sacks of mangos to the neighbours, and jumping in fright when the mangos slam onto the tin roof. I feel myself getting stronger already…
The mango surplus and subsequent need for recipe inventiveness have combined very well with the aforementioned (in an earlier blog) Doña Carmen Challenge. I don’t think that I explained this challenge. It goes a little like this: (1) put any combination of any food and/or non-food item on the counter, (2) challenge the wonderful Doña Carmen to make something with it, (3) watch her knowingly grin that she is unbeatable, and (4) enjoy the ensuing deliciousness. This has thus far happened with a root that someone gave to Amy (a wonderful soup resulted), a bag of je-ne-sais-quoi (ooo, français!) that turned into juice, and orange peels that somehow became jam. One day, I will challenge her with stale bread, old batteries, and three jelly beans and am sure that some sort of pasta sauce will emerge. The woman is unbeatable and she knows it. The unfortunate flip side for her is that she becomes insanely bored when our fridge only has “the regulars” in it. Those would be the same regulars that I mistakenly labelled as vegetables earlier.
I also know that some among you (and/or a certain hermano of mine) are considering the purchase of a motorcycle. While you may think that this limits your ability to transport large items like a bag of hockey equipment, building supplies, or other things, let me assure you that it does not need to be that way. The things that people here carry on their motorcycles, often in addition to two or three family members and/or friends, are stunning in both their diversity and size. Have you ever ridden your motorcycle to Totem Building Centre only to lament the fact that you will be unable to buy the 16 foot length of rebar you suddenly realized that you needed? Don’t despair, because all you really need is a shoulder to throw it on and away you can ride. It doesn’t really matter that the back part of the rebar is scrapping, does it? Are you doing your weekly groceries? Ditch the car and take your motorcycle- there’s no limit to the number of bags you can carry. My favourite motorcycle cargo, however, was an inflatable kiddie pool (something that on numerous occasions I have thought of purchasing). Normally, one wouldn’t even notice if you were biking with this kind of pool. In fact, it could easily fit in a backpack. Unless it is inflated. That’s right, apparently this motorcyclist was craving a dip in the pool so much that he didn’t have time to open the valve and just brought it home completely inflated. It, like the rebar, was scraping on the ground and I can only imagine that the pool did not last long once it got home. All of these feats, it should be noted, also apply to bicycles, so if you’re not in the market for motors, there is always that option. I, for one, plan on moving from Calgary to Victoria using only my bicycle and one willing friend to ride the crossbar and hold some things.
On the same topic of transportation, my understanding of driving and traffic laws in Nicaragua has become even more confused. Consider the following situation: one truck, two seatbelts (none in the back, remember), 10 people, 50 kilometers, police check stop 100 meters from the starting point. How does one get all 10 people back to Estelí in one trip, passing the police checkpoint without incident? It takes a keen awareness of the traffic laws, it would seem. Here’s what I thought, put a couple of people up front, a few extras in the back, and the two or so left over could sit strategically in the box of the truck, waving at the police as they noticed too late that there were passengers in the box. Here is what we did instead. Put the driver and one passenger in the front, put three people in the back, and cram all of the bags, materials, and five remaining passengers in the fully open and visible box. I was sceptical, but we roared by the police and it was through to Estelí. When I asked my fellow box passengers why there were only three people in the back, they answered that apparently the law says that you can’t have more passengers than (theoretical) seatbelts. The law says nothing, apparently, about the people in the box of the truck (also known as “the majority of the population”). This kinds of smacks of the motorcyclist getting reprimanded for not wearing a helmet instead of being talked to about the four non-helmeted passengers and dozen grocery bags he was riding with. It should be noted, much to mother’s disapproval, that I was one of the passengers in the box. I was also terribly seated with my back against the flap (is that the right word? Where the box opens out to the back?). This had two consequences. First, I got outrageous gusts of wind right in my face, which I have reason to believe irreparably damaged my hearing. Second, I entered a deep meditative state reflecting on how reliant I was at that moment on whichever factory worker assembled what at that point I hoped was anything but a flimsy “flap handle”. If that swung open, I was a goner. I also, therefore, meditated on how best to protect my head should I be thrown from the truck. I figured that no posture would be protection enough. Luckily, my deep meditation actually put me to sleep. If you have never slept in the box of a truck going 100 km/hr down a winding highway, I highly recommend it as a coping mechanism.
I am safe in Estelí, though, so crisis avoided. No announcement car will be needed to announce my passing. I wonder if they would say Vicente or Beenson? I don’t mean to dwell on death, but while we are on the topic, have I ever shared my “likely ways I will die” list with you? I think that I have mentioned a few, including bus crash, car-on-pedestrian “accident” (although I am quite possibly the best jaywalker in town, if I may say so myself. Bring it on, cars.), dog mauling, and others, I would like to add mango to the head, bladder overfilling, and heart disease to the list. The latter is only there because of statistical probability. Also, I hope they say Beenson. I’d also like to see them try Terstappen. That has yet to happen.
I visited a photo printing center today and was thrilled to find not only the greatest, most impatient (a wonderful quality for instant prints, by the way) photo printing lady ever (whose answer to every glitch seemed to be to physically assault the machine harder and harder) but also perhaps the cherry on top of the “surplus crap that gets shipped to Estelí” sundae. Here I was, wasting some time perusing picture frames when what should I see but a frame etched with the words “Jackson Hole Wyoming”. I have never been to Wyoming. In fact, to be honest, I don’t ever plan on going to Wyoming. I’m sure that if I were to go to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I would buy a commemorative frame. I would not, however, buy that frame in Nicaragua. Why in god’s name would someone load that into a shipping container to bring over here? It boggles the mind.
Before I sign off, I feel as though I should also tell you about a popular pose that I don’t think I have shared yet. I will call this pose the watcher. As a quick background note, almost every doorway on the houses in the central part of Estelí have a metal gate right in front of the door. Our house is no different. This is actually quite nice because you can throw a lock on the gate, leave the door wide open, and have a breeze blow through the house. For residents of Estelí, however, it is also nice because it lets you pose. “The watcher”, normally appearing in the early evening, involves either a shirtless man or an older lady standing inside their houses, leaning heavily on the gate and watching the world go by. If you are a particularly old lady you have earned the right to forego the leaning and you may instead pull your wicker rocking chair directly to the gate. “The watcher”, maybe better described as a “glarer”, is completely immobile, doesn’t make a sound, and tends not to be noticed until you have wandered awkwardly close to their door. As creepy as the watcher may be, I can relate wholeheartedly. When I was in Saskatoon, there were times where I would stand at the window for a solid ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Other times, I would look out of the peephole for a few minutes for absolutely no reason. On a few rare occasions, I would move from watcher to listener and push my intercom button just to see if there was a conversation going on in the entrance of the building. Creepy, yes. Undoubtedly, in fact. Kind of embarrassing, too. But now, fate has brought me closer to my fellow watchers. Look out world.
And now, here’s a parting joke: How do you know that a Latin American is amongst the 8 people staying in your hostel dorm room at a coffee conference in Atlanta? There’s dirty toilet paper in the garbage can next to the toilet! Ha! Also, if you substitute “Latin American” for “Vince”, “8” with “4”, and “hostel dorm room at a coffee conference in Atlanta” with “3-bedroom basement suite in Victoria”, the same answer reveals an unfortunate habit that took me a day or two to shake in Canada. Sorry ladies.
Bye for now friends!
In the most pressing of news, I may or may not have been given a strange nickname by one of the staff members in the organization that I am working with. You see, my name has caused a great deal of confusion here. This is as a result of a few things. First, I got caught up in the previously described habit of Spanishizing my name at the Spanish School. Thus, Vince became Vicente. This was fine because at no point did I submit or share any type of written work with my name on it so I was always Vicente. When I started my work with the organization, however, things got weird. I was writing my name on attendance sheets (alternating between Vincent and Vicente), introducing myself as Vicente (as I had become accustomed to doing), and responding to everything (from Vicente Fernandez [a famous ranchero singer] to Beenson). While Beenson may seem to be quite a ways from Vincent, I should explain that the “b” and “v” in Spanish are essentially interchangeable, to the point that very academic documents have spelling mistakes with “b”s substituted for “v”s and bice bersa. The sound of both is closer to our “b” than our “v”. There’s your Spanish lesson for the day. Back to the nickname, all of this labelling nonsense came to a head this week, when someone demanded to know what my name was: Vicente or Vincent (pronounced Beenson). After being berated (that’s an exaggeration) about names being universal and immutable, I confessed that yes, my name is Vincent, which I, too, pronounced Beenson. I then created even more confusion by saying that actually I shorten it to go by Vince. This was repeated back to me as “Beans” and hence, I may or may not have become “Frijole” (the Spanish word for beans). That was a really long story with a largely unsatisfying ending. I apologize, my dear reader.
Do you know what name is nowhere near Vicente, Beans, Vincent, or Beenson? Santiago. Apparently someone had gone the last three months thinking that my name was Santiago. I don’t have a clue how she got to that and really don’t even have a humorous hypothesis to share with you. I can’t help but think, however, that my Spanish would be much, much better if I was a Santiago.
My trip back home to Canada was wonderful and very much needed, thank you for asking. I enjoyed excellent company that I had missed dearly, delicious Hilde cake (ditto on the missing), a big blanket (ditto), Killer Bunnies (ditto), and an airplane de-icing (not so much, but I do like the winter, I won’t lie), amongst other great things. I would be lying if I said that I was not overwhelmed at times (Market Mall can be a scary place after several months away), but it was no coffee conference, I can tell you that. Oh, Atlanta, how I don’t miss you. I also still hate you, CNN, in case you were wondering.
One thing that was noticeably absent in Canada, other than public displays of affection, announcement cars, heat exhaustion, and all of the things I normally write about was mangos. I have reason to believe that I have told you about our backyard mango trees (since most of what I write is intended to inspire jealousy), and I am incredibly, incredibly pleased to report that they have started to bear fruit. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, mango trees bear way more fruit than two people can handle so I have had to adopt a mostly mango diet to avoid waste. This diet includes mango juice, mango chunks on pancakes, mango jam, “cusnaca” (a mango yogurt/smoothie type concoction), mango chunks without pancakes, as well as a variety of mango and other fruit combinations. There is also an exercise component to this diet which includes gathering mountains of mangos every morning and evening, dodging mangos as they fall from above, carrying sacks of mangos to the neighbours, and jumping in fright when the mangos slam onto the tin roof. I feel myself getting stronger already…
The mango surplus and subsequent need for recipe inventiveness have combined very well with the aforementioned (in an earlier blog) Doña Carmen Challenge. I don’t think that I explained this challenge. It goes a little like this: (1) put any combination of any food and/or non-food item on the counter, (2) challenge the wonderful Doña Carmen to make something with it, (3) watch her knowingly grin that she is unbeatable, and (4) enjoy the ensuing deliciousness. This has thus far happened with a root that someone gave to Amy (a wonderful soup resulted), a bag of je-ne-sais-quoi (ooo, français!) that turned into juice, and orange peels that somehow became jam. One day, I will challenge her with stale bread, old batteries, and three jelly beans and am sure that some sort of pasta sauce will emerge. The woman is unbeatable and she knows it. The unfortunate flip side for her is that she becomes insanely bored when our fridge only has “the regulars” in it. Those would be the same regulars that I mistakenly labelled as vegetables earlier.
I also know that some among you (and/or a certain hermano of mine) are considering the purchase of a motorcycle. While you may think that this limits your ability to transport large items like a bag of hockey equipment, building supplies, or other things, let me assure you that it does not need to be that way. The things that people here carry on their motorcycles, often in addition to two or three family members and/or friends, are stunning in both their diversity and size. Have you ever ridden your motorcycle to Totem Building Centre only to lament the fact that you will be unable to buy the 16 foot length of rebar you suddenly realized that you needed? Don’t despair, because all you really need is a shoulder to throw it on and away you can ride. It doesn’t really matter that the back part of the rebar is scrapping, does it? Are you doing your weekly groceries? Ditch the car and take your motorcycle- there’s no limit to the number of bags you can carry. My favourite motorcycle cargo, however, was an inflatable kiddie pool (something that on numerous occasions I have thought of purchasing). Normally, one wouldn’t even notice if you were biking with this kind of pool. In fact, it could easily fit in a backpack. Unless it is inflated. That’s right, apparently this motorcyclist was craving a dip in the pool so much that he didn’t have time to open the valve and just brought it home completely inflated. It, like the rebar, was scraping on the ground and I can only imagine that the pool did not last long once it got home. All of these feats, it should be noted, also apply to bicycles, so if you’re not in the market for motors, there is always that option. I, for one, plan on moving from Calgary to Victoria using only my bicycle and one willing friend to ride the crossbar and hold some things.
On the same topic of transportation, my understanding of driving and traffic laws in Nicaragua has become even more confused. Consider the following situation: one truck, two seatbelts (none in the back, remember), 10 people, 50 kilometers, police check stop 100 meters from the starting point. How does one get all 10 people back to Estelí in one trip, passing the police checkpoint without incident? It takes a keen awareness of the traffic laws, it would seem. Here’s what I thought, put a couple of people up front, a few extras in the back, and the two or so left over could sit strategically in the box of the truck, waving at the police as they noticed too late that there were passengers in the box. Here is what we did instead. Put the driver and one passenger in the front, put three people in the back, and cram all of the bags, materials, and five remaining passengers in the fully open and visible box. I was sceptical, but we roared by the police and it was through to Estelí. When I asked my fellow box passengers why there were only three people in the back, they answered that apparently the law says that you can’t have more passengers than (theoretical) seatbelts. The law says nothing, apparently, about the people in the box of the truck (also known as “the majority of the population”). This kinds of smacks of the motorcyclist getting reprimanded for not wearing a helmet instead of being talked to about the four non-helmeted passengers and dozen grocery bags he was riding with. It should be noted, much to mother’s disapproval, that I was one of the passengers in the box. I was also terribly seated with my back against the flap (is that the right word? Where the box opens out to the back?). This had two consequences. First, I got outrageous gusts of wind right in my face, which I have reason to believe irreparably damaged my hearing. Second, I entered a deep meditative state reflecting on how reliant I was at that moment on whichever factory worker assembled what at that point I hoped was anything but a flimsy “flap handle”. If that swung open, I was a goner. I also, therefore, meditated on how best to protect my head should I be thrown from the truck. I figured that no posture would be protection enough. Luckily, my deep meditation actually put me to sleep. If you have never slept in the box of a truck going 100 km/hr down a winding highway, I highly recommend it as a coping mechanism.
