Ik heb nu voor heel wat tijd niet in Nederlands geschrefen en ik dacht dat het wel tijd was om dat te doen. Ik hoop dat mij Nederlands goed genoeg is voor iedereen te verstaan en ook goed genoeg geschrefen zo dat “Google Translate” het makelik kan vertalen. Als worden niet goed vertalt zijn, dan heb ik ze vast misgeschrefen. Ik weet niet zo ontzetend veel Nederlandse worden zo dit zal mischien niet en spanend blog zijn! Sorry!
Rebecca had een heel goede resumen van ons kleine vakantie zo ik zal niet veel bij scrijfen. Wij warren in een heel boel leuke plekken- volcanen, leuken staden, parken met dieren, en stranden (Nicaragua is bekend als “de land van meeren en volcaanen” zo wij hadden die twee plaatse vooral moeten zien!). Het was een heel leuken variatie. De heel vakantie was ontzetend leuk maar ik denk dat mij favoriet plaats was de volcaan in Masaya die steets actief is. Deze volcaan is in de midden van en vrij groot nationale park waar wij bijna vier uuren hebben geloopen, dieren gezien, en gas van de volcaan ingehaald (dar was en bord waar op geschrefen was: als de gasen ziek maken, moet u verder van de volcaan blijfen). De park was heel interesante en het was de eerste volcaan dat ik ooit heb gezien- die hebben wij niet in Canada! Daar zijn een paar andere bekende volcaanen in Nicaragua (een vlak bij Granada en anderen dichter bij Estelí) die ik nog wil zien voor dat ik thuis gaat.
Rebecca ging zaterdag morgen (heel vroeg) weg en daar na naam ik de bus naar Estelí. De bus stopde net voor de hotel (die net over de snelweg van de vliegveld was... dit was heel makelik voor Rebecca en ik om naar de vliegveld te gaan maar was ook en beetje eng want de snelweg hier is vrij druk en mensen rijen heel snel, zonder aandacht aan de andere mensen op het weg (met of zonder autos). Voorige week in Estelí (de provincie, niet de stad), waaren daar 12 mensen overleeden in diverse auto ongelukken. Dit week hebben de politie een “veilig rijen” programa gebegonnen). Ik had geluk want de eerste bus die stopde was en “express” bus die in minder als twee uur in Estelí was. Maar ik had niet zo veel geluk want de bus was vul en ik had voor heel wat tijd mij groote tas op mijn knie moeten zetten. Als ik niet meer kan lopen naar 6 maanden hier, zal ik de bussen kwalik houden. De stoelen zijn te dicht bij alkaar, ik moet afentoe mij zware tas op me beenen houden, en ze rijden te snel en te gek om optestaan. Ik mis de treinen in Nederland!
Toen ik terug in Estelí was, bracht ik mijn tas naar mijn nieuwe huis, waar ik met twee andere mensen zal wonen (een is en kennis van klas en de andere is de dochter van mij leerard in Saskatoon). Ons huis is heel grote en kwam met bedden, stoelen, tafels, en keuken die klar is om te kooken. Daar zijn twee slaapkamers (ik heb mijn eigen!), een kamer met bureau en printer, een enorme keuken, en wonkamer die steets groter is, en een gezelling patio buiten. De huis is zo groot en open dat wij denken dat het mischien en restaurant vroeger was (de oven heft ook ses plekken om te kooken en dat is niet normaal voor een huis!). Wij hebben ook veel geluk want drie keer in de week komt een mevrouw die ons helpt met kooken, poetsen (de stof komt hier heel, heel snel), en kleeren wassen (ik wil haar niet mijn ondergoed geefen zo ik kan nog steets oefenen met mij kleeren te wassen!). Zonder Doña Carmen (ik noem haar ook Mevrouw Timmermans of Fran), zouw dit huis heel, heel snel stinken en veul zijn!
Zo, dat is it! Deze week (of deze vier dagen) waaren vrij rustig en ik heb gewoon rustig een nieuwe routine begonnen. Ik hoop dat mij Nederlands goed was! En voor Mama zal ik elke Blog mij Yahtzee score schrijfen. Naar vier dagen met de spel heb ik 426. Nog geen 620...
Groetjes!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
(Rebecca did not specify a blog title)
Greetings, blog readers. This is Rebecca writing, and do I ever feel the pressure. I can’t promise that this will be witty, but I can promise fewer stories about cheese. Also, no Dutch here, so you’ll have to settle for legalese.
First of all, every foreigner here is either a missionary, with floor length skirts, shaky geography, and cross-stitched crucifixes, or a surfer, who unironically says things like “right on” and “ten cervezas por favor,” despite not being able to stand on his/her board on one (1) foot high waves. It is very strange to be a tourist in a place that seems sort of ambivalent about tourists…there are amazing attractions, but often not much infrastructure, and (maybe because of that) tourist sites are often quasi-deserted, which I guess makes them more “real” but it also kind of always makes you think you’re in the wrong place. (Except in San Juan, where we had delicious yogurt and granola, and a massive glass of orange juice, and the waiter didn’t even want to speak Spanish to us, he just came by and said “Delicious?” and it was. As you will see shortly, I loved San Juan.)
San Juan was beautiful and the place we were staying at had an awesome restaurant where we ate swordfish and homemade nachos and sat in hammocks. Except for the five surfers who know about this place, the beaches are weirdly empty: like, white sand, reasonably warm water, great weather, and 2 people lying on the beach. Weird. It may have something to do with the machine of death we took to get there, a truck with bars around it like we were cattle being transported to the slaughter or something, or maybe it was the territorial Pelicans (who were AWESOME) and who dove into the water from super high up to catch fish. We asked the owner of the place where we were staying what was going on on the top of a hill where there was a giant crucifix and half of a statue, and he told us “Um, they’re building….Jesus.” Apparently he’s going to be bigger here than in Rio. Vince is convinced he is going to fall over. Vince also ferociously battled a cockroach here; it was close, but Vince won.
From there we took a “chicken bus” (no one can tell me why they call it that) to Granada, successfully fending off vendors selling food products we had never heard of. Many, many taxi drivers offered to take us to Granada. If you need a taxi here, there are always four or five willing to take you anywhere, so long as you have money and don’t mind cars without seatbelts or working speedometers. Also, just so you know: if you are driving a taxi in Nicaragua and you fly through a school zone way above even the regular speed limit while no one in your car is wearing a seatbelt, a police officer on the side of the road may give you the non-verbal equivalent of, “Hey, come on, man.” Also, buses here are kind of awesome; they’ll totally stop random places for you to get on or off, and the attendant hangs out the door (or worse, stands on the roof with the bags tied down) on the highway, looking for people to grab. I love it; we should have bus attendants in Canada. But imagine the lawsuits. I kept telling Vince “they don’t even let firefighters do that anymore” because I guess that’s my reference point for people hanging out of trucks, but really, if firefighters can’t do it, you know it’s not safe! Incidentally, you can add “evangelism” to the list of services you can expect to get from random solicitors on buses.
We stayed on the edge of a lake in the crater of a Volcano near Granada, which was creepy in the sense that the water was really wavy and you couldn’t see in it, and no one really knows how deep it is, so I kept expecting a shark to come kill us. Our first day there we went to Masaya, which has two markets, one with butchers and one for tourists, where we were pretty much the only customers. We also went to see an active volcano with noxious gases coming up from it (we were supposed to leave when “gases start to affect”…us, we assumed) complete with its own bat cave where we saw a couple of fruit bats and one vampire bat who was much too cool to acknowledge our presence. (I asked the guide if he was dangerous while we were standing about one (1) foot away from it, and he goes, “Oh, yes.”)
The next day was our Granada day, which was awesome – we climbed up a church tower and Vince had his Spanish mocked by a worker at the cathedral, and we lit a candle and went to a market and had a great lunch. At around 3:30, however, Granada suddenly got weird and creepy and either super busy in certain places or strangely deserted in others, and the day only redeemed itself with break dancing boy scouts in front of a church and a delicious pizza covered in parsley. While we were sitting there, two massive American (I assume) dudes stalked in with their Nicaragua travel book in hand all nonchalantly (it was the same as ours, and the reason both of us presumably went to that restaurant, but we only take ours out of the bag secretively when no one’s around, although Vince constantly points out that we stand out quite obviously anyway). Anyway, the dudes tried to ask the waiter (first in English, then in what Vince described as “painful” Spanish) whether the Calzones were baked or fried. So Vince had to intervene and translate; it was all kinds of epic. The large men were humbled by the mighty Vicente.
This morning we went on a hike, expecting to see glimpses of monkeys in the distance if we were sneaky, instead we totally saw groups of them up close, which appeared to make them angry (they howled, as howlers will do) but not enough for them to move. Sadly, no toucans and no turtles.
All in all, I’m kind of surprised I’m not dead for a number of reasons, I’m glad I didn’t bring The God Delusion on the plane or on the trip at all, I have a new love of swordfish and 80s pop songs and lite beer, a new appreciation for pelicans and the Planet Earth cameramen, and I highly, highly recommend the Best Western across the road from the Managua airport because you’re allowed to flush the toilet there and there’s A/C and hot water in the shower. I also highly recommend travelling with Vicente, because if you’re nice to him (and even if you’re not) he’ll carry the bag and buy you Pringles and set up the mosquito net and translate for you; the only thing you need worry about is that he may mistake you for a giant insect at night and try to bludgeon you with his pillow. But still, a pretty good trade off.
