Good news and bad news, folks. Bad news: Things are getting busier so I don’t know when my next blog posting will be. Don’t be too sad. Some sadness is probably called for, though, because my next post was going to include pictures from Rebecca’s visit (which was over a month ago, I know, but someone who is not me and who was also on that trip didn’t send me pictures until last week) so now you’ll have to wait even longer to see those (I had to wait a month so I don’t feel bad for you). The good news, you ask? My Yahtzee high score is now 436 (it may look similar to the old score but it is actually an improvement of 10 points). I left a lot of points on the table, too, so that could easily have been in the 500s with some smarter play.
Other than the bustling business of thesisizing, which remains entirely confidential, not a lot has happened since my last post, but I did go out to a bar with my housemates on Saturday for a concert (a concert in which, it is worth mentioning, the opening act included Xochi playing her violin and singing). What is there to do in bars? Well, if you are socially awkward, unable to dance, and not a fan of techno-Latin-remixes (or that song which I think is called “Sandstorm” which took me straight back to high school), you observe. Now, I don’t get out a lot (in fact I’m pretty sure that the two times we’ve been out to bars here doubles my bar attendance for the last two years) so these observations may be well-known facts to most, but they were nonetheless fascinating to me, the simpleton.
Both times that we have been to this place (either called Semaforo’s or Semaforos, depending on which of their two signs you are looking at. If you happen to be looking at Semaforo’s, you are also looking at the only apostrophe in Estelí. Well done.), the schedule has been the same. There is dance-techno-ish music playing, then an opening band goes up (last time this was a singing contest and this time it was Xochi), then more dance-techno tunes emerge, then the “feature” band plays their set, then the night carries on with dance music until the wee hours. Any one of these stages may be interrupted by a power outage, though, as was the case on Saturday, which therefore results in a new “sit in the dark” portion of the night. During the power outage we tried unsuccessfully to get a “Lion Sleeps Tonight” chorus going, but it only reached four people. If I may say so myself, I “ah-weem-boo-way”ed magnificently. I had another “ah-weem-boo-way”er, but he decided shortly into the song to interrupt our performance because he “preferred to sing the harmony”. I have apparently been going through life underestimating the importance of harmonizing in ridiculous campfire songs sang mindlessly to pass the time while sitting in the dark in a bar. I apologize. This guy is a weirdo in lots of ways (watch “Maria Full of Grace” and see if you agree with his interpretation that the uplifting message of the movie is that “life is tough but there is always a way to move forward”… like becoming a drug mule, apparently). But enough ranting.
As noted, I am a boring person who enjoys visiting bars to sit and converse. It has become evident, however, that I am in the minority. I absolutely love the bands and the live music, but as soon as the DJ music starts, the tables clear, and the dance floors fill, my comfort level drops to undetectable levels, leaving me to sit awkwardly and people watch. It’s probably a little creepy for the people I’m watching but I’ve decided that I’m O.K. with that. Here are the little tidbits I picked up on Saturday: men are disgusting, but I do feel bad for them when they get repeatedly rejected. There is a long line of men standing side-by-side along the edge of the dance floor and, every once in a while, they groove their way into the dancing crowd and approach a woman. Nine out of ten times, this woman makes a wonderfully repulsed face and sometimes swings at the man with her arms (all the while maintaining her dance movements). I cheer and applaud, though do feel a tiny, tiny bit bad for the man. The man then grooves back to the line, waiting for his next attempt. I felt particularly bad for the guy that had clearly spent two hours grooming himself for this big night, only to be rejected no less than 8 times.
In other “disgusting” tips, the, ahem, closeness of some of the dancing was borderline criminal. You crazy, hip youngsters (although to be honest there are an almost equal number of younger and older people dancing which is quite the sight) can have your hip-hop and “grinding” dance moves, but there is no need to (1) dance on one leg with your other leg straddled around your partner, (2) grab and/or maintain a grip on any body part other than the hand, (3) incorporate the main ceiling support posts into any sort of pole dancing, or (4) make babies on the dance floor. These are reasonable requests, no?