I am safe in Estelí, though, so crisis avoided. No announcement car will be needed to announce my passing. I wonder if they would say Vicente or Beenson? I don’t mean to dwell on death, but while we are on the topic, have I ever shared my “likely ways I will die” list with you? I think that I have mentioned a few, including bus crash, car-on-pedestrian “accident” (although I am quite possibly the best jaywalker in town, if I may say so myself. Bring it on, cars.), dog mauling, and others, I would like to add mango to the head, bladder overfilling, and heart disease to the list. The latter is only there because of statistical probability. Also, I hope they say Beenson. I’d also like to see them try Terstappen. That has yet to happen.
I visited a photo printing center today and was thrilled to find not only the greatest, most impatient (a wonderful quality for instant prints, by the way) photo printing lady ever (whose answer to every glitch seemed to be to physically assault the machine harder and harder) but also perhaps the cherry on top of the “surplus crap that gets shipped to Estelí” sundae. Here I was, wasting some time perusing picture frames when what should I see but a frame etched with the words “Jackson Hole Wyoming”. I have never been to Wyoming. In fact, to be honest, I don’t ever plan on going to Wyoming. I’m sure that if I were to go to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I would buy a commemorative frame. I would not, however, buy that frame in Nicaragua. Why in god’s name would someone load that into a shipping container to bring over here? It boggles the mind.
Before I sign off, I feel as though I should also tell you about a popular pose that I don’t think I have shared yet. I will call this pose the watcher. As a quick background note, almost every doorway on the houses in the central part of Estelí have a metal gate right in front of the door. Our house is no different. This is actually quite nice because you can throw a lock on the gate, leave the door wide open, and have a breeze blow through the house. For residents of Estelí, however, it is also nice because it lets you pose. “The watcher”, normally appearing in the early evening, involves either a shirtless man or an older lady standing inside their houses, leaning heavily on the gate and watching the world go by. If you are a particularly old lady you have earned the right to forego the leaning and you may instead pull your wicker rocking chair directly to the gate. “The watcher”, maybe better described as a “glarer”, is completely immobile, doesn’t make a sound, and tends not to be noticed until you have wandered awkwardly close to their door. As creepy as the watcher may be, I can relate wholeheartedly. When I was in Saskatoon, there were times where I would stand at the window for a solid ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Other times, I would look out of the peephole for a few minutes for absolutely no reason. On a few rare occasions, I would move from watcher to listener and push my intercom button just to see if there was a conversation going on in the entrance of the building. Creepy, yes. Undoubtedly, in fact. Kind of embarrassing, too. But now, fate has brought me closer to my fellow watchers. Look out world.
And now, here’s a parting joke: How do you know that a Latin American is amongst the 8 people staying in your hostel dorm room at a coffee conference in Atlanta? There’s dirty toilet paper in the garbage can next to the toilet! Ha! Also, if you substitute “Latin American” for “Vince”, “8” with “4”, and “hostel dorm room at a coffee conference in Atlanta” with “3-bedroom basement suite in Victoria”, the same answer reveals an unfortunate habit that took me a day or two to shake in Canada. Sorry ladies.
Bye for now friends!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Swine flu and PDAs too! That was a terrible rhyme.
Hello all. I have many stories to tell and no time for absurd explanations about why I couldn't post earlier and/or more. This will likely go on for pages and pages, though, so maybe the best explanation I can offer is that I have chosen quantity (of words in a single blog) over quantity (of actual blog postings).
First, as a few of you may know, I am making a trip up to Calgary for a little over a week. In fact, I am typing this very posting in the airport in Managua. It's a wonderful airport (it reminds me a lot of the Saskatoon airport) but it does get a little bit ominous when a third of the people around you are wearing masks. That's right, the swine flu panic has struck! Every day the TV news has a scary montage with excessive fire and red tint along with the heading "deadly flu". I know that it is a serious situation, but the panic is a little excessive (although the president here more or less declared that there was absolutely nothing Nicaragua could do to treat the flu if it takes hold here. Only 3,500 treatments are currently available in the whole country). My favourite news headline, however, was the one about the governments of Brazil and Peru (I think) asking that the name be changed from swine flu to Mexican flu so as to not adversely affect their pig industry. There's nothing like finger-pointing during a pandemic.
There's also nothing like irrational questions during a pandemic. I was standing in the check-in line at the airport when out of nowhere, a lady came up to me and said "are you leaving because of swine flu?". It was actually weirder than happening out of nowhere, because I saw her approaching from about 100 meters away. It was as though she spotted me from afar and then walked some distance with the express purpose of asking me that question. I did a quick assessment of the situation and came up with the following two responses:
-1) Look at her very confusedly and ask why, if I was trying to escape swine flu, I would leave a country with no confirmed cases and only a few suspected cases, travel through three airports in 24 hours, and end up in a country with several confirmed cases (while passing through another country with even more cases). I would continue and point out that although my understanding of pandemic influenza is limited to browsing the WHO website, I kind of think that if "escaping the flu" was my objective, I would be much, much better off staying in my isolated home in Esteli where I don't really get out much (more on this later, by the way) and have a bottle of Purel.
or
-2) Pretend I don't speak English and not dignify her question with any sort of response.
I chose the latter.
In an unrelated airport story, the song mix at the Managua airport is incredible. I've been given the chance to listen to my hero Avril, catchy pop, some song that keeps repeating the very relevant "I'm going home" (I have reason to believe, given the frequency of its repetition, that the song is in fact called "Going Home" or "I'm Going Home"). I also get to listen to the catchiest, corniest, poppiest Spanish song ever. I don't know what it's called but it repeats "Esperar" over and over so I'm going to go ahead and guess that the title is just that.
Enough airport and swine flu stories, though, because Esteli is as much of a crazy occurrence hub as ever (also, that lady just walked by me and I feel as though I should write about things that are not about her in case she is the "read over your shoulder" type.
The first observation that I would like to share is about the bluntness of Nicaraguans. There is absolutely no need to try to guess what people are thinking because they will go ahead and tell you. For example, the three housemates were having dinner with an Esteliano friend some time ago when the topic of conversation turned to the Spanish language. Instead of talking about how Spanish is easier to learn than English or about the differences between the two languages, she goes ahead and says "I think that Vince's Spanish is better than Amy's". How does one respond to such a statement which in this case was doubly strange because not only was it blunt, it was incorrect. Amy's Spanish has saved me on numerous occasions. The comparison between Amy's Spanish and my Spanish is like street smarts and book smarts. Amy has the former, and knows what to yell at men that hiss at her (e.g., "you should be ashamed you dirty old man, I could be your daughter, fuck off and go to hell" (the latter point being much more of an insult here in a very religious culture)). My Spanish, however, sits in the latter. If a man hissed at me, which has yet to happen mind you, my response would be more like "the Spanish word for cucumber is pepino. Pepino."
Back to bluntness. I was out at a bar (again, I know!) with the organization that I am working with and out of the blue, one of them says "you don't get out a lot, do you?" This was really, really weird because: 1) she was right, 2) this came out of nowhere. It's not as if I said something socially awkward, danced strangely, committed a taboo, etc. that might have tipped her off, and 3) these are things that people normally think or whisper behind my back and not things that people share. It hurt. Also at that bar, I had a horrible cheese experience (which was the first in a long, long time because I have been very, very vigilant). The group ordered a platter of appetizers and I picked up what in the darkness of the bar looked like a fry. I took a big bite and almost gagged because this fry was actually a death sentence: cheese cut into fry shape. I very subtly spat it into my napkin and even more subtly threw the remaining cheese fry portion across the room. You might be thinking, Vince, didn't the texture, subtle mushiness, and droopiness of the cheese fry tip you off. You have obviously never eaten a fry here. The words greasy, droopy, soggy, cold, and mushy don't really even do them justice.
As if to prove to you and everyone in the Internet world that I do get out, let me share you a story from a restaurant. Actually many restaurants. This is about waiter's tendencies here. They hover. All of them. It is incredibly strange. They bring you menus and then stand literally three feet away from the table staring at you. It is very hard to select a meal under pressure. Then, a few minutes into your meal, the waiter will return to his or her (waitress in that case, I suppose) spot three feet from you and stare at you until you finish your plate. This is not just one waiter or one restaurant, either. This happens nearly every place you go to eat. I don't really know the rationale behind it. I suppose it results in prompt service, but it's downright weird.
Switching topics, my Yahtzee high score is now at 506 (woo!) and my videos are not postable for whatever reason. I think that Ted Turner may have caught wind of my undercover video plan and, given his control of the universe, has shut down my ability to post videos on the Internet. I don't know what his problem is with coconuts, though, because I can't post those videos either. Maybe one fell on his head one day (there are, I am told, quite a few people that die this way in tropical countries every year).
While swine flu may be spreading, there is already a different epidemic in Esteli that I have not yet shared with you. That is the epidemic known as PDA (public displays of affection). The on-street, in-public groping, licking, kissing, saliva-swapping, dry-humping, other humping, lip locking that goes on in Esteli is, in my humble opinion, insane. I walked by a car parked along the sidewalk the other day and am reasonably certain that there was a baby being made in there. Granted it was dark, but it was also only 8:00PM. Have some decency. What make me the most uncomfortable about the PDA (these are not little pecks, by the way, there is a clear exchange of saliva. The WHO would not be impressed) is where to look. If a turn a corner and am greeted by a couple pressed up against a wall, do I cross the street? Do I turn around? Do I maintain the awkward eye contact or look at something else? Normally I awkwardly look at my wrist (where a watch used to be but hasn't been for 3 months) and maintain eye contact with a freckle until I am well past the situation in question. The other question becomes, though, where do the PDAers' friends look? Quite often, the long lip lock appears to be some sort of goodbye outside of someone's house. There is almost always a third party, though, just sitting on his motorcycle waiting for his buddy to be done so that they can ride off. There is nothing quite as funny as seeing a big macho man break off what I can only assume was an, ahem, intimate kiss with his girlfriend and then jumping on the back of his friend's motorcycle, grabbing hold of his friend's waist, and riding off into the sunset with his friend. It's even funnier when it's a bicycle and not a motorcycle (and "back of bike" refers to the pegs and/or the handlebars).
My flight is boarding soon. I have more to share but no more free internet connections until I get home tonight so I will share what I've typed. Publish post!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Atlanta. What can I say? Lots, apparently.
I apologize profusely for not writing sooner. I hope that this double blog posting (two in two days… maybe even three if I can get the videos up), as well as the length of this posting (a record length), is penance enough. I don’t know if I used the word penance correctly.
As all of you now know, I didn’t post this past week because I was in Atlanta. So, instead of telling you about my delightfully sleepy little town of Estelí, let me regale you with stories of Atlanta and a specialty coffee conference that can only be described as overwhelming. I will try to be chronological, but I offer you no promises.
My adventure began on Tuesday afternoon, when, in typical Vince fashion, I gave myself about 20 minutes to pack before running to the bus station. I settled into the Expreso bus (which is actually incredibly comfortable and reminded me of my friend the Greyhound), bought myself some peanut brittle, and set out to Managua, where I spent the night at a friend’s house. Managua, as I have written before, is despised by everyone who doesn’t live in Managua. Everyone. In one particularly funny/scary incident, we had a bit of an alcohol-induced violent episode take place in front of our house in Estelí a few weeks ago (that event was catalogued as “don’t tell mom because it will make her worry”), and after the situation cleared, our neighbours came out of their house and commented “My god, it’s like we’re in Managua”. Hatred for Managua runs deep, what can I say? Having spent only the one night in Managua on this particular occasion, however, I can neither confirm nor deny these claims but can say that: (1) I have never sweat so much in my life, (2) I got some bizarre bug bites, and (3) I was not robbed or beaten, as all of Estelí had predicted I would be. So, all in all, not a bad Managua experience. On that third note, I did hear a funny story about robbery in Managua that I’d like to share. Apparently, a few weeks ago there was a person who got robbed in the neighbourhood that I was staying as she was leaving a party. She accepted her fate but did ask the robber for her wallet back (without money), because it had her identification and presumably some other cards. The robber agreed and handed her back the wallet. The woman then remarked that she had no money to take a taxi home, so the robber took pity on her and returned 50 cordobas ($2.50) for her taxi fare. It’s nice to know that robbers can be reasoned with if I ever find myself in that situation (in Managua, of course).
My trip to Atlanta, via Miami, was relatively uneventful, though the Miami airport is quite something. It started with the customs lines, where I stood in line for 1.5 hours and moved a grand total of about 20 feet. I eventually made the strategic decision to switch lines and am glad I did so, because the customs officer was hilarious and instead of asking me questions, decided to complain about the “slowpoke” officer next to him who kept causing people like me to change into his line, thereby delaying his break time. The Miami airport was quite large and a remarkable example of a bilingual institution. Every single employee was bilingual and most seemed to speak it as a first language, opting to talk to me in Spanish. Kudos, Miami, kudos. If I didn’t hate Horatio Cane so much, I might actually take a liking to Miami. In the Miami airport, I also got my first chance to eat food that I have not been able to get in Estelí (although the salami sandwich and coleslaw on the plane were quite awesome as well). I know that you are all on the edge of your seats, waiting to hear my food choices. Here they are: I started with a toasted cheddar and herb bagel with cream cheese. It was as awesome as it sounds. The only time I have seen a bagel here in Estelí is when a friend of mine ordered one and was served what looked like a bagel without a hole. Let me be the first to say that a bagel without a hole is no bagel at all. The best part about a bagel is the cream cheese that gathers in the hole. When that hole is eliminated, what you have is a bun, not a bagel.