First of all, every foreigner here is either a missionary, with floor length skirts, shaky geography, and cross-stitched crucifixes, or a surfer, who unironically says things like “right on” and “ten cervezas por favor,” despite not being able to stand on his/her board on one (1) foot high waves. It is very strange to be a tourist in a place that seems sort of ambivalent about tourists…there are amazing attractions, but often not much infrastructure, and (maybe because of that) tourist sites are often quasi-deserted, which I guess makes them more “real” but it also kind of always makes you think you’re in the wrong place. (Except in San Juan, where we had delicious yogurt and granola, and a massive glass of orange juice, and the waiter didn’t even want to speak Spanish to us, he just came by and said “Delicious?” and it was. As you will see shortly, I loved San Juan.)
San Juan was beautiful and the place we were staying at had an awesome restaurant where we ate swordfish and homemade nachos and sat in hammocks. Except for the five surfers who know about this place, the beaches are weirdly empty: like, white sand, reasonably warm water, great weather, and 2 people lying on the beach. Weird. It may have something to do with the machine of death we took to get there, a truck with bars around it like we were cattle being transported to the slaughter or something, or maybe it was the territorial Pelicans (who were AWESOME) and who dove into the water from super high up to catch fish. We asked the owner of the place where we were staying what was going on on the top of a hill where there was a giant crucifix and half of a statue, and he told us “Um, they’re building….Jesus.” Apparently he’s going to be bigger here than in Rio. Vince is convinced he is going to fall over. Vince also ferociously battled a cockroach here; it was close, but Vince won.
From there we took a “chicken bus” (no one can tell me why they call it that) to Granada, successfully fending off vendors selling food products we had never heard of. Many, many taxi drivers offered to take us to Granada. If you need a taxi here, there are always four or five willing to take you anywhere, so long as you have money and don’t mind cars without seatbelts or working speedometers. Also, just so you know: if you are driving a taxi in Nicaragua and you fly through a school zone way above even the regular speed limit while no one in your car is wearing a seatbelt, a police officer on the side of the road may give you the non-verbal equivalent of, “Hey, come on, man.” Also, buses here are kind of awesome; they’ll totally stop random places for you to get on or off, and the attendant hangs out the door (or worse, stands on the roof with the bags tied down) on the highway, looking for people to grab. I love it; we should have bus attendants in Canada. But imagine the lawsuits. I kept telling Vince “they don’t even let firefighters do that anymore” because I guess that’s my reference point for people hanging out of trucks, but really, if firefighters can’t do it, you know it’s not safe! Incidentally, you can add “evangelism” to the list of services you can expect to get from random solicitors on buses.
We stayed on the edge of a lake in the crater of a Volcano near Granada, which was creepy in the sense that the water was really wavy and you couldn’t see in it, and no one really knows how deep it is, so I kept expecting a shark to come kill us. Our first day there we went to Masaya, which has two markets, one with butchers and one for tourists, where we were pretty much the only customers. We also went to see an active volcano with noxious gases coming up from it (we were supposed to leave when “gases start to affect”…us, we assumed) complete with its own bat cave where we saw a couple of fruit bats and one vampire bat who was much too cool to acknowledge our presence. (I asked the guide if he was dangerous while we were standing about one (1) foot away from it, and he goes, “Oh, yes.”)
The next day was our Granada day, which was awesome – we climbed up a church tower and Vince had his Spanish mocked by a worker at the cathedral, and we lit a candle and went to a market and had a great lunch. At around 3:30, however, Granada suddenly got weird and creepy and either super busy in certain places or strangely deserted in others, and the day only redeemed itself with break dancing boy scouts in front of a church and a delicious pizza covered in parsley. While we were sitting there, two massive American (I assume) dudes stalked in with their Nicaragua travel book in hand all nonchalantly (it was the same as ours, and the reason both of us presumably went to that restaurant, but we only take ours out of the bag secretively when no one’s around, although Vince constantly points out that we stand out quite obviously anyway). Anyway, the dudes tried to ask the waiter (first in English, then in what Vince described as “painful” Spanish) whether the Calzones were baked or fried. So Vince had to intervene and translate; it was all kinds of epic. The large men were humbled by the mighty Vicente.
This morning we went on a hike, expecting to see glimpses of monkeys in the distance if we were sneaky, instead we totally saw groups of them up close, which appeared to make them angry (they howled, as howlers will do) but not enough for them to move. Sadly, no toucans and no turtles.
All in all, I’m kind of surprised I’m not dead for a number of reasons, I’m glad I didn’t bring The God Delusion on the plane or on the trip at all, I have a new love of swordfish and 80s pop songs and lite beer, a new appreciation for pelicans and the Planet Earth cameramen, and I highly, highly recommend the Best Western across the road from the Managua airport because you’re allowed to flush the toilet there and there’s A/C and hot water in the shower. I also highly recommend travelling with Vicente, because if you’re nice to him (and even if you’re not) he’ll carry the bag and buy you Pringles and set up the mosquito net and translate for you; the only thing you need worry about is that he may mistake you for a giant insect at night and try to bludgeon you with his pillow. But still, a pretty good trade off.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The People's Court: Strudel v. Cheese
Apparently, I may have been too quick to blame the cheese (cow stomach). Below is a completely unedited medical opinion care of Mrs. Colette Ross of the Calgary Health Region's Infection Prevention (Unit). While you may all continue to form your own opinion, I should point out that Mrs. Colette Ross did not taste, smell, or see the horrendous cow stomach cheese or the delicious strudel. She does raise a good point about dear Hector, though...
Subject: Medical Opinion
I feel it is my duty (being in the profession and all) to respond to the challenge presented to all readers of the blog to determine which food item would be most probably the culprit in the index case of GI distress. There was no mention of a prize or award for that matter, but I will assume that being granted the virtual prize of undying gratitude for assisting in the PREVENTION of this would be prize enough.
In a clinical situation, I would address this in a S.B.A.R. format...Situation, Background, Assessment and Resolution...but since this is a friendly exercise, I will dispense with the formalities.
As you are aware there are a few "causative agents" that could be responsible for this type of intense upset...bacteria, viruses, ova and parasites (my older daughter has had this experience) to name a few of the common ones. Different incubation periods and different times to resolution assist in determining the probable cause in the absence of laboratory diagnosis (this could be the suspect food item or the contents of the body's expulsion that would find their way to an accredited lab).
Since you are a lovely young man from a developed country who has recently travelled to a "somewhat" less developed country... I would have to go with the bacterial cause (assuming you are fully recovered).
Therefore I tend to agree with the lady of the house and the following supports my decision.
Baked goods require lots of handling by people whose level of hygiene is undetermined (I'm thinking of E coli strains here in situations where people are not so fastidious about handwashing) and whose level of cleanliness in the kitchen prep area is also unknown (more bacteria). E coli (the main culprit of travellers' diarrhea ... contaminated food items by bowel flora of those doing the preparing of said food) can cause VIOLENT episodes with cramping etc. and as you are well versed in the symptoms, you recognize that they disappear once the offending organism has been expelled.
However if you have been eating food prepared by this lady for over a month and have not become ill, then I would assume that her hygiene in the kitchen is pretty good (the fact that no one else in the house was not ill is not a good reason to blame the struedle) Those who live there are accustomed to the level of bacteria that they are exposed to on a daily basis.
Having said that, if you have a 3 year old resident of the house who goes around peeing on the couch, where would he rid himself of bowel contents ???? What is his hand hygiene like and does he help his mom in the kitchen? Perhaps he is adding contents to the cheese delicacy??? Not a pretty picture!!
I am pleased that this situation has resolved and hopefully there will not be a recurrence.
Subject: Medical Opinion
I feel it is my duty (being in the profession and all) to respond to the challenge presented to all readers of the blog to determine which food item would be most probably the culprit in the index case of GI distress. There was no mention of a prize or award for that matter, but I will assume that being granted the virtual prize of undying gratitude for assisting in the PREVENTION of this would be prize enough.
In a clinical situation, I would address this in a S.B.A.R. format...Situation, Background, Assessment and Resolution...but since this is a friendly exercise, I will dispense with the formalities.
As you are aware there are a few "causative agents" that could be responsible for this type of intense upset...bacteria, viruses, ova and parasites (my older daughter has had this experience) to name a few of the common ones. Different incubation periods and different times to resolution assist in determining the probable cause in the absence of laboratory diagnosis (this could be the suspect food item or the contents of the body's expulsion that would find their way to an accredited lab).
Since you are a lovely young man from a developed country who has recently travelled to a "somewhat" less developed country... I would have to go with the bacterial cause (assuming you are fully recovered).
Therefore I tend to agree with the lady of the house and the following supports my decision.
Baked goods require lots of handling by people whose level of hygiene is undetermined (I'm thinking of E coli strains here in situations where people are not so fastidious about handwashing) and whose level of cleanliness in the kitchen prep area is also unknown (more bacteria). E coli (the main culprit of travellers' diarrhea ... contaminated food items by bowel flora of those doing the preparing of said food) can cause VIOLENT episodes with cramping etc. and as you are well versed in the symptoms, you recognize that they disappear once the offending organism has been expelled.
However if you have been eating food prepared by this lady for over a month and have not become ill, then I would assume that her hygiene in the kitchen is pretty good (the fact that no one else in the house was not ill is not a good reason to blame the struedle) Those who live there are accustomed to the level of bacteria that they are exposed to on a daily basis.