I must confess, though, that I was pulled onto the dance floor by friends of ours. I told them that the only way I would dance would be if they promised not to laugh. They solemnly promised, so I joined them. They then broke their promise. Repeatedly.
As I am wont to do, I also played the role of heartbreaker, kindly turning down innumerable (two) requests to dance. You may be asking yourself, Vince, how could you turn down requests to dance? Let me tell you. Apart from the obvious (Rebecca is my only dance partner… although we don’t actually go out clubbing or dancing so I suppose that’s still only a theoretical statement. Dance lessons are pending, though.), I have a few rules to follow. (1) If I don’t know you, I will not dance with you, (2) if I don’t know how to dance (which I do not), I will not dance with you, (3) if you are dressed head-to-toe in leopard print, I will not dance with you. Condition #3 took care of one request all on its own.
There wasn’t much else to report from the bar, except that the main act had the world’s saddest base player (emotionally, not in terms of skill) and the happiest accordion-playing keyboardist ever. Base players often seem unappreciated, but this one clearly felt it. I wanted to hug him but I’m way too macho to do that.
Hey, fun TED fact? Though we don’t completely agree on all things, Philip Zimbardo is pretty cool despite looking like Satan and talking nothing like Satan would talk. You might argue that that is not a fact, but I guarantee you that it is. He also has no regard for the strict time limit of the TED Talks, repeating “I will finish with…” about six times in the five minutes that followed the “end of talk” beeping. Also, another speaker convinced me that rules are destroying our wisdom. ANARCHY! That´s mostly a joke.
Something I have not yet talked about, rather surprisingly given their ubiquity (big word!), is plastic bags. They are everywhere and used for everything. I really mean that. If you can find a place that doesn’t immediately reach for a plastic bag regardless of the item that you purchase, I will give you a firm pat on the back. What’s more, I get confused, almost insulted, looks if I say that I don’t need a bag. When might I not need a bag, despite the shopkeeper’s insistence? I would argue that when all I’m buying is a pack of gum, then I don’t need a plastic bag (but thanks for the offer). I would further contend that if I’m already carrying two plastic bags, I can probably fit the small item that I am buying into one of them (but thanks again for the offer). Thirdly, if I’m wearing my backpack, I certainly don’t need you to run to the back of the store to get a plastic bag for each of my three postcards. Finally, if this is something I am planning on immediately eating or drinking, you needn’t waste a bag on me. A particularly bizarre incident of the latter occurred at a café over the weekend. I ordered a cappuccino to go and was not surprised to receive a (delicious, I should note) cappuccino in a paper cup with a lid but was rather surprised and caught off guard when that to-go cup was put into a plastic bag that was tied so tight that it became a big air pocket. The bag ballooned so much that I couldn’t even grab the cup through the bag and, not wanting to spill my coffee as it swung around in the bag, I gave the “barista” what I’m sure was a very confused look, untied the bag, grabbed my cup, and left. The looks we get when we take our own bags to the market are priceless as well. I wonder what they would say about my no-bag-required old lady grocery cart?
I now have two car stories to finish. Anyone who has talked to me over the phone has probably experienced the horrendousness that is an “announcement car”. These are cars that drive the streets of Estelí at speeds upwards of 5 km/hr, announcing everything from deaths to weddings and beauty pageants to Christian music festivals. They announce these events from anywhere between 4 and 8 enormous speakers mounted to the roof of the car. These speakers look like they could fall of at any moment and are normally held onto the car by rope or the weight of a human being sitting on them (or both). The cars are so incredibly loud that it is really impossible to hear anyone as soon as the car is within two blocks of your location (in whatever direction because the speakers are generally mounted so as to project in the four cardinal directions. I only know the term cardinal directions because the guy that insulted my Spanish in Granada used that word). It is even difficult to understand what the cars are announcing because they just boom out outrageous decibels. I have strongly considered renting out all of the announcement cars in Estelí for one day just to broadcast a message of silence. I´ve also considered renting out one such car to park in front of the evangelical church and blare noise endlessly for three hours in a delightful bit of payback. The day that my homestay mom told me that her brother drove an announcement car, she got quite a disappointed, flabbergasted, angry face from me. She probably thought that I was on drugs (oooo, continuity!).