I also sold my soul and ordered a latte at Starbucks. I was about to say no whip cream (I’m watching my figure, you know), but then decided against it. I am incredibly glad that I ended up with whip cream. I devoured that whip cream and it was unforgettable. I never would have selected whip cream as something I missed, but wow, that was special. Unfortunately the latte was second-rate after the whip cream delight. I ended my Miami culinary experience with a Twix bar (which I had actually had in Estelí about two weeks ago so I don’t really know why I chose Twix. I think that it was the cheapest option.) and then boarded my flight to Atlanta.
My Miami-Atlanta flight was also uneventful, with the exception of the snack service. During said service, I received a “sweet mix” that was advertised as having pretzels, cheddar bites, and cheesy sticks. I am not exaggerating at all when I say that my “mix” had 1.5 cheddar bites, 1 single cheesy stick, and about 30 pretzels. In my humble opinion, that does not count as a “mix”. I would rant more about this but on the way back I had a more balanced mix and the cheesy sticks and cheddar bites were actually quite disgusting…
And then, I landed. Atlanta. The city of... I don´t really know. Coca Cola? Anyways, thinking I would have a quiet train ride to my hostel (it was quite late), I sat down and waited for North Avenue station. Imagine my surprise, then, when a glut (yes, a glut) of protesters got on the train a few stops after the airport. What were they protesting, you ask? Well, I would direct you to Fox News for the answer, but my understanding is that they are not happy with the government’s plan for their taxes (the day I arrived was also tax day in the USA) and decided to “re-enact” a historical event to make their point. Apparently, according to what I assume was their interpretation, the Boston Tea Party was essentially a costume party. Based on what I could tell, they (“they” referring here almost exclusively to slightly obese white males) protested by hanging tea bags from their ears, dressing in costumes, dressing their kids in costumes, using words like fascism and tyranny, and misrepresenting policies. Good times. There are jokes galore about teabagging to be made but I will leave that to Anderson Cooper (more on Anderson Cooper later). I left the train confused and chuckling, not having thought that I would get to see that on my first night in Atlanta (there was also a high school robotics team on the train, in town for the robotics competition, but there was just too much going on around me to be able to process their social awkwardness in addition assessing the protesters). After checking into my hotel, I went to Walgreen’s to purchase some granola bars, because I love granola bars. The sweet call of Nature Valley was too much to turn down and I bought a couple of boxes. I had actually planned on taking those back to Estelí with me but ended up with only a single bar to take back with me, such was the allure of their deliciousness.
The next day was my “tourist” day in Atlanta, since the conference didn’t start until the evening. My choices were the Georgia Aquarium (too expensive), the World of Coca-Cola (too commercial), and a tour of CNN (Bingo!). I decided on CNN and, after a quick breakfast of granola bars, headed down to the CNN Center, both to take the tour and to search for Anderson Cooper. Spoiler alert: I only succeeded in one of those objectives. After a quick browse through the CNN shop, I signed up for the tour and eagerly waited in line. The tour guide then arrived and told us that we had to go through metal detectors (fair enough) and that we should just put our cameras away since there were no pictures allowed on the tour (WHAT?!?). That’s right, folks, no pictures. CNN, a television channel that would not exist without their ability to take pictures wherever they want, has banned photography on their tour. Needless to say, this put me into a bit of a confrontational mood (especially after being offered the chance to buy a $20 picture of myself at a CNN desk). Who better to confront then the tour guide, I thought. After being denied to take a picture of the cool floor of the CNN building (the floor!) and the pile of Emmy’s, I asked the tour guide why I couldn’t take pictures. He answered with something ridiculous about how CNN doesn’t own their weather screen and once got sued when a picture was posted. Thinking that he had provided a satisfactory answer, he began to walk away. I was not done, though. “Excuse me,” I said, “but can CNN take pictures of me?” “Yes,” he replied. “Well, then why can’t I take pictures of them?” “Because we don’t own the weather screen.” “You know, sir, you wouldn’t have a job if CNN couldn’t take pictures.” “O.K., moving on to the next room.” Also, Anderson Cooper doesn’t broadcast from Atlanta, so that was a waste of time. They should really declare these things from the outset. I am not pleased with CNN and will let Ted Turner know about this in a strongly worded yet respectful letter.
You, however, will be pleased to know that I smuggled some contraband video nonetheless. I will be posting them here at some point as an explicit protest to CNN’s outrageous policies. Unlike some people, I have chosen not to wear a tea bag on my ear to complement this protest.
I then walked around downtown Atlanta for a short while and let me tell you that I have never in my life seen a city with the mental health and homelessness challenges that Atlanta is obviously mishandling horribly. The homeless population was enormous and the vast majority appeared to have some sort of mental health issue. Also, a large proportion of the homeless population has taken on some very resourceful strategies, as they are always offering to give you directions (for a price) or hold an umbrella for you in a rain storm (for a price). My trip to the library cost me $1 and walking half a block under an umbrella in a torrential downpour cost the same.
That evening, the conference began with a few opening speeches and a welcome reception. I am not a networker and therefore did not network. I did eat the hors d’oeuvres, though. When I got back to my hostel, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things to bring back to Estelí. It was then that I noticed the first in a series of clues that led me to believe that my hostel was in Atlanta’s gay district. I walked down one aisle (the cereal aisle, I believe) and there was a gay couple picking up some groceries. Thinking nothing of it, I turned the corner to walk down the next aisle (snacks) and was shocked to see what looked like the exact same couple, only twenty years down the line. I thought it was a little weird to see two gay couples in the same grocery store (where there were only a handful of people shopping at this hour anyways), but it wasn’t until the next aisle that “a little weird” turned into flabbergastedness as I saw a lesbian couple shopping. That made me three for three and only then did it hit me that I may have been staying in Atlanta’s gay district. The several gay couples in the Cuban restaurant the following night and the drag queen who conversed with me on Saturday night (it was quite a conversation, let me tell you) really just drove the point home. I am an observant one, wouldn’t you know!
The conference began the next day and while I won’t report on any specifics, I can describe the whole affair in a single word: overwhelming. There was a dual culture shock (of the big city of Atlanta and the weird coffee culture at the expo/conference) and I’m still not really sure what was most shocking, though I am leaning towards the latter. Just to give you a flavour, here are just a few things I experienced:
- The World Barista Championships (not to be confused with the skinny tie, weird beard, retro vest, and skinny jeans championships which, though seemingly prerequisites to compete, were not officially noted anywhere). Up until a few days before the conference, I thought that Starbucks invented the term barista to make their employees feel better about themselves. Apparently I was mistaken. There are barista champions, barista judges, and barista fans, completely with signs. The judges were my favourite, as they bent down to assess the barista’s grind pounding technique, studied how the barista cleaned his or her cups, and evaluated the correlation between what the barista said (“this coffee from the hills of Peru has an earthy, gritty, nutty flavour and fruity texture.” I don’t need to point out that their adjectives are ludicrous and completely undescriptive.) and what they tasted (fruity flavour and nutty texture… uh oh, that’s a deduction). The competition involves baristas making five drinks for four judges in 15 minutes. There are probably other rules but I don’t understand coffee lingo and therefore couldn’t follow.
- The U.S. Taster’s Championships. Eight sets of three cups. Two of the three cups have the same coffee in them. Can you identify the outlier? Can you do it both accurately and quickly? The one guy that I saw could not. He ended up one for eight and I could actually have done better then him by just choosing the first cup every time.
- There were several labs being offered, including how to brew coffee. Apparently “throw grinds into machine, throw water into machine, and turn on” is not all there is to “Master Brewing”.
- The trade show floor was packed full of everything you could imagine for the coffee chain. Do you need packaging for your coffee? Booths 1329, 1872, 1431, and 1554 could help you. Are you looking for a large coffee toasting machine? There are about 13 booths to help you with that. Perhaps you are just looking for flavoured syrups? Well then I would direct you to one of seven stands looking for your business. Nobody was actually selling stuff to individuals like me, though, because when I tried to buy some tea for Rebecca, I was asked how many cases I would need. Apparently, “three bags of this one and four of that one” is not the contract they are looking to sign. Also, the trade show floor had a ribbon cutting ceremony with big novelty scissors. It was weird.
- The Roasters’ Guild After Party. I didn’t actually go to this. What the hell is the Roasters’ Guild? It sounds like that thing the engineers have to do when they graduate.
To add a few more food-related notes to this adventure, on what I believe was Friday night, I went to a Krispy Kreme donut shop near my hostel. There was a true plethora of flavours available to choose from and I simply did not know what to choose. I asked the expert (Krispy Kreme donut lady) what my very first Krispy Kreme donut ever should be. That was a bit of a lie since I think that I had one about five years ago when Krispy Kreme came to Calgary but I was not in the mood to explain that whole story. She was very excited to point out that I had come in at the right time, because the originals were just being made fresh and that really made it no competition- I had to have an original. I officially placed my order with her, one hot original donut, and waited at the till. When she arrived with my donut, she whispered “I slipped an extra one in there for you”. My look of pure joy and overwhelming happiness must have looked more like confusion because she repeated herself, and let me tell you it was just as sweet to hear the second time. I thanked her profusely, fought back my tears, ate two melt-in-your-mouth hot donuts, fought back more tears, and then returned to my hostel.
In terms of my Atlanta meals (food was obviously a significant part of this trip), they were the following: breakfast consisted of Raisin Bran (I missed you bran) and granola bars, lunch consisted entirely of samples from the expo floor, and dinner consisted of deliciousness. Breakfasts were therefore pretty straightforward but the latter two points call for some expansion. One incredible part of an over-crowded trade show with over-zealous vendors trying to promote their over-priced products is that a huge number of those products were sampleable. Every fourth or fifth booth had a sample, be it of the latest smoothie flavour, a new coffee beverage, or a small sliver of cake to complement coffee. With hundreds of booths on the expo floor, it was quite easy to fill my tummy (with sugar, really, which led to a hard crash in the afternoon, which in turn drove me to places like Krispy Kreme). Every once in a while I would have to feign interest in the product (“And how might I prepare this delicious raspberry beverage in my store?”) whereas other times I would go with honesty (“I have been living in Nicaragua for three months and haven’t had any chocolate in that time. Can I have two of these chocolate shake samples?”). Ideally, the vendor would be occupied and I could slip in and just grab a cup with only a quick “Gracias, no hablo inglés” before moving on. Good stuff.
Dinners were one meal that with the exception of night #1 (granola bars), I did not skimp on. On my second night, I went to a delicious Cuban restaurant for a massive sandwich and yucca fries (this was the first meal in years that I have been unable to finish. Kudos to you, chef. Kudos.). The next night I ate a Caesar salad pizza at the Mellow Mushroom. It, too, was delicious and came on a night where I was craving a Caesar salad but also wanted some sort of pizza. I hadn’t thought of combining those two items until they magically appeared on the menu in both written and cartoon form. Finally, the pièce de resistance was Mary Mac’s Tea Room. Holy effing delicious. Pardon my language. First, because it was our first visit, my travelling companion and I received complimentary pot likkers and cornbread. Good start. Then, for the entrée, you could select a main dish as well as two side dishes (chosen from about 35 side dishes that I had to translate into Spanish. I tried my best but I am not equipped to translate words like “pot likker” (I am also not equipped to define “pot likker”). As it is, translating food words is dicey because you never know if you are going to inadvertently cause an allergic reaction due to mistranslation…). My own choices were 3 pieces of Southern fried chicken served with sweet potato soufflé (insanely good) and macaroni and cheese (not as good as mine, but it certainly did the trick). Not content to leave with a full stomach, I went into overload with a homemade peach cobbler for dessert. It was no Hilde cake, but it came dangerously close. Dangerously…
O.K., I really need to stop typing. There may be more memories that come back to me but I will share those later. To conclude, let me say that all in all, the conference was good (but overwhelming), Atlanta was good and delicious (but overwhelming) and I have so many notes that I have been typing that I have reason to believe that I am developing carpal tunnel syndrome (I am not joking). This may or may not affect my future blogging. In all honesty it probably won’t.
As one more ridiculous side note do you know that the pharmacy in Atlanta would not sell me Sudafed? You obviously didn’t know that (unless you are Rebecca Ross who has heard this already) but now you do. Apparently not having a state to put into the computer system precludes you from accessing medicines in the United States. The pharmacist actually said to me “well, do you have any friends in Atlanta who could buy this for you?” to which I replied “Ma’am, I arrived in Atlanta last night and am staying in a hostel one block away from here. Who in god’s name would I have met in the last 12 hours who would be willing to join me at the pharmacy to buy me Sudafed?” (I actually just said “no.”). I officially blame Walgreen’s for the incredible headache I got on the plane ride home where my ears refused to pop to the point that I thought my eyeballs and/or my frontal lobe were going to pop out of my head.
As all of you now know, I didn’t post this past week because I was in Atlanta. So, instead of telling you about my delightfully sleepy little town of Estelí, let me regale you with stories of Atlanta and a specialty coffee conference that can only be described as overwhelming. I will try to be chronological, but I offer you no promises.