Having said that, if you have a 3 year old resident of the house who goes around peeing on the couch, where would he rid himself of bowel contents ???? What is his hand hygiene like and does he help his mom in the kitchen? Perhaps he is adding contents to the cheese delicacy??? Not a pretty picture!!
I am pleased that this situation has resolved and hopefully there will not be a recurrence.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Buses and Tips (Gratuities, not advice... don't take my advice...)
Evening folks. This past weekend saw me travel from my beloved Estelí to what seems to be the universally reviled Managua. Seriously, the things that people (in Estelí and in travel books) say about Managua are vicious. My homestay mom is pretty sure that I will be robbed no fewer than seven times (the chronology of this post is awkward and I apologize. Since typing this, I have made it out of Managua safely, wallet intact.). I feel quite safe here, but then again I smell of dirty laundry and I’m not frolicking around bad neighbourhoods after dark. To be quite honest, the most unsafe thing about Managua seems to be getting to Managua. Buses here are wild. If I get killed or maimed on this trip, I assure you that it will be bus-related. At least it will be an adventurous final few moments. Take, for example, the things that I saw on this most recent bus trip, in no particular order:
- Vegetable vendors jumping on the side of the bus and riding along for a few short minutes, going from window to window, selling huge bags of tomatoes, onions, and peppers. Seriously, who rides the bus and gets a craving for a dozen chilli peppers… or suddenly remembers that they needed 14 tomatoes? I can’t help but think that if the vendors were selling gum or cookies they would attract more business. Apparently the fruit vendors don’t enjoy being hop-alongs.
- People walking along highways, whether here or in Canada, never cease to amaze me. I always ask myself where these people came from, given that the last town we passed was 13 kilometers away, as well as where they are going, given that there is no town indicated on the map for another 9 kilometers. Even stranger is when they are not walking alone. Take, for example, the man I saw today walking along an open stretch of highway in the midday sun with a kitchen table on his back. Where, sir, are you going with that table? Granted the table provided some much needed shade but there seem to be better ways to go about getting that. Stranger still (or not), was the man with about four, 6 by 10 sheets of Styrofoam sauntering down the PanAmerican highway. Weird.
- In addition to the outside vendors, every once in a while, a vendor will come aboard the bus. Here you get a little more variety than the almost exclusively vegetable sellers described above. These on-board vendors ride along for five or ten minutes, then get off and (I assume) take the bus back the other way. Today, there were two individuals selling pharmaceutical products (they had memorized their speeches and spoke as though they were television commercials, giving the side effects, dosage requirements, etc. It was scary.), a number of water sellers, a lady selling bologna sandwiches, a boy selling stickers, and a few individuals selling special plated concoctions. There are two things that I find fascinating with these individuals. First, I must stress once again that the products they are selling are not what I would consider “bus buys”. Who sits on a bus, on their way to the alleged hell-hole that is Managua (that’s what they say!) and thinks, wow, I really need some de-worming tablets? Are de-worming tablets really spur of the moment purchases? Why aren’t people selling gum, lollipops, or chips (I concede that the plated items, though not my cup of tea, are valid items in this regard as well)? It boggles my mind. The second funny thing is that if these vendors want to take the five minute bus ride for free, they have to be willing to give away one of their items to the bus attendant who controls access to the bus and collects the fares. As a result, throughout the trip, I saw the bus attendant juggling a bag of water, popping cherry-flavoured multivitamins (from the pharmaceutical vendors), looking at a cool pack of Spiderman stickers, and chowing down on a bologna sandwich. Though comical, none of this is all that concerning except for the multivitamins being used as candy. For the sake of this man’s health, I really hope he doesn’t let many pharmaceutical vendors on the bus.
- On two separate occasions, two different passengers sitting beside me made the sign of the cross. I told you it was dangerous.
Why, you may be asking yourself, would I be going to Managua? Well, there is a simple answer to that question. Rebecca is visiting for a week and I took an incredibly undeserved holiday from school. Seriously, I'm living in the lap of luxury, being overfed, and having one-on-one Spanish lessons and I take a holiday? You are allowed to resent me. Anyways, Rebecca is visiting and we are visiting the "fake" Nicaragua (this is a rant for a different day but let me say this: The next time some hippie from Oregon tells me that "the beach will always be there, man, Esteli is the real Nicaragua" I'm going to do three things: 1) kick them in the shins, 2) tell them that they are being elitist, racist, and ridiculous, and 3) spit on them and say "is that real enough for you?" Apparently anything that is beautiful, nice, and as a result visited by tourists isn't "real". Ugh. I could go on but these rants put me in a mood.). The "fake" Nicaragua that we will be seeing includes San Juan Del Sur, a beautiful beach town with near-empty beaches, cliffs, delicious swordfish, and wonderful waves, Laguna de Apoyo (verdict pending), Granada (verdict pending), and Masaya (verdict pending). I'm pleased to announce that Rebecca will be guest blogging later this week to recap these areas. I don't expect her to use Dutch, so I apologize in advance to Opa and Oma. She is also boring. But don't tell her I said that.
And now, to finish, a note about tipping. Let me tell you what you are expected, according to local Managuans, to tip for in Managua.
1) Taxis (absolutely I agree. This is fair and well-deserving of a tip. Although if you charge me 200 cordobas for an 80 cordoba trip, your tip will likely be small. As in nothing.)
2) People wrastling your bags from you and putting them on a bus. (I'd much rather pay you not to take my bag from me, but if you have successfully gained possession of the bag and are kind enough to put it on the bus for me, I will gladly tip you).
3) Following and watching the bag person described in #2. The following really happened and these are as close to direct quotations as I can remember:
(Scene: Rebecca and I are settling in on the bus, having had our bags placed underneath the bus by an individual standing near the bus (we shall call him X))
X: Good day. I placed your bags under the bus and should receive a tip.
Vince: Fair enough. (Takes out wallet. I didn't want to take out my wallet in the bustling station so had planned on tipping this gentleman after we had settled down in the bus.)
Lady in red: Yes. He and I.
Vince: I'm sorry, what? (Gives tip to person X who leaves the bus)
Lady in red: A tip for he and I.
Vince: He put our bags on the bus.
Lady in red: Yeah. I watched.
Vince: What? (Apparently at this point I gave her what Rebecca described as a nasty look)
Lady in red: I watched him put your bags on the bus. (Her honesty was refreshing. At least she didn't invent a more useful role for herself).
Vince: Fine... (Tip given. Lady in red walks away.) ...please keep "watching" the bags. (Vince gets in the final shot... though she still has his money.)
- Vegetable vendors jumping on the side of the bus and riding along for a few short minutes, going from window to window, selling huge bags of tomatoes, onions, and peppers. Seriously, who rides the bus and gets a craving for a dozen chilli peppers… or suddenly remembers that they needed 14 tomatoes? I can’t help but think that if the vendors were selling gum or cookies they would attract more business. Apparently the fruit vendors don’t enjoy being hop-alongs.
- People walking along highways, whether here or in Canada, never cease to amaze me. I always ask myself where these people came from, given that the last town we passed was 13 kilometers away, as well as where they are going, given that there is no town indicated on the map for another 9 kilometers. Even stranger is when they are not walking alone. Take, for example, the man I saw today walking along an open stretch of highway in the midday sun with a kitchen table on his back. Where, sir, are you going with that table? Granted the table provided some much needed shade but there seem to be better ways to go about getting that. Stranger still (or not), was the man with about four, 6 by 10 sheets of Styrofoam sauntering down the PanAmerican highway. Weird.
- In addition to the outside vendors, every once in a while, a vendor will come aboard the bus. Here you get a little more variety than the almost exclusively vegetable sellers described above. These on-board vendors ride along for five or ten minutes, then get off and (I assume) take the bus back the other way. Today, there were two individuals selling pharmaceutical products (they had memorized their speeches and spoke as though they were television commercials, giving the side effects, dosage requirements, etc. It was scary.), a number of water sellers, a lady selling bologna sandwiches, a boy selling stickers, and a few individuals selling special plated concoctions. There are two things that I find fascinating with these individuals. First, I must stress once again that the products they are selling are not what I would consider “bus buys”. Who sits on a bus, on their way to the alleged hell-hole that is Managua (that’s what they say!) and thinks, wow, I really need some de-worming tablets? Are de-worming tablets really spur of the moment purchases? Why aren’t people selling gum, lollipops, or chips (I concede that the plated items, though not my cup of tea, are valid items in this regard as well)? It boggles my mind. The second funny thing is that if these vendors want to take the five minute bus ride for free, they have to be willing to give away one of their items to the bus attendant who controls access to the bus and collects the fares. As a result, throughout the trip, I saw the bus attendant juggling a bag of water, popping cherry-flavoured multivitamins (from the pharmaceutical vendors), looking at a cool pack of Spiderman stickers, and chowing down on a bologna sandwich. Though comical, none of this is all that concerning except for the multivitamins being used as candy. For the sake of this man’s health, I really hope he doesn’t let many pharmaceutical vendors on the bus.
- On two separate occasions, two different passengers sitting beside me made the sign of the cross. I told you it was dangerous.