The other car story, the denouement of this blog, has to do with people’s insistence to drop you off as close as humanly possible to your destination. Maybe this is a pride thing (like those of you eager to show off your parallel parking skills even when there are several drive-in places just up the block), but it is also a weird thing. Apparently if you as a driver make your passenger take more than three steps to reach their front door, you are a complete and utter failure. The driver’s primary concern when parking is not safety, distance from other cars, distance from curbs, or anything other than proximity to the door of the house. This has resulted in trucks backing up to garage doors and deciding it would be better for their reputation to smash into the wall than to stop 20 centimeters from it, drivers being so determined to align their car’s doors with the door of the house that they back over someone’s scooter to accomplish this feat, and people actually parking their cars inside of their house (as in, right behind the television is a Toyota Hilux truck. Which is, by the way, what every single person here, other than taxi drivers, drive. I’ve never even heard of the Hilux. Why doesn’t it have seatbelts in the back?).
That´s all. Sorry for the abrupt conclusion.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Dirty underwear & gay horses
This week has been very, very busy, so much so that I had almost given up on washing my underwear (nearly deciding to resign myself to recycling), updating this blog, and hammock sleeping. But, luckily for you (with regards to blogging), my housemates (with regards to stinky underwear), and me (with regards to hammock sleeping), I was stood up today. That’s right, stood up. My 7:30AM appointment to visit a community was a no-show. I would have phoned, but there is an awkward thing with time here where people are generally 30 minutes to 1 hour late for things, so I didn’t want to phone (and seem impatient) until about 8:30. When 8:30 rolled around, I thought that I could at least give them a grace period of another half-hour or so. Unfortunately, during that time I thought of all of the things I had to do so I eventually made a half-hearted attempt at a phone call at 10:00, when it seems that they were already out of cell phone range. As a result, however, I did have a remarkably productive day (just look at this blog!).
Before continuing, the underwear comment deserves some elaboration. With Doña Carmen helping us around the house three days every week, I could in theory guarantee myself perennially clean underwear but I feel strange giving her two clothing items to wash: my socks and underwear. I don’t want to give her the socks (or leave the socks in the communal hamper) because of their horrendous, horrendous odour (they are double-sealed in plastic bags until laundry day). I don’t want to give her my underwear because that just seems dirty and oddly private. It’s one thing to throw underwear into a laundry machine, transfer it to a dryer, and be done with it, but it is completely different giving someone underwear to hand-wash. It seems like an invasion of my privacy. That does leave me with my own underwear and socks to wash, though, and being out for most of the day, almost every day of the week, things started to get dicey (this week I was already recycling socks and had only about two pairs of boxers left). I do get to continue to practice my hand-laundering techniques and I must say, I give myself a firm pat on the back for my efforts. Well done, Vince. Hand-washing laundry is also oddly zen-like, sort of like collating (that’s a Dead Like Me reference that exactly zero people will understand).
But, all work and no play, yadda, yadda, yadda, so despite the busy week, I have still been watching TED talks and playing Yahtzee, Minesweeper, and Solitaire. Two fun facts and one update arise from this. Fun fact #1: More money is put into research into baldness drugs than into malaria. Fun fact #2: The two things that teachers are generally rewarded for (the possession of a master’s degree and seniority) have virtually no measurable effect on their teaching quality. I would like to thank Bill Gates for those two tidbits. Update #1: My Yahtzee score remains a paltry 426. I think that this might be because I don’t keep Yahtzee in the bathroom like we do at home. Apparently my housemates think that this is “unhygienic”. Whatever.