My adventure began on Tuesday afternoon, when, in typical Vince fashion, I gave myself about 20 minutes to pack before running to the bus station. I settled into the Expreso bus (which is actually incredibly comfortable and reminded me of my friend the Greyhound), bought myself some peanut brittle, and set out to Managua, where I spent the night at a friend’s house. Managua, as I have written before, is despised by everyone who doesn’t live in Managua. Everyone. In one particularly funny/scary incident, we had a bit of an alcohol-induced violent episode take place in front of our house in Estelí a few weeks ago (that event was catalogued as “don’t tell mom because it will make her worry”), and after the situation cleared, our neighbours came out of their house and commented “My god, it’s like we’re in Managua”. Hatred for Managua runs deep, what can I say? Having spent only the one night in Managua on this particular occasion, however, I can neither confirm nor deny these claims but can say that: (1) I have never sweat so much in my life, (2) I got some bizarre bug bites, and (3) I was not robbed or beaten, as all of Estelí had predicted I would be. So, all in all, not a bad Managua experience. On that third note, I did hear a funny story about robbery in Managua that I’d like to share. Apparently, a few weeks ago there was a person who got robbed in the neighbourhood that I was staying as she was leaving a party. She accepted her fate but did ask the robber for her wallet back (without money), because it had her identification and presumably some other cards. The robber agreed and handed her back the wallet. The woman then remarked that she had no money to take a taxi home, so the robber took pity on her and returned 50 cordobas ($2.50) for her taxi fare. It’s nice to know that robbers can be reasoned with if I ever find myself in that situation (in Managua, of course).
My trip to Atlanta, via Miami, was relatively uneventful, though the Miami airport is quite something. It started with the customs lines, where I stood in line for 1.5 hours and moved a grand total of about 20 feet. I eventually made the strategic decision to switch lines and am glad I did so, because the customs officer was hilarious and instead of asking me questions, decided to complain about the “slowpoke” officer next to him who kept causing people like me to change into his line, thereby delaying his break time. The Miami airport was quite large and a remarkable example of a bilingual institution. Every single employee was bilingual and most seemed to speak it as a first language, opting to talk to me in Spanish. Kudos, Miami, kudos. If I didn’t hate Horatio Cane so much, I might actually take a liking to Miami. In the Miami airport, I also got my first chance to eat food that I have not been able to get in Estelí (although the salami sandwich and coleslaw on the plane were quite awesome as well). I know that you are all on the edge of your seats, waiting to hear my food choices. Here they are: I started with a toasted cheddar and herb bagel with cream cheese. It was as awesome as it sounds. The only time I have seen a bagel here in Estelí is when a friend of mine ordered one and was served what looked like a bagel without a hole. Let me be the first to say that a bagel without a hole is no bagel at all. The best part about a bagel is the cream cheese that gathers in the hole. When that hole is eliminated, what you have is a bun, not a bagel.
I also sold my soul and ordered a latte at Starbucks. I was about to say no whip cream (I’m watching my figure, you know), but then decided against it. I am incredibly glad that I ended up with whip cream. I devoured that whip cream and it was unforgettable. I never would have selected whip cream as something I missed, but wow, that was special. Unfortunately the latte was second-rate after the whip cream delight. I ended my Miami culinary experience with a Twix bar (which I had actually had in Estelí about two weeks ago so I don’t really know why I chose Twix. I think that it was the cheapest option.) and then boarded my flight to Atlanta.
My Miami-Atlanta flight was also uneventful, with the exception of the snack service. During said service, I received a “sweet mix” that was advertised as having pretzels, cheddar bites, and cheesy sticks. I am not exaggerating at all when I say that my “mix” had 1.5 cheddar bites, 1 single cheesy stick, and about 30 pretzels. In my humble opinion, that does not count as a “mix”. I would rant more about this but on the way back I had a more balanced mix and the cheesy sticks and cheddar bites were actually quite disgusting…
And then, I landed. Atlanta. The city of... I don´t really know. Coca Cola? Anyways, thinking I would have a quiet train ride to my hostel (it was quite late), I sat down and waited for North Avenue station. Imagine my surprise, then, when a glut (yes, a glut) of protesters got on the train a few stops after the airport. What were they protesting, you ask? Well, I would direct you to Fox News for the answer, but my understanding is that they are not happy with the government’s plan for their taxes (the day I arrived was also tax day in the USA) and decided to “re-enact” a historical event to make their point. Apparently, according to what I assume was their interpretation, the Boston Tea Party was essentially a costume party. Based on what I could tell, they (“they” referring here almost exclusively to slightly obese white males) protested by hanging tea bags from their ears, dressing in costumes, dressing their kids in costumes, using words like fascism and tyranny, and misrepresenting policies. Good times. There are jokes galore about teabagging to be made but I will leave that to Anderson Cooper (more on Anderson Cooper later). I left the train confused and chuckling, not having thought that I would get to see that on my first night in Atlanta (there was also a high school robotics team on the train, in town for the robotics competition, but there was just too much going on around me to be able to process their social awkwardness in addition assessing the protesters). After checking into my hotel, I went to Walgreen’s to purchase some granola bars, because I love granola bars. The sweet call of Nature Valley was too much to turn down and I bought a couple of boxes. I had actually planned on taking those back to Estelí with me but ended up with only a single bar to take back with me, such was the allure of their deliciousness.
The next day was my “tourist” day in Atlanta, since the conference didn’t start until the evening. My choices were the Georgia Aquarium (too expensive), the World of Coca-Cola (too commercial), and a tour of CNN (Bingo!). I decided on CNN and, after a quick breakfast of granola bars, headed down to the CNN Center, both to take the tour and to search for Anderson Cooper. Spoiler alert: I only succeeded in one of those objectives. After a quick browse through the CNN shop, I signed up for the tour and eagerly waited in line. The tour guide then arrived and told us that we had to go through metal detectors (fair enough) and that we should just put our cameras away since there were no pictures allowed on the tour (WHAT?!?). That’s right, folks, no pictures. CNN, a television channel that would not exist without their ability to take pictures wherever they want, has banned photography on their tour. Needless to say, this put me into a bit of a confrontational mood (especially after being offered the chance to buy a $20 picture of myself at a CNN desk). Who better to confront then the tour guide, I thought. After being denied to take a picture of the cool floor of the CNN building (the floor!) and the pile of Emmy’s, I asked the tour guide why I couldn’t take pictures. He answered with something ridiculous about how CNN doesn’t own their weather screen and once got sued when a picture was posted. Thinking that he had provided a satisfactory answer, he began to walk away. I was not done, though. “Excuse me,” I said, “but can CNN take pictures of me?” “Yes,” he replied. “Well, then why can’t I take pictures of them?” “Because we don’t own the weather screen.” “You know, sir, you wouldn’t have a job if CNN couldn’t take pictures.” “O.K., moving on to the next room.” Also, Anderson Cooper doesn’t broadcast from Atlanta, so that was a waste of time. They should really declare these things from the outset. I am not pleased with CNN and will let Ted Turner know about this in a strongly worded yet respectful letter.
You, however, will be pleased to know that I smuggled some contraband video nonetheless. I will be posting them here at some point as an explicit protest to CNN’s outrageous policies. Unlike some people, I have chosen not to wear a tea bag on my ear to complement this protest.
I then walked around downtown Atlanta for a short while and let me tell you that I have never in my life seen a city with the mental health and homelessness challenges that Atlanta is obviously mishandling horribly. The homeless population was enormous and the vast majority appeared to have some sort of mental health issue. Also, a large proportion of the homeless population has taken on some very resourceful strategies, as they are always offering to give you directions (for a price) or hold an umbrella for you in a rain storm (for a price). My trip to the library cost me $1 and walking half a block under an umbrella in a torrential downpour cost the same.
That evening, the conference began with a few opening speeches and a welcome reception. I am not a networker and therefore did not network. I did eat the hors d’oeuvres, though. When I got back to my hostel, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things to bring back to Estelí. It was then that I noticed the first in a series of clues that led me to believe that my hostel was in Atlanta’s gay district. I walked down one aisle (the cereal aisle, I believe) and there was a gay couple picking up some groceries. Thinking nothing of it, I turned the corner to walk down the next aisle (snacks) and was shocked to see what looked like the exact same couple, only twenty years down the line. I thought it was a little weird to see two gay couples in the same grocery store (where there were only a handful of people shopping at this hour anyways), but it wasn’t until the next aisle that “a little weird” turned into flabbergastedness as I saw a lesbian couple shopping. That made me three for three and only then did it hit me that I may have been staying in Atlanta’s gay district. The several gay couples in the Cuban restaurant the following night and the drag queen who conversed with me on Saturday night (it was quite a conversation, let me tell you) really just drove the point home. I am an observant one, wouldn’t you know!
The conference began the next day and while I won’t report on any specifics, I can describe the whole affair in a single word: overwhelming. There was a dual culture shock (of the big city of Atlanta and the weird coffee culture at the expo/conference) and I’m still not really sure what was most shocking, though I am leaning towards the latter. Just to give you a flavour, here are just a few things I experienced:
- The World Barista Championships (not to be confused with the skinny tie, weird beard, retro vest, and skinny jeans championships which, though seemingly prerequisites to compete, were not officially noted anywhere). Up until a few days before the conference, I thought that Starbucks invented the term barista to make their employees feel better about themselves. Apparently I was mistaken. There are barista champions, barista judges, and barista fans, completely with signs. The judges were my favourite, as they bent down to assess the barista’s grind pounding technique, studied how the barista cleaned his or her cups, and evaluated the correlation between what the barista said (“this coffee from the hills of Peru has an earthy, gritty, nutty flavour and fruity texture.” I don’t need to point out that their adjectives are ludicrous and completely undescriptive.) and what they tasted (fruity flavour and nutty texture… uh oh, that’s a deduction). The competition involves baristas making five drinks for four judges in 15 minutes. There are probably other rules but I don’t understand coffee lingo and therefore couldn’t follow.
- The U.S. Taster’s Championships. Eight sets of three cups. Two of the three cups have the same coffee in them. Can you identify the outlier? Can you do it both accurately and quickly? The one guy that I saw could not. He ended up one for eight and I could actually have done better then him by just choosing the first cup every time.
- There were several labs being offered, including how to brew coffee. Apparently “throw grinds into machine, throw water into machine, and turn on” is not all there is to “Master Brewing”.
- The trade show floor was packed full of everything you could imagine for the coffee chain. Do you need packaging for your coffee? Booths 1329, 1872, 1431, and 1554 could help you. Are you looking for a large coffee toasting machine? There are about 13 booths to help you with that. Perhaps you are just looking for flavoured syrups? Well then I would direct you to one of seven stands looking for your business. Nobody was actually selling stuff to individuals like me, though, because when I tried to buy some tea for Rebecca, I was asked how many cases I would need. Apparently, “three bags of this one and four of that one” is not the contract they are looking to sign. Also, the trade show floor had a ribbon cutting ceremony with big novelty scissors. It was weird.
- The Roasters’ Guild After Party. I didn’t actually go to this. What the hell is the Roasters’ Guild? It sounds like that thing the engineers have to do when they graduate.
To add a few more food-related notes to this adventure, on what I believe was Friday night, I went to a Krispy Kreme donut shop near my hostel. There was a true plethora of flavours available to choose from and I simply did not know what to choose. I asked the expert (Krispy Kreme donut lady) what my very first Krispy Kreme donut ever should be. That was a bit of a lie since I think that I had one about five years ago when Krispy Kreme came to Calgary but I was not in the mood to explain that whole story. She was very excited to point out that I had come in at the right time, because the originals were just being made fresh and that really made it no competition- I had to have an original. I officially placed my order with her, one hot original donut, and waited at the till. When she arrived with my donut, she whispered “I slipped an extra one in there for you”. My look of pure joy and overwhelming happiness must have looked more like confusion because she repeated herself, and let me tell you it was just as sweet to hear the second time. I thanked her profusely, fought back my tears, ate two melt-in-your-mouth hot donuts, fought back more tears, and then returned to my hostel.
In terms of my Atlanta meals (food was obviously a significant part of this trip), they were the following: breakfast consisted of Raisin Bran (I missed you bran) and granola bars, lunch consisted entirely of samples from the expo floor, and dinner consisted of deliciousness. Breakfasts were therefore pretty straightforward but the latter two points call for some expansion. One incredible part of an over-crowded trade show with over-zealous vendors trying to promote their over-priced products is that a huge number of those products were sampleable. Every fourth or fifth booth had a sample, be it of the latest smoothie flavour, a new coffee beverage, or a small sliver of cake to complement coffee. With hundreds of booths on the expo floor, it was quite easy to fill my tummy (with sugar, really, which led to a hard crash in the afternoon, which in turn drove me to places like Krispy Kreme). Every once in a while I would have to feign interest in the product (“And how might I prepare this delicious raspberry beverage in my store?”) whereas other times I would go with honesty (“I have been living in Nicaragua for three months and haven’t had any chocolate in that time. Can I have two of these chocolate shake samples?”). Ideally, the vendor would be occupied and I could slip in and just grab a cup with only a quick “Gracias, no hablo inglés” before moving on. Good stuff.
Dinners were one meal that with the exception of night #1 (granola bars), I did not skimp on. On my second night, I went to a delicious Cuban restaurant for a massive sandwich and yucca fries (this was the first meal in years that I have been unable to finish. Kudos to you, chef. Kudos.). The next night I ate a Caesar salad pizza at the Mellow Mushroom. It, too, was delicious and came on a night where I was craving a Caesar salad but also wanted some sort of pizza. I hadn’t thought of combining those two items until they magically appeared on the menu in both written and cartoon form. Finally, the pièce de resistance was Mary Mac’s Tea Room. Holy effing delicious. Pardon my language. First, because it was our first visit, my travelling companion and I received complimentary pot likkers and cornbread. Good start. Then, for the entrée, you could select a main dish as well as two side dishes (chosen from about 35 side dishes that I had to translate into Spanish. I tried my best but I am not equipped to translate words like “pot likker” (I am also not equipped to define “pot likker”). As it is, translating food words is dicey because you never know if you are going to inadvertently cause an allergic reaction due to mistranslation…). My own choices were 3 pieces of Southern fried chicken served with sweet potato soufflé (insanely good) and macaroni and cheese (not as good as mine, but it certainly did the trick). Not content to leave with a full stomach, I went into overload with a homemade peach cobbler for dessert. It was no Hilde cake, but it came dangerously close. Dangerously…
O.K., I really need to stop typing. There may be more memories that come back to me but I will share those later. To conclude, let me say that all in all, the conference was good (but overwhelming), Atlanta was good and delicious (but overwhelming) and I have so many notes that I have been typing that I have reason to believe that I am developing carpal tunnel syndrome (I am not joking). This may or may not affect my future blogging. In all honesty it probably won’t.