Why, you may be asking yourself, would I be going to Managua? Well, there is a simple answer to that question. Rebecca is visiting for a week and I took an incredibly undeserved holiday from school. Seriously, I'm living in the lap of luxury, being overfed, and having one-on-one Spanish lessons and I take a holiday? You are allowed to resent me. Anyways, Rebecca is visiting and we are visiting the "fake" Nicaragua (this is a rant for a different day but let me say this: The next time some hippie from Oregon tells me that "the beach will always be there, man, Esteli is the real Nicaragua" I'm going to do three things: 1) kick them in the shins, 2) tell them that they are being elitist, racist, and ridiculous, and 3) spit on them and say "is that real enough for you?" Apparently anything that is beautiful, nice, and as a result visited by tourists isn't "real". Ugh. I could go on but these rants put me in a mood.). The "fake" Nicaragua that we will be seeing includes San Juan Del Sur, a beautiful beach town with near-empty beaches, cliffs, delicious swordfish, and wonderful waves, Laguna de Apoyo (verdict pending), Granada (verdict pending), and Masaya (verdict pending). I'm pleased to announce that Rebecca will be guest blogging later this week to recap these areas. I don't expect her to use Dutch, so I apologize in advance to Opa and Oma. She is also boring. But don't tell her I said that.
And now, to finish, a note about tipping. Let me tell you what you are expected, according to local Managuans, to tip for in Managua.
1) Taxis (absolutely I agree. This is fair and well-deserving of a tip. Although if you charge me 200 cordobas for an 80 cordoba trip, your tip will likely be small. As in nothing.)
2) People wrastling your bags from you and putting them on a bus. (I'd much rather pay you not to take my bag from me, but if you have successfully gained possession of the bag and are kind enough to put it on the bus for me, I will gladly tip you).
3) Following and watching the bag person described in #2. The following really happened and these are as close to direct quotations as I can remember:
(Scene: Rebecca and I are settling in on the bus, having had our bags placed underneath the bus by an individual standing near the bus (we shall call him X))
X: Good day. I placed your bags under the bus and should receive a tip.
Vince: Fair enough. (Takes out wallet. I didn't want to take out my wallet in the bustling station so had planned on tipping this gentleman after we had settled down in the bus.)
Lady in red: Yes. He and I.
Vince: I'm sorry, what? (Gives tip to person X who leaves the bus)
Lady in red: A tip for he and I.
Vince: He put our bags on the bus.
Lady in red: Yeah. I watched.
Vince: What? (Apparently at this point I gave her what Rebecca described as a nasty look)
Lady in red: I watched him put your bags on the bus. (Her honesty was refreshing. At least she didn't invent a more useful role for herself).
Vince: Fine... (Tip given. Lady in red walks away.) ...please keep "watching" the bags. (Vince gets in the final shot... though she still has his money.)
Friday, February 13, 2009
Oh siesta... how I have come to hate you...
I apologize for my tardiness, but you were absolutely right to be worried. After three weeks in Estelí, I came down with my first debilitating stomach ailment. It took me out of commission for about two days (though, forever a nerd, I did go to class...). I suppose that by "out of commission" I really mean "put me on a diet of water and Pringles". Food-related illnesses, in my very modest experience, seem to be both a blessing and a curse. A curse in that they strike very quickly and make you feel like your insides are crawling their way towards your skin but a blessing in that as soon as the bacterium/infiltrator in question has exited your body, the recovery is almost instantaneous. I know that you are all wondering what could possibly have made me sick. I´m pleased to announce that I have created a game to answer that question. Here is my menu for the day in question. See if you can spot the meal and food item that made me sick:
Breakfast: (preceded by "I don´t want you to get bored of fruit". Obviously my subtle and not-so-subtle ("fruit is sooooooo good") remarks about the all-fruit breakfast have not been successful)
-3 fried eggs
-Two "cheese balls" (actually "cuajo" or some cow stomach) with chile peppers
-4 tortillas
Lunch:
-Rice
-Stir fry
-Veggies on the side
Snack:
-Cherry strudel at a bakery
Dinner:
-Skipped as I lay crippled in bed from 5:30PM until 6:30AM
Can you guess the guilty meal? What about the guilty item? Killer Bunnies players may be familiar with the "quite irrascible, defractable cheese balls". These were much, much deadlier. The funny part is, when I played this game (the food poisoning game, not Killer Bunnies... can you imagine explaining the rules to that in a different language? Wow.) with my homestay mom, she was convinced, absolutely convinced, that the guilty party was the strudel. THE STRUDEL?!? Why, you ask? Because while we interpret the game of "which one of these is not like the other" to identify the mystery cow stomach cheese balls, she interpreted it to identify the one item that I consumed outside of the house that day (I had the strudel at a bakery). She actually tried to convince me that when she eats something sweet after a big lunch, she has similar symptoms to those I described. I still do not believe her but do appreciate her valiant attempts to defend Nicaraguan food. If you are taking her side on this, I would be happy to send you a sample of both the strudel and the cheese ball and you can conduct your own investigation. I would not recommend it.
In other news, I would like to discuss with you how annoying the afternoon siesta has become. From the hours of 12:00 until 2:00, with the exception of the stores on main street, the majority of stores in Estelí are closed. This is incredibly annoying as these hours correspond exactly to the hours that we are free from school (between the class and the activity). Take today, for example. While you are all benefiting from the two hour siesta, I´m only in this internet café because the barber (that´s right, I´m getting a haircut. I´m terrified. I get tongue-tied asking hair stylists and/or barbers to cut my hair in English so I can only imagine the style I will be getting this afternoon) and two other stores (I´m running some errands) are closed. Outrageous! I appreciate the health benefits of a siesta, but two hours is a bit of overkill, isn´t it? Couldn´t we make it an hour lunch break- half an hour to eat and half an hour to snooze? Don´t long naps make everyone other than me more tired anyways?
And now, a few stories that I may have shared already:
-Hector and I had a major falling out this week. He was playing with some blister packs of multivitamins and I decided that (1) he shouldn´t be eating those as candy (had he managed to open the packs) and (2) he should be learning that blister packs are not toys (apparently neither Curious George, The Backyardigans, Mister Maker, Lazy Town, or Princesas Del Mar have covered either of these life lessons). Since the television wasn´t going to take the blister packs away (that was a bit of a low blow against my homestay family. I apologize but do not take it back), I took it upon myself to do so and, after succeeding, brought the packs to his mom. Hector was not happy. That is an understatement. Thinking that I could follow through on lesson number two by showing him what actual toys are, once back in the living room, I rolled his large toy helicopter towards him and said something along the lines of "wow, what a cool toy." Hector obviously heard "this is a weapon that can be used for revenge against the mean stranger in my house" because he picked up the helicopter and hurled it at me. His aim was remarkable, especially considering that it was through tears, because he hit me squarely in the arm. Had I not been gently rocking in a rocking chair, it likely would have hit me in the face. Luckily three year olds have goldfish-esque memories and later in the day all was forgiven (on his part... I´m still holding a grudge).
-I had a wonderful Spanish class earlier this week where my teacher taught me a number of common phrases and words that she "hopes I never hear or use but should know anyways in case they come up" (I believe that Oma´s translation book once referred to this as "straat taal"). It was incredibly awkward for her as she spoke very softly and would erase the words from the white board almost instantly. My questions were also very awkward ("in what context would you use this?" "Is this derogatory or just descriptive?" "So, if I understand, when I see Person X doing Y to Person Z, I could appropriately comment to my friend using this expression?") but she was wonderfully patient with me.
-Because of the wind this past week, the door to the front porch area was closed. If you recall correctly, this is the door that Hector uses as his perch to pee. Whereas most people would take this door closure to mean either use the washroom or go to the back door if you insist on peeing outside, Hector took this to mean "pee on the couch next to the door". When he declared "I have to urinate" and walked to the couch, I lost it and ran screaming into the kitchen. Hector, scared that I was going to tattle on him, followed me and when his mom asked what was wrong, I stammered something about Hector having to pee. She directed him to the washroom and thanked me for telling her. I didn´t mention the couch. I also no longer sit on the couch or either of the comfy chairs, choosing instead the wicker rocking chair. No absorption there.
Breakfast: (preceded by "I don´t want you to get bored of fruit". Obviously my subtle and not-so-subtle ("fruit is sooooooo good") remarks about the all-fruit breakfast have not been successful)
-3 fried eggs
-Two "cheese balls" (actually "cuajo" or some cow stomach) with chile peppers
-4 tortillas
Lunch:
-Rice
-Stir fry
-Veggies on the side
Snack:
-Cherry strudel at a bakery
Dinner:
-Skipped as I lay crippled in bed from 5:30PM until 6:30AM
Can you guess the guilty meal? What about the guilty item? Killer Bunnies players may be familiar with the "quite irrascible, defractable cheese balls". These were much, much deadlier. The funny part is, when I played this game (the food poisoning game, not Killer Bunnies... can you imagine explaining the rules to that in a different language? Wow.) with my homestay mom, she was convinced, absolutely convinced, that the guilty party was the strudel. THE STRUDEL?!? Why, you ask? Because while we interpret the game of "which one of these is not like the other" to identify the mystery cow stomach cheese balls, she interpreted it to identify the one item that I consumed outside of the house that day (I had the strudel at a bakery). She actually tried to convince me that when she eats something sweet after a big lunch, she has similar symptoms to those I described. I still do not believe her but do appreciate her valiant attempts to defend Nicaraguan food. If you are taking her side on this, I would be happy to send you a sample of both the strudel and the cheese ball and you can conduct your own investigation. I would not recommend it.