This past Saturday, I went to a beautiful nature reserve called Miraflor with Xochi, a teacher from the Spanish school, and three other students. It was spectacular. It was incredibly green, lush, and we ended up with a beautiful, cloud-forest-esque morning that later turned into a blue sky and sunshine day. We took the bus to Miraflor and, possibly because of the 5:50AM departure time, Xochi and I got confused and went to the wrong bus station (wrong in that we were going to meet the others at the South bus station and we went to the North bus station. The actual bus route goes through both.). Not wanting to worry our companions, we decided to walk from the north station to the south station. We were a bit off with our time, though (again, this was about 5:45AM and I have a condition), and ending up having to excitedly flag down the bus on the highway. It was thrilling. The bus ride was cramped, but more or less unexciting (especially compared to the way back!). When we got off the bus, we had horses waiting to take us on a trip around Miraflor. When we informed the guide that most of us had only been on horseback once or twice before, his response was a shrug. It did not inspire confidence. My horse’s name was Mariposa, which, if you remember my Spanish class about “straat-taal”, I had learned a few weeks earlier can mean butterfly or homosexual (in a derogatory sense, not a descriptive sense). My horse had a baby, though, and horses don’t adopt so either it was on the DL, or it really did mean butterfly. My horse was also not a butterfly, though. Hmm. My horse’s baby was actually quite funny because it hadn’t had its breakfast because of our early start time. As a result, it kept trying to drink its mother’s milk while we were riding (with me on top). I felt like a really awkward third wheel.
Our first stop was a small farm for breakfast and tea, where I took the opportunity to abuse my camera’s macro-zoom capabilities on every flower I could see. I was so successful in this endeavour that my laptop has a new background. After that stop, we rode off to the orchid garden and forest walk, where I continued to macro-zoom, climbed about two storeys up the inside of a 250-year old hollow parasitic fig tree that had killed the original tree, and stared in awe at trails of leaf-cutter ants carrying leaf chunks four times their size. Also, in the only horse-related incident of the day, my dear Mariposa kicked at Xochi’s horse (maybe he made homophobic remarks?) and, as a result, kicked Xochi. Luckily (very, very luckily), the horse kicked the bottom of her foot which, if I know horse-kicks (which I don’t), seems to be one of very few places to get kicked without snapping bones in half. In an awful follow-up to that, our guide was walking us down the path when, the second that we were out of eye contact with the horses, he said “oh, I forgot something back there.” He then went back to the horses and we could hear whipping and we’re pretty sure that we saw him throw rocks. It was really sad (both because of what he was doing and because he thought he could fool us).
After the orchids and forest, we rode down to a waterfall which was delightful. Mariposa’s baby had taken advantage of our last stop to feed so he/she was incredibly less annoying on this leg of the journey. After the waterfall, we rode back to the farm where we had beet juice (Dwight Schrute would be beaming), and the freshest lunch I’ve ever had. Seriously, during our first stop at the farm, we watched someone pick a handful of carrots and beets out of the ground, those became our juice and veggies. There was also one chicken missing when we returned. I have reason to believe that became our protein source. It was all delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I spent the next hour (while we waited for the bus) snoozing in the hammock. Now that is a good meal.
The bus ride home was thrilling for one reason and one reason only- I got to fulfill a lifelong (actually 2 month long) dream of being a bus attendant wildly swinging outside of the bus at ridiculously high speeds. When we got on the bus, it was already almost full and I ended up standing in the aisle at the very back of the bus (an old school bus that probably had “Tallahassee School District #4” stamped on the side). When someone near the back had to get off of the bus, they whistled at the bus driver, who promptly stopped the bus, and then the passenger jumped out of the back door. Instead of closing the door like a normal person might, this person just sauntered off and the bus roared off down the road, back door flapping in the wind. I sensed panic for several reasons: 1) The lady on the back seat holding two chickens in a shoebox looked concerned, 2) if anyone was going to fly out of that back door and die a long, painful death, it was going to be me, given that I was standing directly in front of the open door, with no barriers and dicey handles, and 3) the actual bus attendant who would normally address matters related to door closing was at the very front of the bus. I decided to jump into action. I grabbed onto a handle near the door, swung my body out, grabbed the door handle, and slammed and locked the door in place. The chicken lady nodded her approval. I nodded back. It was epic. If this master’s degree doesn’t work out, I may pursue the wonderful life of a bus assistant.
Hey, have I told you about our evangelical church neighbours? They are louder than anyone should be allowed to be, they scream every word, don’t breathe between sentences, nominate the loudest lady with the worst voice as their lead singer (I believe the word is cantor?) and they do this four times every week (sometimes more). I hate them. Enough said.