As one more ridiculous side note do you know that the pharmacy in Atlanta would not sell me Sudafed? You obviously didn’t know that (unless you are Rebecca Ross who has heard this already) but now you do. Apparently not having a state to put into the computer system precludes you from accessing medicines in the United States. The pharmacist actually said to me “well, do you have any friends in Atlanta who could buy this for you?” to which I replied “Ma’am, I arrived in Atlanta last night and am staying in a hostel one block away from here. Who in god’s name would I have met in the last 12 hours who would be willing to join me at the pharmacy to buy me Sudafed?” (I actually just said “no.”). I officially blame Walgreen’s for the incredible headache I got on the plane ride home where my ears refused to pop to the point that I thought my eyeballs and/or my frontal lobe were going to pop out of my head.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Coconut videos. Only two weeks late.
Listen. Before you get all "where have you been, Vince?" let me tell you exactly where I have been. I have been in Atlanta, immersing myself in the terrifying culture of specialty coffee, eating fried chicken and peach cobbler, and yelling at CNN tour guides. More on that later, though, as I am preparing what I would like to deem an epic blog about my time in Atlanta (these postings take time, people). In the mean time in between time, though, I offer you these coconut pictures and videos that I promised. Please forgive me and enjoy the spectacle.
Step 1: Hammer screwdriver into coconut with a meat mallet.
How I did not lose a body part trying to hammer our kitchen knife into the coconut is beyond me.
The incredible mess in our kitchen. Notice the coconut on the walls and the sheer number of tools we used. I remember, amongst others, a strainer, blender, meat mallet, knife, another knife, a nail, a corkscrew, a can opener, tongs, a broom, a screwdriver, several forks, and a pocket knife.
The final step (before cleaning the incredible amount of coconut all over the place) was the blender. Our blender got very, very hot by the end of the exercise but it survived (this is actually blender #2. We broke our first blender a few weeks after moving in as we tried to make hummus. Damn you, hummus!).
I have been sitting here for 45 minutes and not one video has loaded. They are just taking too long to load and I need to go. Sorry to have led you on. I will try again some other day... This blog was horribly mistitled and I apologize.
Step 1: Hammer screwdriver into coconut with a meat mallet.How I did not lose a body part trying to hammer our kitchen knife into the coconut is beyond me.The incredible mess in our kitchen. Notice the coconut on the walls and the sheer number of tools we used. I remember, amongst others, a strainer, blender, meat mallet, knife, another knife, a nail, a corkscrew, a can opener, tongs, a broom, a screwdriver, several forks, and a pocket knife.The final step (before cleaning the incredible amount of coconut all over the place) was the blender. Our blender got very, very hot by the end of the exercise but it survived (this is actually blender #2. We broke our first blender a few weeks after moving in as we tried to make hummus. Damn you, hummus!).I have been sitting here for 45 minutes and not one video has loaded. They are just taking too long to load and I need to go. Sorry to have led you on. I will try again some other day... This blog was horribly mistitled and I apologize.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
How to eat a coconut
Hello all! Happy Easter (again)! How did you spend your Easter? I spent mine watching floats of Jesus pass by (complete with tuba music), nearly causing an inferno in a procession, getting stuck in a different procession, opening a coconut (which actually accounted for a significant time portion in this weekend), and melting under the hot, hot sun. Here’s a summary…
I should add the caveat before I continue, however, that in case you haven’t noticed, I have a tendency to exaggerate and tell stories with James Frey-esque levels of truthiness. If that Oprah book club reference is too dated, feel free to Wikipedia it. Also, after watching a Wikipedia-related TED Talk, I am pleased to declare my complete confidence in the Wikipedia world. I have come down off of my pedestal and support the responsible use of Wikipedia wholeheartedly. You can thank Jimmy Wales for this change of heart. I now feel kind of bad for vandalizing the Tila Tequila entry. Only kind of, though.
Back to Easter, which in Estelí does not include eggs, bunnies, or chocolates, but does include a wonderful delight known as the procession. Only later did this word become plural. After hearing much about the procession, we were invited by our neighbours to the Holy Thursday procession. Dressed in my Thursday best, we headed off to the procession at 8:00. When we got there, we were told that the procession would start at 9:00. We returned home. Still dressed in my Thursday best, we headed off to the actual procession at 9:00. This time, I was not disappointed. The first thing I noticed was the amount of people. I am a terrible estimator but I would say that there were well over one thousand, quite possibly nearing two thousand. The next thing I noticed (it was probably more of a tie, though) was the massive “float” being carried by about a dozen men. This “float” depicted Jesus praying on the hill, complete with paper maché Jesus, a young man dressed as an angel, ample fluorescent lighting, and a humming generator to power the lights. Behind this “float” (I say “float” and not float because there was no car involved at all. Unlike the wimpy Stampede floats, this was carried on the back of a dozen men.) was a large platform with a paper maché Mary. This was carried by a group of women. Before being able to notice any more, and believe me there was more, we bought some candles because everyone else was doing it and I have no ability to resist peer pressure. The procession was so crowded that I thought for sure that someone would get burned with all of the candles around. I took it upon myself to fulfill that role. Shortly after lighting my candle, I lost my focus and nearly burned Amy’s hair. Just after that, I didn’t get my candle-holding angles quite right and lit my candle’s wind-protection cardboard on fire. The young boy with us laughed at me and with that, I cut my losses, blew out the candle, kept on processing.
A few other procession observations are notable, mostly because I have never seen them before (though I haven’t ever really been in a procession). Firstly, the men holding up the “float” are surrounded by another group dressed in purple robes and black hooded caps with eye holes. They were scary. Secondly, apparently tubas make good procession music. Despite the somber tone of the whole affair, I couldn’t help but smile only because I find it incredibly difficult to take tubas seriously. You know that “wah, wah” sound a tuba makes? Picture that behind a group of thousands of people, some holding a “float”, some visible only through small eye holes. Also, I learned that procession routes change year to year. Our neighbours, only wanting to participate in a portion of the procession, ran up a few blocks after our initial contact with the procession, planning to catch the procession as it went by and spend some time at the front of the procession (maybe that’s the best spot?). Unfortunately, while this strategy would have been foolproof last year, the route changed this year, which left us sitting on someone’s stoop for about an hour before deciding to just go home. We did get another procession glimpse, though, as we passed through the procession on our way home (it was about six blocks from where we had been sitting. It would have taken about 2 hours to cover that distance. Processions are not about speed, apparently. The whole procession went from 9:00 PM until 2:00 AM. We stayed for about two hours. My faith isn’t that strong, apparently.)
So that was Thursday. It was a pretty extensive procession experience so, despite being invited, I figured I would skip Friday’s procession. Because of some fluke timing, though, I figured wrong, because although I had no desire to participate in the procession, I did have a need for money. As I walked to the bank machines, I heard more tuba music. That did not bode well. As I got to the bank, I saw that the front of the procession had just reached the bank. Not wanting to pull out a decent sum of money and then wade into a crowd of well over a thousand people, I decided to wait. And wait. And wait. Remember what I said about processions and speed? Good Friday processions are no different. In the time it took the six-block procession to clear from the bank area, I managed to take several pictures of sawdust paintings of the stations of the cross (which the procession very coolly parts around as it proceeds until the very last few people who destroy the display), take a ten block walk around the central part of town, listen to two stations of the cross, and witness about 20 minutes of the parade. All of the now familiar procession elements of the procession were there on Friday as well, although there were way more people, the real-person angel on the “float” had been changed into a real-person Mary Magdalene, and paper-maché Jesus on the hill became paper-maché Jesus carrying the cross. Purple folks were still purple and tuba players were still playing inappropriate rum-pum-pum music. Another delightful element of Friday’s procession was the vulture ice cream and hot dog vendors, trying to take advantage of people’s heat exhaustion and hunger (apparently the hot dog vendors didn’t study up on Good Friday because I am reasonably certain you can’t eat meat on Good Friday. Or maybe they did consider that and are sending a powerful message about hot dog meat content…). The ice cream vendors were quite funny because during the silent prayer time, all you could here was the constant, never-ending ringing of the ice cream bell.
Although these processions were special Easter events (I had no other encounters, but am told that there were two others on Saturday and Sunday), these processions also fit into a larger phenomenon in Estelí (and Nicaragua, I have been told) relating to the love of parades. Everything has a parade and/or is paraded down main street. Estelí is particularly parade-friendly because it has a clearly defined, relatively busy main street that almost seems tailor-made for parades. What gets paraded? Normally I have absolutely no idea, to be honest. I just see commotion and go take a look. Here’s what I normally see: The parade is led by a truck with balloons and loudspeakers that is driving incredibly slowly, setting the pace for the parade. An outrageous noise that is probably announcing the reason for the parade is being emitted from the loudspeakers but, like with the announcement cars, it is way too loud for me to understand it. Every once in a while there is some sort of princess-dressed girl and/or lady in the back of this truck (big pageant fans here. There was a pageant month in the newspaper from mid-February until mid-March.). Behind this truck is normally some sort of dance troupe, normally counting about two dozen young men and women dancing to whatever racket kids dance to these days. I don’t think that “troupe” is the right word, or has been the right word since the 1950s, but I can’t really think of the hip word at this point. These dancers are normally dancing to the music blaring from a second truck, right behind them. The tail end of the parade is then a high school marching band and/or drumline. Unless Hollywood has lied to me, drumline is absolutely the hip word for this. A few parade variations that I have seen include: a truck full of tigers, camels, and miniature horses replacing the high school band (the circus was in town), rabid political supporters replacing the dance troupe (a “counter-protest”, officially, but I can’t help but think that the love of parades played a role), and Movistar phone mascots, which are actually big blue rectangles, added in front of the dancers. I know what you are thinking. Who has a rectangle as a mascot? Movistar does. That’s why I have a Claro phone. They don’t have mascots.
In the final Easter weekend event, today (Sunday), we had invited some guests over for lunch. We decided to make satay chicken, pasta, salad, and coconut-rum balls for dessert. This all happened entirely uneventfully except for the fact that we needed coconut milk for the satay and coconut shavings for the balls. This meant buying coconuts. No problems so far. This also meant getting the milk out of the coconut and the meat out of the coconut as well. Herein lay a dilemma. Without many kitchen utensils, and certainly without a machete (those really, really scare me), here was our (Amy and I) incredibly lengthy process, without a word of exaggeration:
1. Debate about which tools to use to puncture the coconut (to get the milk out). Several tools are vetoed including: pocket knife (that would close and cut off a finger), rusty nail in the bathroom (see Wikipedia entry for: tetanus, causes of), fork (uselessly weak… kind of like me, really), and floppy knife. A screwdriver is suggested. No screwdriver is found.
2. We settle on clean, sterilized nail pulled out of the wall in the bedroom. We thoroughly clean said nail, put it under fire, bleach it, and repeat the process. We now have a puncturing instrument.
3. Debate on how to get the nail into the coconut. The obvious answer is the meat mallet. There is no further debate.
4. The nail is driven into the coconut. Getting the nail out should have been part of the debate, apparently. The pocket knife is used to successfully pry the nail out of the coconut.
5. Attempt #1 to get the milk out. We soon discover the need for an air hole. Steps three and 4 are repeated.
6. Attempt #2 to get the milk out. We have a slow, slow drip but it is going about as fast as the processions so we take drastic actions, prying the holes wider with a large, two-tonged meat fork. This is entirely unsuccessful.
7. Major advance… we have found a screwdriver.
8. Holding the coconut with a set of tongs, the screwdriver is pounded into the coconut. The hissing sound is a welcome sound.
9. We successfully pour the milk out of coconut #1.
10. Having found the appropriate milking method, we repeat steps 8 and 9 with coconuts 2 and 3.
11. With three milked coconuts in hand, we consider how to get the coconuts open to reveal the meat. We try the aforementioned floppy knife. Even with a meat mallet pounding it, that knife is useless.
12. We are worried about breaking the countertop so we move outside.
13. We decide to slam the nail back into the coconut. There was really no rationale for this step. It is an entirely extraneous step (as is the case with well over half of these, I imagine).
14. We discuss our progress and realize that while all other tools have proven borderline useless, we do have one tool that has yet to fail us: the meat mallet. We decide to just forego all other tools and pound the coconut with the meat mallet.
15. Success! Who knew? Coconut flies about our back patio. We commit to washing the coconut before using it.
16. We realize that there is a fine layer of skin remaining on the coconut. It unfortunately cannot be removed with a meat mallet.
17. We spend about an hour whittling the skin off of the coconut with the useless kitchen knife and a pocket knife. Peeling coconuts sucks. How I didn’t lose a finger is completely beyond me.
18. We have delicious, peeled chunks of fresh coconut. We rejoice.
19. We reread the recipe and realize that it doesn’t call for “delicious, peeled chunks”, but flaked coconut. We are tired and do not feel safe using knifes.
20. Pretending that they are coffee beans that can just be ground, we throw the coconut chunks into the blender. Success! We haven’t felt this happy since we found the screwdriver!
21. Flaked coconut abounds (and still does). Our entire kitchen, back patio, side patio, and dining room are covered in coconut chunks, flakes, shells, and goop. We curse at the mess that we have to clean.
If any of this sounds unbelievable, I invite you to peruse the photo diary and video journal below. The first photo was taken at 4:16 PM and the last one (the blender) at 5:44 PM. All of this for three coconuts. Pay close attention to the sheer number of tools in each picture and video. Every one of those was involved in the process at some point.
I spent a long time trying to load these pictures and videos and they would not load. I will try tomorrow because they are so awesome.
The final result, though, was delicious, continues to be delicious (yay leftovers!), and marks the end of this blog entry. Happy Easter!