In other news, I would like to discuss with you how annoying the afternoon siesta has become. From the hours of 12:00 until 2:00, with the exception of the stores on main street, the majority of stores in Estelí are closed. This is incredibly annoying as these hours correspond exactly to the hours that we are free from school (between the class and the activity). Take today, for example. While you are all benefiting from the two hour siesta, I´m only in this internet café because the barber (that´s right, I´m getting a haircut. I´m terrified. I get tongue-tied asking hair stylists and/or barbers to cut my hair in English so I can only imagine the style I will be getting this afternoon) and two other stores (I´m running some errands) are closed. Outrageous! I appreciate the health benefits of a siesta, but two hours is a bit of overkill, isn´t it? Couldn´t we make it an hour lunch break- half an hour to eat and half an hour to snooze? Don´t long naps make everyone other than me more tired anyways?
And now, a few stories that I may have shared already:
-Hector and I had a major falling out this week. He was playing with some blister packs of multivitamins and I decided that (1) he shouldn´t be eating those as candy (had he managed to open the packs) and (2) he should be learning that blister packs are not toys (apparently neither Curious George, The Backyardigans, Mister Maker, Lazy Town, or Princesas Del Mar have covered either of these life lessons). Since the television wasn´t going to take the blister packs away (that was a bit of a low blow against my homestay family. I apologize but do not take it back), I took it upon myself to do so and, after succeeding, brought the packs to his mom. Hector was not happy. That is an understatement. Thinking that I could follow through on lesson number two by showing him what actual toys are, once back in the living room, I rolled his large toy helicopter towards him and said something along the lines of "wow, what a cool toy." Hector obviously heard "this is a weapon that can be used for revenge against the mean stranger in my house" because he picked up the helicopter and hurled it at me. His aim was remarkable, especially considering that it was through tears, because he hit me squarely in the arm. Had I not been gently rocking in a rocking chair, it likely would have hit me in the face. Luckily three year olds have goldfish-esque memories and later in the day all was forgiven (on his part... I´m still holding a grudge).
-I had a wonderful Spanish class earlier this week where my teacher taught me a number of common phrases and words that she "hopes I never hear or use but should know anyways in case they come up" (I believe that Oma´s translation book once referred to this as "straat taal"). It was incredibly awkward for her as she spoke very softly and would erase the words from the white board almost instantly. My questions were also very awkward ("in what context would you use this?" "Is this derogatory or just descriptive?" "So, if I understand, when I see Person X doing Y to Person Z, I could appropriately comment to my friend using this expression?") but she was wonderfully patient with me.
-Because of the wind this past week, the door to the front porch area was closed. If you recall correctly, this is the door that Hector uses as his perch to pee. Whereas most people would take this door closure to mean either use the washroom or go to the back door if you insist on peeing outside, Hector took this to mean "pee on the couch next to the door". When he declared "I have to urinate" and walked to the couch, I lost it and ran screaming into the kitchen. Hector, scared that I was going to tattle on him, followed me and when his mom asked what was wrong, I stammered something about Hector having to pee. She directed him to the washroom and thanked me for telling her. I didn´t mention the couch. I also no longer sit on the couch or either of the comfy chairs, choosing instead the wicker rocking chair. No absorption there.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Vince´s Travel Tips Part 1: Negotiating the Prices of Commodities
I will start with two quick updates. First, the shower is in fact cold, no matter the water pressure. Apparently I was hallucinating. It was nice to hope, though. Sigh. Second, my little person reporter (the pocket bike rider) actually works for the radio (I’d say something rude about not having the face for TV but I’m going to take the high road) and, as it turns out, I was mentioned in Friday’s morning news. My homestay family was delighted to hear it albeit slightly disappointed that in about 30 years of living here, they had never made the news while it took me no less than 3 weeks.
In an addendum to our previous newspaper discussion, I would like to share that I am shocked at how graphic the pictures in the paper are (in terms of violence, not in terms of nudity. Get your heads out of the gutter, folks). I had heard this about Nicaragua before coming but was still a little shocked when I saw a “fresh” (I can’t think of a better word, sorry) murder victim on the front page of the paper. In the picture, the police are just doing their thing while this pool of blood forms under this lifeless body. Similar pictures have accompanied car crash stories. They also enjoy publishing photos of grieving family members. It’s a good thing that the combined effects of Law & Order, CSI, and their respective branches (except for CSI Miami. I will not admit to watching CSI Miami.) have desensitized me to violent crime, otherwise I might have a stronger reaction.
Buying non-food things here is still a little bit strange. I never know when or if I should be haggling so normally I just don’t bother (because it’s so little money anyway that I don’t mind being fleeced- I consider it my investment in the community). Also, I don’t haggle because I don’t yet possess the language skills necessary to haggle without being rude and/or inadvertently buying seven items I don’t want and/or paying 13 times the retail price. In my non-haggling experiences, however, I have found four tell-tale signs that I am not being given the regular price (regular, here, being defined as “the price a Nicaraguan would pay for this weird souvenir item that they wouldn´t buy in the first place.”).
First, when I ask (in near perfect Spanish since this is one I’ve practiced many a time) how much something costs, there is a long, drawn-out silence and a deep breath before a very tentative answer. I can only assume that several things are occurring in this silence: (1) they are assessing the quality of my Spanish, the state of my tan, and my demeanour in order to rank me on a scale from “reasonably well-versed traveller who has been in the community for a while and knows this game” to “newly arrived tourist”; (2) they are trying very hard to remember if I have been in the store before and, if I have, what price they told me last time and how to explain a sudden jump in price should they remember incorrectly; (3) they are trying to decide what price sounds ridiculously high and what my breaking point may be; and (4) they are reading the fear in my eyes and making a judgement as to whether or not I know how to barter in Spanish. At this point in my travels I am pretty easy pickings and rank only slightly higher than the overweight fanny pack wearing couple from Texas with safari hats, Hawaiian shirts, and sunscreen globbed on their noses.
In addition to the long silence, the second tell-tale sign of a rip-off is a glance to the other sales associate followed by giggling. I can only assume that this brief interaction is actually a complicated comparison of each individual’s assessment of me on the scale described above. Giggling, I assume, means “I think that we both agree that this weirdo is a sucker, but at least he is friendly and sexy (see note at the end of the document for more). Take his money, yes, but do so with a smile, and maybe not at the maximum price.” Other reactions I imagine at this stage are full out laughter (“We’ve got ourselves a live one! They probably don’t even know the exchange rate! Go for the jugular!”), a sigh (“This individual may possess the language skills and wherewithal to barter. Proceed with caution.”), or a shake of the head (“There is something strange about this one. Their Spanish is quite good but they are wearing shorts. I can’t get a proper reading.”). After this consultation, the salesperson will share the price of the item with me.
This initial price declaration is followed by sign #3, an abnormally fluctuating price. While in some countries in the world, über-inflation (technical term) may account for this, Nicaragua is not one such country. There are no 7 billion dollar bills here. Regardless, the initial price of a single item is normally raised two to three times in the course of the discussion. Consider the following example and see if you can track the inflation.
Vicente (in near perfect Spanish): “How much does this cost?”
Salesperson, planning her approach: “65.”
Vicente: “65?” (wanting confirmation, not inviting a price increase)
Salesperson: “Yes, 75.”
Vicente (clearly confused. He is in the trap.): “Sorry, what’s that?”
Salesperson: “This item that you want. It’s 90 cordobas.”
Vicente: mmmm. (Has discovered that silence is the only way to stop the bleeding.)
This whole exchange doesn’t really matter, though, because the final sign, perhaps the most obvious one, is when the prices they quote you for four individual items (195, 75, 70, and 30) do not add up to anywhere near the final price at the counter (480). You can do the math on that one. This is probably the one time that I could say something like “really, madam, do you really think that in addition to speaking no Spanish I can’t count? I may seem like an idiot, but I assure you, madam, I am only a linguistic idiot” but, again, this is not really a lot of money (you can say whatever you want about “it adds up” but, to be fair, it really doesn’t because (a) these are not trips that I make on a daily basis, (b) my daily cost of living here is about the cost of two illegally pirated DVDs (or so I’ve been told. I have never bought such a product. I repeat. I have never bought such a product) and (c) they still “add up” to less than a Starbucks beverage. I don’t mean to pick on Starbucks (that’s a lie) but you get my point…). Also, even if it were a lot of money, it is going to small shops and families in the community. I’d mention something about the trickle-down effect but that sort of Reagan-esque talk may have me deported.
In one final unrelated note, I never mentioned the time last week that I became an object, a veritable piece of meat. Here I was, admiring art in the community center (not a random trip, but a school activity. I felt I should clarify in case any of you thought that I became an art snob while living here. I have not. Art snobs wouldn’t approve of my unshaven, dirty shorts and t-shirt look) when all of a sudden, a group of two young women walked right up to me, took my picture with their cell phone, and ran off giggling. It was unbelievably weird for a few reasons. First and foremost, who does that? Talk about invading my personal space. If I see myself appear on the Internet I’m phoning the police. Or Dr. Phil. Also, those of you who have seen me (which I can only assume you all have at some point) will know that while I am many wonderful things, I am no pretty face. I’m just saying. Finally, this was not even a shower day, so I can only imagine the scene that that could have provoked… The whole incident lay somewhere between a grossly inappropriate invasion of privacy and a welcome boost to my self-image. I’m still grappling with it.
In an addendum to our previous newspaper discussion, I would like to share that I am shocked at how graphic the pictures in the paper are (in terms of violence, not in terms of nudity. Get your heads out of the gutter, folks). I had heard this about Nicaragua before coming but was still a little shocked when I saw a “fresh” (I can’t think of a better word, sorry) murder victim on the front page of the paper. In the picture, the police are just doing their thing while this pool of blood forms under this lifeless body. Similar pictures have accompanied car crash stories. They also enjoy publishing photos of grieving family members. It’s a good thing that the combined effects of Law & Order, CSI, and their respective branches (except for CSI Miami. I will not admit to watching CSI Miami.) have desensitized me to violent crime, otherwise I might have a stronger reaction.
Buying non-food things here is still a little bit strange. I never know when or if I should be haggling so normally I just don’t bother (because it’s so little money anyway that I don’t mind being fleeced- I consider it my investment in the community). Also, I don’t haggle because I don’t yet possess the language skills necessary to haggle without being rude and/or inadvertently buying seven items I don’t want and/or paying 13 times the retail price. In my non-haggling experiences, however, I have found four tell-tale signs that I am not being given the regular price (regular, here, being defined as “the price a Nicaraguan would pay for this weird souvenir item that they wouldn´t buy in the first place.”).
First, when I ask (in near perfect Spanish since this is one I’ve practiced many a time) how much something costs, there is a long, drawn-out silence and a deep breath before a very tentative answer. I can only assume that several things are occurring in this silence: (1) they are assessing the quality of my Spanish, the state of my tan, and my demeanour in order to rank me on a scale from “reasonably well-versed traveller who has been in the community for a while and knows this game” to “newly arrived tourist”; (2) they are trying very hard to remember if I have been in the store before and, if I have, what price they told me last time and how to explain a sudden jump in price should they remember incorrectly; (3) they are trying to decide what price sounds ridiculously high and what my breaking point may be; and (4) they are reading the fear in my eyes and making a judgement as to whether or not I know how to barter in Spanish. At this point in my travels I am pretty easy pickings and rank only slightly higher than the overweight fanny pack wearing couple from Texas with safari hats, Hawaiian shirts, and sunscreen globbed on their noses.
In addition to the long silence, the second tell-tale sign of a rip-off is a glance to the other sales associate followed by giggling. I can only assume that this brief interaction is actually a complicated comparison of each individual’s assessment of me on the scale described above. Giggling, I assume, means “I think that we both agree that this weirdo is a sucker, but at least he is friendly and sexy (see note at the end of the document for more). Take his money, yes, but do so with a smile, and maybe not at the maximum price.” Other reactions I imagine at this stage are full out laughter (“We’ve got ourselves a live one! They probably don’t even know the exchange rate! Go for the jugular!”), a sigh (“This individual may possess the language skills and wherewithal to barter. Proceed with caution.”), or a shake of the head (“There is something strange about this one. Their Spanish is quite good but they are wearing shorts. I can’t get a proper reading.”). After this consultation, the salesperson will share the price of the item with me.
This initial price declaration is followed by sign #3, an abnormally fluctuating price. While in some countries in the world, über-inflation (technical term) may account for this, Nicaragua is not one such country. There are no 7 billion dollar bills here. Regardless, the initial price of a single item is normally raised two to three times in the course of the discussion. Consider the following example and see if you can track the inflation.
Vicente (in near perfect Spanish): “How much does this cost?”
Salesperson, planning her approach: “65.”
Vicente: “65?” (wanting confirmation, not inviting a price increase)
Salesperson: “Yes, 75.”
Vicente (clearly confused. He is in the trap.): “Sorry, what’s that?”
Salesperson: “This item that you want. It’s 90 cordobas.”
Vicente: mmmm. (Has discovered that silence is the only way to stop the bleeding.)
This whole exchange doesn’t really matter, though, because the final sign, perhaps the most obvious one, is when the prices they quote you for four individual items (195, 75, 70, and 30) do not add up to anywhere near the final price at the counter (480). You can do the math on that one. This is probably the one time that I could say something like “really, madam, do you really think that in addition to speaking no Spanish I can’t count? I may seem like an idiot, but I assure you, madam, I am only a linguistic idiot” but, again, this is not really a lot of money (you can say whatever you want about “it adds up” but, to be fair, it really doesn’t because (a) these are not trips that I make on a daily basis, (b) my daily cost of living here is about the cost of two illegally pirated DVDs (or so I’ve been told. I have never bought such a product. I repeat. I have never bought such a product) and (c) they still “add up” to less than a Starbucks beverage. I don’t mean to pick on Starbucks (that’s a lie) but you get my point…). Also, even if it were a lot of money, it is going to small shops and families in the community. I’d mention something about the trickle-down effect but that sort of Reagan-esque talk may have me deported.
In one final unrelated note, I never mentioned the time last week that I became an object, a veritable piece of meat. Here I was, admiring art in the community center (not a random trip, but a school activity. I felt I should clarify in case any of you thought that I became an art snob while living here. I have not. Art snobs wouldn’t approve of my unshaven, dirty shorts and t-shirt look) when all of a sudden, a group of two young women walked right up to me, took my picture with their cell phone, and ran off giggling. It was unbelievably weird for a few reasons. First and foremost, who does that? Talk about invading my personal space. If I see myself appear on the Internet I’m phoning the police. Or Dr. Phil. Also, those of you who have seen me (which I can only assume you all have at some point) will know that while I am many wonderful things, I am no pretty face. I’m just saying. Finally, this was not even a shower day, so I can only imagine the scene that that could have provoked… The whole incident lay somewhere between a grossly inappropriate invasion of privacy and a welcome boost to my self-image. I’m still grappling with it.
While I grapple, here are a few pictures of the waterfall I visited last week in a series I entitle: "Vincent Terstappen, Aspiring Nature Photographer, Macro-Zoom Enthusiast". Enjoy. I would put captions but they are all pretty self-explanatory (waterfall, salamander, flower and/or weed) and these trips to the Internet Café aren´t free.
Friday, February 6, 2009
This could not wait...
Something so outrageous happened today that I had to share it immediately. If discussions of sex make you feel awkward and icky, stop reading immediately. You should probably also never read the newspaper in Nicaragua (spoiler alert).
Today, I picked up the morning paper (one of two national, well-read papers) as I am wont to do when, after making my way through the national news, international news, local news, sports, and business sections, I stumble across the insert. Typically this is entertainment, local interest, etc. but today was a little different. There, on the first page of the insert, were three things that you would never see in a Canadian newspaper insert, typed below in ascending weirdness (keep in mind that there is no age restriction at all to buying newspapers):
1. The title Sexuality and Health (with a cartoony heart above the "and")
2. A borderline pornographic image of, ahem, intimacy in what appears to be a shower in what appears to be a living room.
3. The article title "Anal Sex: The Other Side of Pleasure"
¡¡¡THIS IS A NATIONAL NEWSPAPER!!! That deserved all three upside down exclamation points.
It gets better. The article in question contained several near pornographic images and a series of tips. Then, thinking that I had made it to the end of the insert (other articles were about apple juice for arthritis, hand-washing, and one sexologist (Sue Johanssen-esque) segment), I arrived at the last page. What greeted me was another article title unlikely to make it in the Calgary Herald: "Do It Sitting Down: Get An Intense Orgasm". WHAT? Outrageous.
While I think that sexual health is most definitely an incredibly important topic to discuss and to "de-taboo", there seem to me to be better venues to do so. And more subtle titles. And less nipples in national papers.
Today, I picked up the morning paper (one of two national, well-read papers) as I am wont to do when, after making my way through the national news, international news, local news, sports, and business sections, I stumble across the insert. Typically this is entertainment, local interest, etc. but today was a little different. There, on the first page of the insert, were three things that you would never see in a Canadian newspaper insert, typed below in ascending weirdness (keep in mind that there is no age restriction at all to buying newspapers):
1. The title Sexuality and Health (with a cartoony heart above the "and")
2. A borderline pornographic image of, ahem, intimacy in what appears to be a shower in what appears to be a living room.
3. The article title "Anal Sex: The Other Side of Pleasure"
¡¡¡THIS IS A NATIONAL NEWSPAPER!!! That deserved all three upside down exclamation points.
It gets better. The article in question contained several near pornographic images and a series of tips. Then, thinking that I had made it to the end of the insert (other articles were about apple juice for arthritis, hand-washing, and one sexologist (Sue Johanssen-esque) segment), I arrived at the last page. What greeted me was another article title unlikely to make it in the Calgary Herald: "Do It Sitting Down: Get An Intense Orgasm". WHAT? Outrageous.
While I think that sexual health is most definitely an incredibly important topic to discuss and to "de-taboo", there seem to me to be better venues to do so. And more subtle titles. And less nipples in national papers.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
This one ends on a downer note. I apologize in advance.
Thank you all for your patience. Things have been a little bit busier this week because, right after I published my daily routine for all to see, my classes switched to the afternoon (for this week only). This has confused and exhausted me. Hopefully this monstrous posting earns your forgiveness.