I should add the caveat before I continue, however, that in case you haven’t noticed, I have a tendency to exaggerate and tell stories with James Frey-esque levels of truthiness. If that Oprah book club reference is too dated, feel free to Wikipedia it. Also, after watching a Wikipedia-related TED Talk, I am pleased to declare my complete confidence in the Wikipedia world. I have come down off of my pedestal and support the responsible use of Wikipedia wholeheartedly. You can thank Jimmy Wales for this change of heart. I now feel kind of bad for vandalizing the Tila Tequila entry. Only kind of, though.
Back to Easter, which in Estelí does not include eggs, bunnies, or chocolates, but does include a wonderful delight known as the procession. Only later did this word become plural. After hearing much about the procession, we were invited by our neighbours to the Holy Thursday procession. Dressed in my Thursday best, we headed off to the procession at 8:00. When we got there, we were told that the procession would start at 9:00. We returned home. Still dressed in my Thursday best, we headed off to the actual procession at 9:00. This time, I was not disappointed. The first thing I noticed was the amount of people. I am a terrible estimator but I would say that there were well over one thousand, quite possibly nearing two thousand. The next thing I noticed (it was probably more of a tie, though) was the massive “float” being carried by about a dozen men. This “float” depicted Jesus praying on the hill, complete with paper maché Jesus, a young man dressed as an angel, ample fluorescent lighting, and a humming generator to power the lights. Behind this “float” (I say “float” and not float because there was no car involved at all. Unlike the wimpy Stampede floats, this was carried on the back of a dozen men.) was a large platform with a paper maché Mary. This was carried by a group of women. Before being able to notice any more, and believe me there was more, we bought some candles because everyone else was doing it and I have no ability to resist peer pressure. The procession was so crowded that I thought for sure that someone would get burned with all of the candles around. I took it upon myself to fulfill that role. Shortly after lighting my candle, I lost my focus and nearly burned Amy’s hair. Just after that, I didn’t get my candle-holding angles quite right and lit my candle’s wind-protection cardboard on fire. The young boy with us laughed at me and with that, I cut my losses, blew out the candle, kept on processing.
A few other procession observations are notable, mostly because I have never seen them before (though I haven’t ever really been in a procession). Firstly, the men holding up the “float” are surrounded by another group dressed in purple robes and black hooded caps with eye holes. They were scary. Secondly, apparently tubas make good procession music. Despite the somber tone of the whole affair, I couldn’t help but smile only because I find it incredibly difficult to take tubas seriously. You know that “wah, wah” sound a tuba makes? Picture that behind a group of thousands of people, some holding a “float”, some visible only through small eye holes. Also, I learned that procession routes change year to year. Our neighbours, only wanting to participate in a portion of the procession, ran up a few blocks after our initial contact with the procession, planning to catch the procession as it went by and spend some time at the front of the procession (maybe that’s the best spot?). Unfortunately, while this strategy would have been foolproof last year, the route changed this year, which left us sitting on someone’s stoop for about an hour before deciding to just go home. We did get another procession glimpse, though, as we passed through the procession on our way home (it was about six blocks from where we had been sitting. It would have taken about 2 hours to cover that distance. Processions are not about speed, apparently. The whole procession went from 9:00 PM until 2:00 AM. We stayed for about two hours. My faith isn’t that strong, apparently.)
So that was Thursday. It was a pretty extensive procession experience so, despite being invited, I figured I would skip Friday’s procession. Because of some fluke timing, though, I figured wrong, because although I had no desire to participate in the procession, I did have a need for money. As I walked to the bank machines, I heard more tuba music. That did not bode well. As I got to the bank, I saw that the front of the procession had just reached the bank. Not wanting to pull out a decent sum of money and then wade into a crowd of well over a thousand people, I decided to wait. And wait. And wait. Remember what I said about processions and speed? Good Friday processions are no different. In the time it took the six-block procession to clear from the bank area, I managed to take several pictures of sawdust paintings of the stations of the cross (which the procession very coolly parts around as it proceeds until the very last few people who destroy the display), take a ten block walk around the central part of town, listen to two stations of the cross, and witness about 20 minutes of the parade. All of the now familiar procession elements of the procession were there on Friday as well, although there were way more people, the real-person angel on the “float” had been changed into a real-person Mary Magdalene, and paper-maché Jesus on the hill became paper-maché Jesus carrying the cross. Purple folks were still purple and tuba players were still playing inappropriate rum-pum-pum music. Another delightful element of Friday’s procession was the vulture ice cream and hot dog vendors, trying to take advantage of people’s heat exhaustion and hunger (apparently the hot dog vendors didn’t study up on Good Friday because I am reasonably certain you can’t eat meat on Good Friday. Or maybe they did consider that and are sending a powerful message about hot dog meat content…). The ice cream vendors were quite funny because during the silent prayer time, all you could here was the constant, never-ending ringing of the ice cream bell.
Although these processions were special Easter events (I had no other encounters, but am told that there were two others on Saturday and Sunday), these processions also fit into a larger phenomenon in Estelí (and Nicaragua, I have been told) relating to the love of parades. Everything has a parade and/or is paraded down main street. Estelí is particularly parade-friendly because it has a clearly defined, relatively busy main street that almost seems tailor-made for parades. What gets paraded? Normally I have absolutely no idea, to be honest. I just see commotion and go take a look. Here’s what I normally see: The parade is led by a truck with balloons and loudspeakers that is driving incredibly slowly, setting the pace for the parade. An outrageous noise that is probably announcing the reason for the parade is being emitted from the loudspeakers but, like with the announcement cars, it is way too loud for me to understand it. Every once in a while there is some sort of princess-dressed girl and/or lady in the back of this truck (big pageant fans here. There was a pageant month in the newspaper from mid-February until mid-March.). Behind this truck is normally some sort of dance troupe, normally counting about two dozen young men and women dancing to whatever racket kids dance to these days. I don’t think that “troupe” is the right word, or has been the right word since the 1950s, but I can’t really think of the hip word at this point. These dancers are normally dancing to the music blaring from a second truck, right behind them. The tail end of the parade is then a high school marching band and/or drumline. Unless Hollywood has lied to me, drumline is absolutely the hip word for this. A few parade variations that I have seen include: a truck full of tigers, camels, and miniature horses replacing the high school band (the circus was in town), rabid political supporters replacing the dance troupe (a “counter-protest”, officially, but I can’t help but think that the love of parades played a role), and Movistar phone mascots, which are actually big blue rectangles, added in front of the dancers. I know what you are thinking. Who has a rectangle as a mascot? Movistar does. That’s why I have a Claro phone. They don’t have mascots.
In the final Easter weekend event, today (Sunday), we had invited some guests over for lunch. We decided to make satay chicken, pasta, salad, and coconut-rum balls for dessert. This all happened entirely uneventfully except for the fact that we needed coconut milk for the satay and coconut shavings for the balls. This meant buying coconuts. No problems so far. This also meant getting the milk out of the coconut and the meat out of the coconut as well. Herein lay a dilemma. Without many kitchen utensils, and certainly without a machete (those really, really scare me), here was our (Amy and I) incredibly lengthy process, without a word of exaggeration:
1. Debate about which tools to use to puncture the coconut (to get the milk out). Several tools are vetoed including: pocket knife (that would close and cut off a finger), rusty nail in the bathroom (see Wikipedia entry for: tetanus, causes of), fork (uselessly weak… kind of like me, really), and floppy knife. A screwdriver is suggested. No screwdriver is found.
2. We settle on clean, sterilized nail pulled out of the wall in the bedroom. We thoroughly clean said nail, put it under fire, bleach it, and repeat the process. We now have a puncturing instrument.
3. Debate on how to get the nail into the coconut. The obvious answer is the meat mallet. There is no further debate.
4. The nail is driven into the coconut. Getting the nail out should have been part of the debate, apparently. The pocket knife is used to successfully pry the nail out of the coconut.
5. Attempt #1 to get the milk out. We soon discover the need for an air hole. Steps three and 4 are repeated.
6. Attempt #2 to get the milk out. We have a slow, slow drip but it is going about as fast as the processions so we take drastic actions, prying the holes wider with a large, two-tonged meat fork. This is entirely unsuccessful.
7. Major advance… we have found a screwdriver.
8. Holding the coconut with a set of tongs, the screwdriver is pounded into the coconut. The hissing sound is a welcome sound.
9. We successfully pour the milk out of coconut #1.
10. Having found the appropriate milking method, we repeat steps 8 and 9 with coconuts 2 and 3.
11. With three milked coconuts in hand, we consider how to get the coconuts open to reveal the meat. We try the aforementioned floppy knife. Even with a meat mallet pounding it, that knife is useless.
12. We are worried about breaking the countertop so we move outside.
13. We decide to slam the nail back into the coconut. There was really no rationale for this step. It is an entirely extraneous step (as is the case with well over half of these, I imagine).
14. We discuss our progress and realize that while all other tools have proven borderline useless, we do have one tool that has yet to fail us: the meat mallet. We decide to just forego all other tools and pound the coconut with the meat mallet.
15. Success! Who knew? Coconut flies about our back patio. We commit to washing the coconut before using it.
16. We realize that there is a fine layer of skin remaining on the coconut. It unfortunately cannot be removed with a meat mallet.
17. We spend about an hour whittling the skin off of the coconut with the useless kitchen knife and a pocket knife. Peeling coconuts sucks. How I didn’t lose a finger is completely beyond me.
18. We have delicious, peeled chunks of fresh coconut. We rejoice.
19. We reread the recipe and realize that it doesn’t call for “delicious, peeled chunks”, but flaked coconut. We are tired and do not feel safe using knifes.
20. Pretending that they are coffee beans that can just be ground, we throw the coconut chunks into the blender. Success! We haven’t felt this happy since we found the screwdriver!
21. Flaked coconut abounds (and still does). Our entire kitchen, back patio, side patio, and dining room are covered in coconut chunks, flakes, shells, and goop. We curse at the mess that we have to clean.
If any of this sounds unbelievable, I invite you to peruse the photo diary and video journal below. The first photo was taken at 4:16 PM and the last one (the blender) at 5:44 PM. All of this for three coconuts. Pay close attention to the sheer number of tools in each picture and video. Every one of those was involved in the process at some point.
I spent a long time trying to load these pictures and videos and they would not load. I will try tomorrow because they are so awesome.
The final result, though, was delicious, continues to be delicious (yay leftovers!), and marks the end of this blog entry. Happy Easter!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Guess who discovered how to post videos!
It happened. Amy and I had the talk. The elephant in the room, who has been quietly eating chocobananos, beans, and rice pudding (my second favourite treat of all time: arroz con leche. How three simple words can lead to hours of satisfaction is beyond me.), has finally been made explicit. All it took was one simple question. A question that we have been avoiding for the last three months: If your mother were to send you a care package, what would be in this care package? This question is cruel (and has thus been avoided) for many reasons:
1. My mother is the queen of care packages. No one else comes close to the wonderfulness of a Mother Ellen Terstappen care package.
2. I have no address here so care packages are entirely out of the question.
3. People have been getting Mother Ellen Terstappen care packages in my place (ahem, Rebecca Ross) and have been bragging about them via webcam.
4. Thinking of care packages makes me very emotional, as well as very hungry.
Regardless, since the question was raised, an answer had to be given. My dream care package (which mom always gets to fit into a shoebox which is really quite incredible in and of itself) would include: (1) a few cans of tuna (the stuff stamped “FOR EXPORT ONLY” here screams mercury poisoning), (2) Hilde cake (any kind would do. My housemates have also been told about the greatness of Hilde cake but rest assured that I would not even think of sharing. I wouldn´t even let them lick the crumbs off of the table. That too would be my job), (3) dropjes (Dutch licorice. Also not to be shared.), (4) more Nok Out industrial strength odor eliminator (because if a package were coming anyways, I just ran out of the stuff and things are getting stinky.), (5) flavoured Triscuits, (6) Jelly Bellies (the last small pack that I had lasted over a month because of my excellent rationing skills), (7) Cadbury mini eggs (because it’s Easter and the rate at which the Terstappen family goes through these things at Easter time is outrageous. They basically become a new food group in our home for a few weeks) and (7) Sun Rype fruit bars (I took a box of 12 with me. I should have taken a box of 120.). That is all. If you excuse me, I now have to go cry and think of not eating these things.
The good news is that I’m going to Atlanta for a coffee event next week so will be able to make my own care package to take back with me. I imagine that a few items will not be findable in Atlanta (I’m looking at you Hilde cake and licorice), and a few others may be confiscated at customs, but I look forward to trying. In all honesty, though, food cravings have been kept to a minimum and I quite like the food here, especially the fruit, the non-stop beans, the fresh bread and tropical jam (I will tell you about the Doña Carmen Challenge next posting), tortillas, and the sweet treats, but our conversation sure got my stomach gurgling. Though that might be another sick spell coming on…
I am pleased to announce, however, that my last sick spell, the self-diagnosed heat exhaustion (apparently heat stroke is when you can’t sweat. Rest assured that I can sweat. I have a delightful beady sweat mustache that I sport throughout the day. Therefore, I had heat exhaustion, not heat stroke), has been cured. The cure, and subsequent continued treatment, has been an enormous quantity of water that is anywhere between 5 and 8 liters of water everyday. It’s quite wonderful except I can’t leave the house for more than 30 minutes at a time because I pee about 47 times every day, throughout the day. As a house, we go through two of those Culligan water jugs every three or four days. Which means we have to pick up two new ones every three or four days. We’re like a whole troop of Culligan men (and women), except that unlike the Culligan Man, we have to carry these incredibly heavy and awkward jugs about six blocks to our house. In the heat. Past the pile of rotting oranges (which have recently been joined by watermelons). The jugs may not actually be all that heavy but I have been atrophying here, don’t forget. We could also take a cab but who wants to pay a dollar for that?