In a bit of strange news, the wind has been howling for two days now and I actually had to dig my long-sleeve zip-up out of my backpack this morning. Yes, folks, I am layering. I can’t believe it myself. The wind terrifies me for several reasons. First and foremost, in my second recent “reading things at awkward times” experience, I have started reading a little bit more in the last couple of days about the horrendous Hurricane Mitch that hit Nicaragua in 1998. Scientists called it the worst storm (on Earth, in believe) in 200 years. Needless to say, reading this as the wind howls through my room has made me a touch frightened. I’m not saying that there is a hurricane on the way (no one is saying that. Stop worrying, mom.), but I’d feel a lot better if I was reading my People Español instead (which I do on occasion. Did you know that Ricky Martin has twins? People Español has the exclusive. He’s kind of weird. Also, it’s a special diet issue (featuring the world’s fattest man)… so that should help me after I move out of my homestay family). My first “reading things at awkward times” experience, for those interested, was reading the chapter on airplane crashes in “Outliers” while flying to Victoria a few weeks ago. Apparently seven things need to go wrong in order for a plane to crash. I had counted five of them on my flight. It was uncomfortable. But I digress.
The second reason the wind terrifies me is that the tin roofs creak and move in ways that violate most Canadian building codes. With the wind blowing the way it has been, there seems to be a 50/50 chance that I will come home to a house without a roof (when I asked if “el techo” might go flying off of the house, the response was a laugh and a “maybe”. That did not inspire confidence). If the roof stays attached, rest assured it will make that metal-on-metal screeching sound that makes me wish it was gone anyways.
Finally, the wind terrifies me because I get the feeling power could surge and go out at any second, effectively blowing up my laptop (it’s worth noting that as I type this, the water just quit…). My homestay family’s office computer broke because of a power surge and my fragile laptop would probably light on fire (made worse because there is at present no water). That said, I have tried on occasion to look for a surge protector but have yet to muster up the confidence to ask questions about the product (that and I don’t know the Spanish word for surge protector). I couldn’t even buy shoelaces without resorting to charades and can’t think of the proper actions for “surge protector” (two words. First word…).
Today we went to a party in a nearby community for a nonagenarian (91st birthday… though reports put his age at anywhere between 85 and 98). We fit 23 people into a 12 passenger van and made our way to El Limon, a community of 150 just south of Estelí. The “birthday boy” and his music are apparently legends in the north of Nicaragua and there were reports that the President might even show up (a bit of an ambitious claim given that the President is in Venezuela at this moment). The President did not show up. I did, however, see many things, including chickens making love, awkward slow dancing, and a play about machismo and gender equity with laughter and what I can only describe as awkward moments. Also, out of nowhere (as in, midway through our conversation a pen and paper came out), a little person newspaper reporter interviewed me. I have no idea if he could understand my Spanish but he seemed content. He left the party on his mini-bike. I’m not making that up. Also, I have too many stories of awkward, inappropriate photography (from this and other activities) to share on this blog. Whenever there is a lull in our future conversations, just mention it and I will rant for a few hours.
Also this week, two new houseguests moved in with my homestay family. They are very friendly hippies (a little too “bring down the machine” / free-range chicken / hemp / nudist for my liking, but delightful nonetheless), but I do have a single concern with their presence. It has to do with urine so stop reading if you are averse to the topic. You see, my room is right beside the “guest” washroom. Also, the walls of my room do not come all the way to the ceiling, meaning that I can hear everything. There are very, very few things that I hate more than the sound of urine sploshing in the toilet. I am not kidding when I say that it has actually woken me up in the morning. I managed to make it through a morning without hearing the truck leaving and the outrageously loud sploshing of urine woke me up. Unbelievable. Why couldn’t they be like Hector and just pee on the front veranda while standing in the doorway (that, too, is awkward for a completely different reason. We will be playing tag or dancing to the Backyardigans theme song and out of nowhere, he declares “I’m going to urinate” and walks to the front door to do his thing. I just turn my attention to the Backyardigans until he returns as though there was nothing strange about that interaction). The sploshing is particularly annoying because I am relatively certain that sitting down on the toilet would significantly lower the volume (in fact, I might even sleep through it…). On a completely separate note, the hippies are weirdly obsessed with personal hygiene and public health measures. Borderline oxymoronic, don’t you think?
Finally, in my “things to examine in the coming days” dossier, remember what I wrote about cold showers? I may have accidentally discovered that this entire time I have been cold showering only because I didn’t turn the water pressure high enough. You see, I have only let the shower trickle in order to not freeze quite so quickly. Today, wanting to rinse myself more quickly (don’t want to be sudsy), I turned the valve some more and felt what I thought was lukewarm water. It is entirely possible that I was hallucinating. More on this stunning development later. I should note that this would fit with an earlier comment from my homestay mom who, when I asked if I should shower with the full bucket of water or with the running water laughed and said to use the running water because the bucket would be freezing. Until this morning, I thought that the bucket water was warmer. I feel dumb.
On a more serious note, one of our activities this week was a very interesting and sobering trip to a preschool in one of the many poor neighbourhoods in Estelí. Until then, I had been living in (and therefore only seen) a relatively small, central part of Estelí with basically all of the amenities one might need (including the basics of running water, power, and latrines in addition to all sorts of non-essential stores and services) and had forgotten that this is in fact a city and nation struggling to deal with extreme poverty in addition to several political, health, and social challenges. I have been living in luxury and that trip brought me back down to earth. Individuals were living in what appeared to be tents (made with a material similar to that used to dry coffee so I can’t even imagine the heat inside) or, if they were lucky, in 5 by 10 foot lean-tos. Those lucky enough to have houses were living with three other families. Services seemed non-existent, with one central water tankard, no latrines in sight, and only dusty roads with dirty black water seeping alongside them. It was eye-opening and made me remember where I was. I’m lucky to be living where I am and to have had the enjoyable experiences that I have had, but I think that it is important to remember that where I’m living and spending most of my time is the exception. I thought I’d share that and apologize for the brief “downer” moment. I will definitely continue to share lighter moments from this trip but thought it worthwhile to include this note.
In a bit of strange news, the wind has been howling for two days now and I actually had to dig my long-sleeve zip-up out of my backpack this morning. Yes, folks, I am layering. I can’t believe it myself. The wind terrifies me for several reasons. First and foremost, in my second recent “reading things at awkward times” experience, I have started reading a little bit more in the last couple of days about the horrendous Hurricane Mitch that hit Nicaragua in 1998. Scientists called it the worst storm (on Earth, in believe) in 200 years. Needless to say, reading this as the wind howls through my room has made me a touch frightened. I’m not saying that there is a hurricane on the way (no one is saying that. Stop worrying, mom.), but I’d feel a lot better if I was reading my People Español instead (which I do on occasion. Did you know that Ricky Martin has twins? People Español has the exclusive. He’s kind of weird. Also, it’s a special diet issue (featuring the world’s fattest man)… so that should help me after I move out of my homestay family). My first “reading things at awkward times” experience, for those interested, was reading the chapter on airplane crashes in “Outliers” while flying to Victoria a few weeks ago. Apparently seven things need to go wrong in order for a plane to crash. I had counted five of them on my flight. It was uncomfortable. But I digress.
The second reason the wind terrifies me is that the tin roofs creak and move in ways that violate most Canadian building codes. With the wind blowing the way it has been, there seems to be a 50/50 chance that I will come home to a house without a roof (when I asked if “el techo” might go flying off of the house, the response was a laugh and a “maybe”. That did not inspire confidence). If the roof stays attached, rest assured it will make that metal-on-metal screeching sound that makes me wish it was gone anyways.
Finally, the wind terrifies me because I get the feeling power could surge and go out at any second, effectively blowing up my laptop (it’s worth noting that as I type this, the water just quit…). My homestay family’s office computer broke because of a power surge and my fragile laptop would probably light on fire (made worse because there is at present no water). That said, I have tried on occasion to look for a surge protector but have yet to muster up the confidence to ask questions about the product (that and I don’t know the Spanish word for surge protector). I couldn’t even buy shoelaces without resorting to charades and can’t think of the proper actions for “surge protector” (two words. First word…).
Today we went to a party in a nearby community for a nonagenarian (91st birthday… though reports put his age at anywhere between 85 and 98). We fit 23 people into a 12 passenger van and made our way to El Limon, a community of 150 just south of Estelí. The “birthday boy” and his music are apparently legends in the north of Nicaragua and there were reports that the President might even show up (a bit of an ambitious claim given that the President is in Venezuela at this moment). The President did not show up. I did, however, see many things, including chickens making love, awkward slow dancing, and a play about machismo and gender equity with laughter and what I can only describe as awkward moments. Also, out of nowhere (as in, midway through our conversation a pen and paper came out), a little person newspaper reporter interviewed me. I have no idea if he could understand my Spanish but he seemed content. He left the party on his mini-bike. I’m not making that up. Also, I have too many stories of awkward, inappropriate photography (from this and other activities) to share on this blog. Whenever there is a lull in our future conversations, just mention it and I will rant for a few hours.