My saving grace, given the outrageous heat, is that the nights still cool down nicely (another saving grace is that I’ve adopted the belly button pose for in the house. It is not pretty.). We have the doors wide open from about 6:00 until bedtime which is wonderful on every day except for Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. If you have been following this blog you know exactly why leaving the doors open on those days is unfortunate. Speaking of our evangelical neighbours, I have bad news for anyone who was holding out hope that I could get the code for the weak wireless signal that we sometimes get in our house. That’s right, I’m pretty sure that it belongs to the church. Since we are not on speaking terms, they and I, (the only thing that I will ever say to them will be a public declaration of a feud. It will be like yelling "citizen´s arrest!", only it will signal the start of a feud to the death) the wireless signal appears to be a lost cause. We are still going to try the password “gloria a dios” (because they chant it for about an hour and a half without stopping for a breath), but I’m not optimistic…
Hey, I have a fun story. Guess what I did on Friday? I ate three quarters of a cow and then went to sing karaoke. We (the housemates and a few friends) started the night by getting all dressed up (I only wore a t-shirt and shorts but did shave… so that’s something. It didn’t compare to the layers of make-up worn by our Nicaraguan friends. Outrageous amounts of it. I can’t even make a comparison to anything I have ever seen. They also decided to do Amy and Xochi´s make-up. Amy describes the look as Shotgun Shelly and made me promise not to put a picture up.) and then looking for a classy place to eat. The Tip-Top (a weird, bizarro world KFC where somewhere opens the door for you when you arrive, customers are dressed in business casual attire, and business meetings are happening at some of the tables) was too far away so we went to Hambur-Loco. It, too, was like a bizarro world, with weird Disney paintings on the wall, an outdoor park that had been thrown inside (think McDonald’s play area with a see-saw and tire swing), and a foosball table that the owner was incredibly, incredibly proud of. Being that we were at Hambur-loco, I naturally ordered Combo #5, the Hambur-loco. At this point I had absolutely no idea what the Hambur-loco was, only that it would be my first hamburger in a long, long time. Here is a line-by-line description of the Hambur-loco, beginning from the bottom and going up:
- Bottom of a hamburger bun
- Bean paste / spread
- Mayonnaise and/or mustard
- Meat (beef?) patty
- Meat (beef?) patty (not a typo. There were two.)
- Tomato
- Bottom of hamburger bun
- Lettuce leaf
- Ketchup
- Meat (beef?) patty (that’s right, folks, a third one!)
- Top of sesame seed bun
The Hambur-loco was incredibly, incredibly delicious. I have reason to believe that I gained 5 pounds after that meal. Now, through the magic of the Internet, you can watch me eat my Hambur-loco. As you can see, one of our friends was entirely, entirely uninterested in my eating the burger.
2. I have no address here so care packages are entirely out of the question.
3. People have been getting Mother Ellen Terstappen care packages in my place (ahem, Rebecca Ross) and have been bragging about them via webcam.
4. Thinking of care packages makes me very emotional, as well as very hungry.
Regardless, since the question was raised, an answer had to be given. My dream care package (which mom always gets to fit into a shoebox which is really quite incredible in and of itself) would include: (1) a few cans of tuna (the stuff stamped “FOR EXPORT ONLY” here screams mercury poisoning), (2) Hilde cake (any kind would do. My housemates have also been told about the greatness of Hilde cake but rest assured that I would not even think of sharing. I wouldn´t even let them lick the crumbs off of the table. That too would be my job), (3) dropjes (Dutch licorice. Also not to be shared.), (4) more Nok Out industrial strength odor eliminator (because if a package were coming anyways, I just ran out of the stuff and things are getting stinky.), (5) flavoured Triscuits, (6) Jelly Bellies (the last small pack that I had lasted over a month because of my excellent rationing skills), (7) Cadbury mini eggs (because it’s Easter and the rate at which the Terstappen family goes through these things at Easter time is outrageous. They basically become a new food group in our home for a few weeks) and (7) Sun Rype fruit bars (I took a box of 12 with me. I should have taken a box of 120.). That is all. If you excuse me, I now have to go cry and think of not eating these things.
The good news is that I’m going to Atlanta for a coffee event next week so will be able to make my own care package to take back with me. I imagine that a few items will not be findable in Atlanta (I’m looking at you Hilde cake and licorice), and a few others may be confiscated at customs, but I look forward to trying. In all honesty, though, food cravings have been kept to a minimum and I quite like the food here, especially the fruit, the non-stop beans, the fresh bread and tropical jam (I will tell you about the Doña Carmen Challenge next posting), tortillas, and the sweet treats, but our conversation sure got my stomach gurgling. Though that might be another sick spell coming on…
I am pleased to announce, however, that my last sick spell, the self-diagnosed heat exhaustion (apparently heat stroke is when you can’t sweat. Rest assured that I can sweat. I have a delightful beady sweat mustache that I sport throughout the day. Therefore, I had heat exhaustion, not heat stroke), has been cured. The cure, and subsequent continued treatment, has been an enormous quantity of water that is anywhere between 5 and 8 liters of water everyday. It’s quite wonderful except I can’t leave the house for more than 30 minutes at a time because I pee about 47 times every day, throughout the day. As a house, we go through two of those Culligan water jugs every three or four days. Which means we have to pick up two new ones every three or four days. We’re like a whole troop of Culligan men (and women), except that unlike the Culligan Man, we have to carry these incredibly heavy and awkward jugs about six blocks to our house. In the heat. Past the pile of rotting oranges (which have recently been joined by watermelons). The jugs may not actually be all that heavy but I have been atrophying here, don’t forget. We could also take a cab but who wants to pay a dollar for that?
My saving grace, given the outrageous heat, is that the nights still cool down nicely (another saving grace is that I’ve adopted the belly button pose for in the house. It is not pretty.). We have the doors wide open from about 6:00 until bedtime which is wonderful on every day except for Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. If you have been following this blog you know exactly why leaving the doors open on those days is unfortunate. Speaking of our evangelical neighbours, I have bad news for anyone who was holding out hope that I could get the code for the weak wireless signal that we sometimes get in our house. That’s right, I’m pretty sure that it belongs to the church. Since we are not on speaking terms, they and I, (the only thing that I will ever say to them will be a public declaration of a feud. It will be like yelling "citizen´s arrest!", only it will signal the start of a feud to the death) the wireless signal appears to be a lost cause. We are still going to try the password “gloria a dios” (because they chant it for about an hour and a half without stopping for a breath), but I’m not optimistic…
Hey, I have a fun story. Guess what I did on Friday? I ate three quarters of a cow and then went to sing karaoke. We (the housemates and a few friends) started the night by getting all dressed up (I only wore a t-shirt and shorts but did shave… so that’s something. It didn’t compare to the layers of make-up worn by our Nicaraguan friends. Outrageous amounts of it. I can’t even make a comparison to anything I have ever seen. They also decided to do Amy and Xochi´s make-up. Amy describes the look as Shotgun Shelly and made me promise not to put a picture up.) and then looking for a classy place to eat. The Tip-Top (a weird, bizarro world KFC where somewhere opens the door for you when you arrive, customers are dressed in business casual attire, and business meetings are happening at some of the tables) was too far away so we went to Hambur-Loco. It, too, was like a bizarro world, with weird Disney paintings on the wall, an outdoor park that had been thrown inside (think McDonald’s play area with a see-saw and tire swing), and a foosball table that the owner was incredibly, incredibly proud of. Being that we were at Hambur-loco, I naturally ordered Combo #5, the Hambur-loco. At this point I had absolutely no idea what the Hambur-loco was, only that it would be my first hamburger in a long, long time. Here is a line-by-line description of the Hambur-loco, beginning from the bottom and going up:
- Bottom of a hamburger bun
- Bean paste / spread
- Mayonnaise and/or mustard
- Meat (beef?) patty
- Meat (beef?) patty (not a typo. There were two.)
- Tomato
- Bottom of hamburger bun
- Lettuce leaf
- Ketchup
- Meat (beef?) patty (that’s right, folks, a third one!)
- Top of sesame seed bun
The Hambur-loco was incredibly, incredibly delicious. I have reason to believe that I gained 5 pounds after that meal. Now, through the magic of the Internet, you can watch me eat my Hambur-loco. As you can see, one of our friends was entirely, entirely uninterested in my eating the burger.
After the Hambur-loco, we went to a karaoke bar. This is me rocking out (this was actually the pre-karaoke dance music. Do you remember the Venga Bus? I sure didn´t until Friday.) I have never been to a karaoke bar so I can’t say with certainty that this was different from in Canada but it was certainly different from karaoke bars in movies. Instead of having one machine with a sort of stage, there were TVs all over the place with the words to the songs that had been requested (and the requesting person stayed at their table with a microphone to lead the charge). Everything went more or less smoothly (sappy Spanish love songs abounded) until a song requested by a man who I can only assume was Satan began to play. That song was Unforgiven, a song whose lyrics you need to see on screens all around you in order to appreciate how frightening it is, and is a song in English. This posed a few problems for those in the bar. Unlike the other songs, no one sang along because (1) they didn’t know the words, (2) they didn’t know the tune, and (3) Satan was scaring them. Let me explain the latter point. As I mentioned, whoever requests the song gets the microphone. Satan requested the song so Satan got the microphone. Are we following? Unfortunately, Satan didn’t seem to speak English and decided to growl (that’s my best description, I can’t think of another word. Perhaps the video below will help.) the tune of the song. Think Darth Vader. Only with some sort of horrible throat infection. And no vocabulary. Or just watch the video. What you think is background noise is actually the voice of Satan. You should also know that Satan and his friends have a special "congratulations on rocking that song and giving everyone nightmares" handshake.
Also this past week, they fumigated our house. A man came to the door, declared himself as a Ministry of Health employee, said they were fumigating because of Dengue fever and, as Stanley Milgram would have predicted, I told him to come right on in. I don’t know if it was because our house is big or because they thought that I might have a weak immune system and therefore might need some extra fumes (I am looking a bit gaunt. And white.), but the smoke in our house took well over twenty minutes longer to clear than any other house on the block (the smell still lingers a bit). The smoke was so thick, I could not see a thing (I was obviously outside when this was happening but went in once to get my camera – I couldn’t find it because of the smoke – and went in another time to open the doors, because the smoke had gone absolutely nowhere after 10 minutes. It was thick, and stopping, dropping, and rolling didn’t help. Neither did my t-shirt pulled up over my mouth as a homemade gas mask. I will let my public health / infection prevention readers give their expert opinion, but I have reason to believe that I may have traded the risk of Dengue for 13 years of function that have now been taken off of my lungs because of the fumes. I hope that I made the right choice. I forgot to close my paranthesis.
I think that that is all that I have to share for now. The town is shutting down for the “holy week” so I may become bored and update the blog then. Or the Internet café might be closed. Happy Easter either way! Enjoy your mini-eggs. I won’t be. Sigh.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Fotos in Nederlands and a few bus stories in English
Happy April Fools’ Day everyone! I have not yet been pranked (or punk’d, whatever it is the cool kids say nowadays), and have reason to believe that I will make it through the day prank-free. Why, you ask? There are two reasons. First, I’m feeling a little bit sick (I’ve officially blamed dehydration and heat stroke because I refuse to blame chocobananos), so my housemates will likely give me a free pass. Secondly, I’m relatively certain that everyone who is not my housemate has never heard of April Fools’ Day. That’s not the only occasion that we “celebrate” in Canada that doesn’t pop up here in Estelí. About a month ago, I was babbling on endlessly to my teacher about the awesomeness of Mardi Gras only to be greeted by a blank stare and what I can only assume were internal, unspoken condemnations of my flamboyant lifestyle. Try explaining the logic behind Mardi Gras to someone who has never heard of it. I think it went something like: “You have to give something up and/or cut back on certain things for Lent so on Mardi Gras, the day before Lent starts, you feast on deliciousness. Lots and lots of deliciousness. You pretty much eat more food on that day than any other day of the year so that you’re too sick of those food items to even want them during Lent. It’s awesome.” My explanation was unsuccessful. What makes this weirder is that the Carnaval in Brazil (which is Mardi Gras, isn’t it?) was a front page news story complete with nipples in the accompanying pictures. The Carnaval woman was very slender, no spare tire there. (That line has been typed only because it serves as a segue into the next story).
Speaking of tires (do you see why that extraneous sentence was necessary?), there were two very exciting tire incidents in the last couple of weeks. First, I was so excited to tell you all about my experience as bus assistant on the ride back from Miraflor that I completely forgot to tell you that one of the bus’ tires exploded about 30 minutes outside of town. Here we were, rumbling down a hill at speeds that should be illegal (and probably are), careening around turns, when all of a sudden, we hear an enormous bang and smoke and dust (as well as the horrendous smell of burnt rubber) rise from the left side of the bus. The sound was incredible. So incredible, in fact, that it made the five foreigners on the bus jump in fright (one of us screamed) and everyone else blink. I don’t think that the chicken lady even moved. This must happen often. Anyways, the bus didn’t stop, so we figured that it was just waiting to get to flat ground. When we got to the flat ground, though, we kept right on rumbling along, apparently content to drive on five tires instead of six (the bus has two tires on each side of the back). Safety is totally over-rated.
In the second tire related incident, I was cooking some supper (pasta and tomato/veggie sauce) when all of a sudden there was an enormous bang outside. Thinking that (1) the apocalypse had come just as our evangelical neighbours have been predicting in their songs or (2) our street, one of the only two-way streets in the central part of Estelí, had finally hosted its first accident, I ran to the door, spatula in hand (to protect me from the apocalypse and/or scrape accident-remnants from our wall). What I saw was even weirder than options 1 and 2. There were children playing, people sitting and chatting, and dogs sleeping. When I asked what had happened (and why there weren’t dead people around), someone said that a bus tire had blown up. No one had even flinched. The bus was gone so apparently it, too, was content cruising along missing a tire.
Bus incident aside, we did still have to eat that night and unfortunately my cookery skills (which I like to think are epic) took a bit of a hit. We had been sitting outside with our neighbour and invited her over for supper. I should have seen her reaction to my food coming because when we told her that we were having pasta and tomato/veggie sauce, her response was “is that all?” Once inside, and with our bowls in front of us, she asked where the vegetables were. Confused, I listed all of the veggies in the sauce: green peppers, red peppers, tomatoes, onions… She then made the bold claim that those aren’t vegetables. I thought that we were going to get into this weird “tomato is actually a fruit” discussion (it is), but was surprised that her definition of vegetable depends on nothing else but the size of a vegetable. Apparently my sauce didn’t have vegetables because it didn’t have “large” vegetables, like plantains, carrots, or cucumber. She didn’t explain to me what exactly my vegetables were defined as, but did assure me that they weren’t vegetables. Also, she didn’t like the pasta. Who doesn’t like pasta? It doesn’t really taste like anything. She will likely not come over for supper again.
This same neighbour, you may remember, is the same person who took my picture in the community centre while I was being artsy and admiring art stuff. She must be completely unable to sleep over this because every time I talk to her, she brings it up. I think that we may have achieved some closure over the meal, though. Trying to explain herself (and not realizing that (1) had she not said anything earlier I would have had no clue that she was the one to take my picture and (2) I don’t really care anymore), she provided me with her rationale on that fateful February day. Apparently, she took my picture because she thought she’d never see me again (a strange ethical standard, but to each his or her own, I suppose). Also, it wasn’t even her camera (it was her friend’s) and she doesn’t have the picture anymore. Also, had she known that I would end up as her neighbour, she totally wouldn’t have taken the picture (rule of thumb, folks. Before doing anything, you should ask yourself: what if this person moves in across the street from me in three weeks?). And with those deep confessions, apparently her conscience (sp?) was cleared. She can sleep soundly once again. Unless she has nightmares about my pasta dish.
That was my last story but I will share that I met someone yesterday named Lesbia. I had to get her to repeat it a few times and still don’t really want to use her name. It was awkward.
I unfortunately have no TED Talk factoid because things have been rather busy and my study breaks have been taken up mostly by Minesweeper. I also don’t have a Yahtzee update, despite playing dozens of games while I was recovering from my heat stroke yesterday (an ongoing process) and despite recently starting to sneak Yahtzee into the washroom. Maybe that’s what made me sick…
I do, however, have pictures for you. Enjoy them heartily. I have included Dutch captions because when I was recently asked to speak French, I found myself physically incapable of doing so (it was scary because it all came out as Spanish). I do not want the same thing to happen to my beloved mother tongue.
Dit is een foto van mij vakantie met Rebecca. Op ons laatste dag bij de Laguna de Apoyo (en meer de in de crater van en volkaan is), waaren wij heel vroeg op ge staan om wat aapen te zoeken. Wij hadden success in dit is de foto van de eerste aap dat wij hebben gezien. Daarna hadden wij nog en paar meer gezien (en gehoord- ze makken ontzetend veel geluid), maar deze eerste was heel spannend! Ons cameras hebben niet zo groot zoom, zo dit has de beste dat wij had kunnen doen.
Dit is de catedraal in de stad van Granada. Het is en heel mooi stad met veel kleuren en dit soort architectuur. Wij hadden de bel toor kunnen klimmen en van daar uit was de uitsicht heel mooi (daar zijn niet veel grote gebouwen zo wij hadden heel ver in ieder richting kunnen kijken).
Rebecca en ik bij een van de volkaanen in Masaya. Deze volkaan in de foto was niet aktief maar daar was een volkaan die heel aktief was (met veel rook en wij hadden gas kunnen ruiken). Rebecca had de eerste dag in Nicaragua net niet genoeg zonnenscherm aan en daarom is haar neus en beetje rood! Masaya, Granada, en de zuid deel van Nicaragua waar wij hadden rond gegaan is veel, veel heeter als Estelí. Als mij project in die stadden was geweest, had ik niet door kunnen gaan!
Ik weet niet de nederlandse woord voor "bat". Maar hier zijn daar en paar.
De bar bij ons hotel in de Laguna de Apoyo. Het was heel leuk (of interesant) om in de meer te zwemmen want niemand weet precies hoe diep die meer is en de water is een beetje warm en ruikt aan sulfur.
De strand in San Juan del Sur. De water was schitterend, de strand was heel mooi, en de zon was heet, maar daar waren steets niet veel mensen in de stad (of in andere plekken in de land). Ik denk dat in een paar jaaren zaal de touriste meer kommen.
Ik had mijself gewoggen dit wiekend en ik heb tussen de 7 en 9 kilos verlooren in de 2.5 maanden dat ik hier ben geweest. Mama dacht dat dit te veel was en dat ik niet gezond was. Zij wilden een foto van mij zien om zeeker te zijn dat ik niet te klein ben. Dit is en foto van mij die op zaterdag was genoomen (in de "communist" bar in Estelí- de kranten op die tafel zijn van de USSR). Ik zie er vrij gezond uit, nee?
Ook en foto van zaterdag, in de stad van Condega. In de "Revolution", hebben de Sandanistas een van de vliegteugen van de "Guardia" (van de dictator Somoza) van de lucht geschooten. Dit is die vliegteug. (Ik heb en andere korte broek aan want ik had in deze broek gezwommen in Condega en die was steets te nat om uit te gaan...)
Wij hadden 10 cent moeten betallen voor dit foto. Dit groote vrouw en kleine man gaan naar en festival.
Dit is ik een boom in Miraflor aan het climmen. Deze boom begint als "roots" de rond en andere boom grooter worden tot dat die origineel boom niet meer kaan leefen. Die boom (die vroeger binnen van de boom in de foto was) kan miet meer leefen en wat over is is alleen dit "hollow" boom, die je bijna helemaal kan climmen. Ik had tien meeter of zo kunnen klimmen.
Deze twee fotos zijn gemaakt met de "macro-zoom" op mij camera. Ik vind dit feature heel leuk in ik gebruik het heel veel. Een beetje te veel, mischien.
Mij paard voor ons dag in Miraflor. Zijn naam was "Mariposa" en zij has een goeie paard tot dat ze een vaan de andere mensen geschoop. Mij knien deeden heel, heel veel pijn naar dit dag want ik denk dat mij "stirrups" een beetje te hoog waaren.
Speaking of tires (do you see why that extraneous sentence was necessary?), there were two very exciting tire incidents in the last couple of weeks. First, I was so excited to tell you all about my experience as bus assistant on the ride back from Miraflor that I completely forgot to tell you that one of the bus’ tires exploded about 30 minutes outside of town. Here we were, rumbling down a hill at speeds that should be illegal (and probably are), careening around turns, when all of a sudden, we hear an enormous bang and smoke and dust (as well as the horrendous smell of burnt rubber) rise from the left side of the bus. The sound was incredible. So incredible, in fact, that it made the five foreigners on the bus jump in fright (one of us screamed) and everyone else blink. I don’t think that the chicken lady even moved. This must happen often. Anyways, the bus didn’t stop, so we figured that it was just waiting to get to flat ground. When we got to the flat ground, though, we kept right on rumbling along, apparently content to drive on five tires instead of six (the bus has two tires on each side of the back). Safety is totally over-rated.
In the second tire related incident, I was cooking some supper (pasta and tomato/veggie sauce) when all of a sudden there was an enormous bang outside. Thinking that (1) the apocalypse had come just as our evangelical neighbours have been predicting in their songs or (2) our street, one of the only two-way streets in the central part of Estelí, had finally hosted its first accident, I ran to the door, spatula in hand (to protect me from the apocalypse and/or scrape accident-remnants from our wall). What I saw was even weirder than options 1 and 2. There were children playing, people sitting and chatting, and dogs sleeping. When I asked what had happened (and why there weren’t dead people around), someone said that a bus tire had blown up. No one had even flinched. The bus was gone so apparently it, too, was content cruising along missing a tire.
Bus incident aside, we did still have to eat that night and unfortunately my cookery skills (which I like to think are epic) took a bit of a hit. We had been sitting outside with our neighbour and invited her over for supper. I should have seen her reaction to my food coming because when we told her that we were having pasta and tomato/veggie sauce, her response was “is that all?” Once inside, and with our bowls in front of us, she asked where the vegetables were. Confused, I listed all of the veggies in the sauce: green peppers, red peppers, tomatoes, onions… She then made the bold claim that those aren’t vegetables. I thought that we were going to get into this weird “tomato is actually a fruit” discussion (it is), but was surprised that her definition of vegetable depends on nothing else but the size of a vegetable. Apparently my sauce didn’t have vegetables because it didn’t have “large” vegetables, like plantains, carrots, or cucumber. She didn’t explain to me what exactly my vegetables were defined as, but did assure me that they weren’t vegetables. Also, she didn’t like the pasta. Who doesn’t like pasta? It doesn’t really taste like anything. She will likely not come over for supper again.
This same neighbour, you may remember, is the same person who took my picture in the community centre while I was being artsy and admiring art stuff. She must be completely unable to sleep over this because every time I talk to her, she brings it up. I think that we may have achieved some closure over the meal, though. Trying to explain herself (and not realizing that (1) had she not said anything earlier I would have had no clue that she was the one to take my picture and (2) I don’t really care anymore), she provided me with her rationale on that fateful February day. Apparently, she took my picture because she thought she’d never see me again (a strange ethical standard, but to each his or her own, I suppose). Also, it wasn’t even her camera (it was her friend’s) and she doesn’t have the picture anymore. Also, had she known that I would end up as her neighbour, she totally wouldn’t have taken the picture (rule of thumb, folks. Before doing anything, you should ask yourself: what if this person moves in across the street from me in three weeks?). And with those deep confessions, apparently her conscience (sp?) was cleared. She can sleep soundly once again. Unless she has nightmares about my pasta dish.
That was my last story but I will share that I met someone yesterday named Lesbia. I had to get her to repeat it a few times and still don’t really want to use her name. It was awkward.
I unfortunately have no TED Talk factoid because things have been rather busy and my study breaks have been taken up mostly by Minesweeper. I also don’t have a Yahtzee update, despite playing dozens of games while I was recovering from my heat stroke yesterday (an ongoing process) and despite recently starting to sneak Yahtzee into the washroom. Maybe that’s what made me sick…
I do, however, have pictures for you. Enjoy them heartily. I have included Dutch captions because when I was recently asked to speak French, I found myself physically incapable of doing so (it was scary because it all came out as Spanish). I do not want the same thing to happen to my beloved mother tongue.
Dit is een foto van mij vakantie met Rebecca. Op ons laatste dag bij de Laguna de Apoyo (en meer de in de crater van en volkaan is), waaren wij heel vroeg op ge staan om wat aapen te zoeken. Wij hadden success in dit is de foto van de eerste aap dat wij hebben gezien. Daarna hadden wij nog en paar meer gezien (en gehoord- ze makken ontzetend veel geluid), maar deze eerste was heel spannend! Ons cameras hebben niet zo groot zoom, zo dit has de beste dat wij had kunnen doen.
Dit is de catedraal in de stad van Granada. Het is en heel mooi stad met veel kleuren en dit soort architectuur. Wij hadden de bel toor kunnen klimmen en van daar uit was de uitsicht heel mooi (daar zijn niet veel grote gebouwen zo wij hadden heel ver in ieder richting kunnen kijken).
Rebecca en ik bij een van de volkaanen in Masaya. Deze volkaan in de foto was niet aktief maar daar was een volkaan die heel aktief was (met veel rook en wij hadden gas kunnen ruiken). Rebecca had de eerste dag in Nicaragua net niet genoeg zonnenscherm aan en daarom is haar neus en beetje rood! Masaya, Granada, en de zuid deel van Nicaragua waar wij hadden rond gegaan is veel, veel heeter als Estelí. Als mij project in die stadden was geweest, had ik niet door kunnen gaan!
Ik weet niet de nederlandse woord voor "bat". Maar hier zijn daar en paar.
De bar bij ons hotel in de Laguna de Apoyo. Het was heel leuk (of interesant) om in de meer te zwemmen want niemand weet precies hoe diep die meer is en de water is een beetje warm en ruikt aan sulfur.
De strand in San Juan del Sur. De water was schitterend, de strand was heel mooi, en de zon was heet, maar daar waren steets niet veel mensen in de stad (of in andere plekken in de land). Ik denk dat in een paar jaaren zaal de touriste meer kommen.
Ik had mijself gewoggen dit wiekend en ik heb tussen de 7 en 9 kilos verlooren in de 2.5 maanden dat ik hier ben geweest. Mama dacht dat dit te veel was en dat ik niet gezond was. Zij wilden een foto van mij zien om zeeker te zijn dat ik niet te klein ben. Dit is en foto van mij die op zaterdag was genoomen (in de "communist" bar in Estelí- de kranten op die tafel zijn van de USSR). Ik zie er vrij gezond uit, nee?
Ook en foto van zaterdag, in de stad van Condega. In de "Revolution", hebben de Sandanistas een van de vliegteugen van de "Guardia" (van de dictator Somoza) van de lucht geschooten. Dit is die vliegteug. (Ik heb en andere korte broek aan want ik had in deze broek gezwommen in Condega en die was steets te nat om uit te gaan...)
Wij hadden 10 cent moeten betallen voor dit foto. Dit groote vrouw en kleine man gaan naar en festival.
Dit is ik een boom in Miraflor aan het climmen. Deze boom begint als "roots" de rond en andere boom grooter worden tot dat die origineel boom niet meer kaan leefen. Die boom (die vroeger binnen van de boom in de foto was) kan miet meer leefen en wat over is is alleen dit "hollow" boom, die je bijna helemaal kan climmen. Ik had tien meeter of zo kunnen klimmen.
Deze twee fotos zijn gemaakt met de "macro-zoom" op mij camera. Ik vind dit feature heel leuk in ik gebruik het heel veel. Een beetje te veel, mischien.
Mij paard voor ons dag in Miraflor. Zijn naam was "Mariposa" en zij has een goeie paard tot dat ze een vaan de andere mensen geschoop. Mij knien deeden heel, heel veel pijn naar dit dag want ik denk dat mij "stirrups" een beetje te hoog waaren.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)