Also this week, two new houseguests moved in with my homestay family. They are very friendly hippies (a little too “bring down the machine” / free-range chicken / hemp / nudist for my liking, but delightful nonetheless), but I do have a single concern with their presence. It has to do with urine so stop reading if you are averse to the topic. You see, my room is right beside the “guest” washroom. Also, the walls of my room do not come all the way to the ceiling, meaning that I can hear everything. There are very, very few things that I hate more than the sound of urine sploshing in the toilet. I am not kidding when I say that it has actually woken me up in the morning. I managed to make it through a morning without hearing the truck leaving and the outrageously loud sploshing of urine woke me up. Unbelievable. Why couldn’t they be like Hector and just pee on the front veranda while standing in the doorway (that, too, is awkward for a completely different reason. We will be playing tag or dancing to the Backyardigans theme song and out of nowhere, he declares “I’m going to urinate” and walks to the front door to do his thing. I just turn my attention to the Backyardigans until he returns as though there was nothing strange about that interaction). The sploshing is particularly annoying because I am relatively certain that sitting down on the toilet would significantly lower the volume (in fact, I might even sleep through it…). On a completely separate note, the hippies are weirdly obsessed with personal hygiene and public health measures. Borderline oxymoronic, don’t you think?
Finally, in my “things to examine in the coming days” dossier, remember what I wrote about cold showers? I may have accidentally discovered that this entire time I have been cold showering only because I didn’t turn the water pressure high enough. You see, I have only let the shower trickle in order to not freeze quite so quickly. Today, wanting to rinse myself more quickly (don’t want to be sudsy), I turned the valve some more and felt what I thought was lukewarm water. It is entirely possible that I was hallucinating. More on this stunning development later. I should note that this would fit with an earlier comment from my homestay mom who, when I asked if I should shower with the full bucket of water or with the running water laughed and said to use the running water because the bucket would be freezing. Until this morning, I thought that the bucket water was warmer. I feel dumb.
On a more serious note, one of our activities this week was a very interesting and sobering trip to a preschool in one of the many poor neighbourhoods in Estelí. Until then, I had been living in (and therefore only seen) a relatively small, central part of Estelí with basically all of the amenities one might need (including the basics of running water, power, and latrines in addition to all sorts of non-essential stores and services) and had forgotten that this is in fact a city and nation struggling to deal with extreme poverty in addition to several political, health, and social challenges. I have been living in luxury and that trip brought me back down to earth. Individuals were living in what appeared to be tents (made with a material similar to that used to dry coffee so I can’t even imagine the heat inside) or, if they were lucky, in 5 by 10 foot lean-tos. Those lucky enough to have houses were living with three other families. Services seemed non-existent, with one central water tankard, no latrines in sight, and only dusty roads with dirty black water seeping alongside them. It was eye-opening and made me remember where I was. I’m lucky to be living where I am and to have had the enjoyable experiences that I have had, but I think that it is important to remember that where I’m living and spending most of my time is the exception. I thought I’d share that and apologize for the brief “downer” moment. I will definitely continue to share lighter moments from this trip but thought it worthwhile to include this note.
Monday, February 2, 2009
No photos here. I am not apologizing.
This blog has turned into a photobook and I am none too pleased. Photos take about 10 minutes each to upload (roughly the same time it takes me to wash a single article of clothing, regardless of size. Seriously, a single sock takes me just as long to wash by hand as a pair of pants. There is no logical explanation). Photos wrangle wit. That sentence made no sense. Nevertheless, with those observations in mind, let me share with you some observations of my own.
It may be a small-town thing and not an Estelí thing (Amy assures me this happened in her small town all the time) but the young men “cruising” in their cars in the early evening has become a ridiculously delightful sight to enjoy. These men, some with new cars but most with 1994 Toyota Tercel-esque cars, have “pimped out” their cars and are excited to circle town to show everyone. I do not know exactly what they are looking for but for the most part they are outrageously unsuccessful as they pass by my house three or four times in a couple of hours. I should clarify that the “pimped out” cars have all of the fixin’s- three blue lights under the car, playboy bunny stickers, neon lights around the license plate, and a stereo with volume levels that should be illegal. The funniest thing about the stereo is that the music is ridiculous. There was a “cool” guy, decked out in a wife-beater and big sunglasses, riding through town and cool-ly bobbing his head to “As Long As You Love Me” (possibly the Backstreet Boys? Maybe ‘N Sync?).
The volume of televisions and music here is unbelievable. I acknowledge that in general I have my music and TV turned down quite low, but no human being can possibly think that the volume levels here are normal. You can be a block away from a house and understand every word of the soap opera they are watching (in theory. This of course requires a mastery of the Spanish language that is still far off.). This might be O.K. if (a) the individual was deaf or (b) the individual was cooking or in another room (half a block away), however, (a) my epidemiologic training leads me to believe that the entire town cannot possibly be deaf and (b) the average distance that one sits from the television in Estelí is 1.5 feet. As Amy pointed out, not only is this going to cause endemic blindness, but no one sitting behind you can watch if you’re that close.
I don’t know if I told you my weekend activities. If I did, skip this paragraph. If not, here they are. On Saturday, I hiked out to a waterfall near town with some other students. I use the word hiked liberally because we actually hiked about a third of the way and then we officially joined the ranks of “hop-alongs”, cruising the rest of the way in the back of a truck. The same happened on the way back. It’s actually a little unfortunate because I was counting on the exercise to reduce the size of my bloated, three-monstrous-meals-a-day, belly. Oh well… On Sunday I went to a soccer game. It was a little boring and the home team lost. I was hoping for more hooliganism, taunting, and singing. Instead there was just a steady flow of contraband alcohol.
What else? Oh yeah, I almost had a panic attack when I accidentally let my toilet paper fall into the toilet. After seriously considering developing a contraption to fish it out, I just crossed my fingers and flushed. I prayed for two days that the town’s infrastructure wouldn’t crumble.
And how could I forget my movie night? What a wonderful tradition I have started for myself. Friday is $1 movie night on Vince’s laptop (I think that that is the first time I’ve referred to myself in the third person… well done, Vince.). New release movies (both theatrical new releases and DVD releases) can be purchased here for $1. Out of fear that I will violate the section of the criminal code included at the start of every DVD (which ironically is the first thing you see when the DVD is tested for you in the store), I will let you figure out how I purchased the Dark Knight for $1. Suffice it to say that despite this being a “legitimate” store (i.e. not a street vendor but a building with a sign and a vendor who writes receipts (that I promptly discarded lest there be a paper trail)), I still thought that the police were going to arrest me as I emerged.
One final observation. You can’t wear hats in banks here. Weird, I know. The sign outside of one bank says “No guns, No cell phones, No hats”. Those seem to descend in importance, don’t they?
It may be a small-town thing and not an Estelí thing (Amy assures me this happened in her small town all the time) but the young men “cruising” in their cars in the early evening has become a ridiculously delightful sight to enjoy. These men, some with new cars but most with 1994 Toyota Tercel-esque cars, have “pimped out” their cars and are excited to circle town to show everyone. I do not know exactly what they are looking for but for the most part they are outrageously unsuccessful as they pass by my house three or four times in a couple of hours. I should clarify that the “pimped out” cars have all of the fixin’s- three blue lights under the car, playboy bunny stickers, neon lights around the license plate, and a stereo with volume levels that should be illegal. The funniest thing about the stereo is that the music is ridiculous. There was a “cool” guy, decked out in a wife-beater and big sunglasses, riding through town and cool-ly bobbing his head to “As Long As You Love Me” (possibly the Backstreet Boys? Maybe ‘N Sync?).
The volume of televisions and music here is unbelievable. I acknowledge that in general I have my music and TV turned down quite low, but no human being can possibly think that the volume levels here are normal. You can be a block away from a house and understand every word of the soap opera they are watching (in theory. This of course requires a mastery of the Spanish language that is still far off.). This might be O.K. if (a) the individual was deaf or (b) the individual was cooking or in another room (half a block away), however, (a) my epidemiologic training leads me to believe that the entire town cannot possibly be deaf and (b) the average distance that one sits from the television in Estelí is 1.5 feet. As Amy pointed out, not only is this going to cause endemic blindness, but no one sitting behind you can watch if you’re that close.
I don’t know if I told you my weekend activities. If I did, skip this paragraph. If not, here they are. On Saturday, I hiked out to a waterfall near town with some other students. I use the word hiked liberally because we actually hiked about a third of the way and then we officially joined the ranks of “hop-alongs”, cruising the rest of the way in the back of a truck. The same happened on the way back. It’s actually a little unfortunate because I was counting on the exercise to reduce the size of my bloated, three-monstrous-meals-a-day, belly. Oh well… On Sunday I went to a soccer game. It was a little boring and the home team lost. I was hoping for more hooliganism, taunting, and singing. Instead there was just a steady flow of contraband alcohol.
What else? Oh yeah, I almost had a panic attack when I accidentally let my toilet paper fall into the toilet. After seriously considering developing a contraption to fish it out, I just crossed my fingers and flushed. I prayed for two days that the town’s infrastructure wouldn’t crumble.
And how could I forget my movie night? What a wonderful tradition I have started for myself. Friday is $1 movie night on Vince’s laptop (I think that that is the first time I’ve referred to myself in the third person… well done, Vince.). New release movies (both theatrical new releases and DVD releases) can be purchased here for $1. Out of fear that I will violate the section of the criminal code included at the start of every DVD (which ironically is the first thing you see when the DVD is tested for you in the store), I will let you figure out how I purchased the Dark Knight for $1. Suffice it to say that despite this being a “legitimate” store (i.e. not a street vendor but a building with a sign and a vendor who writes receipts (that I promptly discarded lest there be a paper trail)), I still thought that the police were going to arrest me as I emerged.
One final observation. You can’t wear hats in banks here. Weird, I know. The sign outside of one bank says “No guns, No cell phones, No hats”. Those seem to descend in importance, don’t they?
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