One thing that I won’t miss when I leave Estelí (in addition to the church. I most definitely will not miss the church) is the stray dogs roaming the streets. Let me recount a few dog stories:
- I get to see dogs having sex almost every day. When I’m lucky, I might even get to see a dog orgy. I really wish a vigilante veterinarian (that sounds like a terrible movie, doesn’t it?) would roam the streets at nights neutering and spaying the stray dogs here. One of the hippies (remember them? Sigh. I don’t miss the sound of their pee, but they were fun, weren’t they?) had offered to do it with a bottle of kerosene, a knife, one other ingredient, and an extra set of hands. I offered him my hands but our plan never came to fruition.
- I saw a dog nearly knock a person off of their bike yesterday. While he stayed on his bike, he did get bit, which should mean a rabies shot. Maybe I should have gotten the rabies vaccine after all… I wouldn’t want anyone to have to organize a fun-run-pan-am for me. I do miss The Office.
- Many kids enjoy throwing rocks or kicking at the dogs. That is not a funny story and no matter what one’s position is on PETA (ahem, Rebecca Ross, ahem), it’s sad to see. That sounds like Rebecca is pro-animal abuse. That is entirely untrue. She’s just vehemently anti-PETA (and if you knew everything there is to know about PETA, you would be too. Did you know that they are against guide dogs? Who the hell is against guide dogs?).
- You know how they say that you can tell who is local in Paris because they are looking down in order to avoid the dog poo. Here you can tell who is local because they don’t bother looking down, knowing that the chance of stepping in dog poo is about 87%.
Wow, this is getting long. I was going to write about announcement cars and people’s driving habits. Those will have to wait.
Before continuing, the underwear comment deserves some elaboration. With Doña Carmen helping us around the house three days every week, I could in theory guarantee myself perennially clean underwear but I feel strange giving her two clothing items to wash: my socks and underwear. I don’t want to give her the socks (or leave the socks in the communal hamper) because of their horrendous, horrendous odour (they are double-sealed in plastic bags until laundry day). I don’t want to give her my underwear because that just seems dirty and oddly private. It’s one thing to throw underwear into a laundry machine, transfer it to a dryer, and be done with it, but it is completely different giving someone underwear to hand-wash. It seems like an invasion of my privacy. That does leave me with my own underwear and socks to wash, though, and being out for most of the day, almost every day of the week, things started to get dicey (this week I was already recycling socks and had only about two pairs of boxers left). I do get to continue to practice my hand-laundering techniques and I must say, I give myself a firm pat on the back for my efforts. Well done, Vince. Hand-washing laundry is also oddly zen-like, sort of like collating (that’s a Dead Like Me reference that exactly zero people will understand).
But, all work and no play, yadda, yadda, yadda, so despite the busy week, I have still been watching TED talks and playing Yahtzee, Minesweeper, and Solitaire. Two fun facts and one update arise from this. Fun fact #1: More money is put into research into baldness drugs than into malaria. Fun fact #2: The two things that teachers are generally rewarded for (the possession of a master’s degree and seniority) have virtually no measurable effect on their teaching quality. I would like to thank Bill Gates for those two tidbits. Update #1: My Yahtzee score remains a paltry 426. I think that this might be because I don’t keep Yahtzee in the bathroom like we do at home. Apparently my housemates think that this is “unhygienic”. Whatever.
This past Saturday, I went to a beautiful nature reserve called Miraflor with Xochi, a teacher from the Spanish school, and three other students. It was spectacular. It was incredibly green, lush, and we ended up with a beautiful, cloud-forest-esque morning that later turned into a blue sky and sunshine day. We took the bus to Miraflor and, possibly because of the 5:50AM departure time, Xochi and I got confused and went to the wrong bus station (wrong in that we were going to meet the others at the South bus station and we went to the North bus station. The actual bus route goes through both.). Not wanting to worry our companions, we decided to walk from the north station to the south station. We were a bit off with our time, though (again, this was about 5:45AM and I have a condition), and ending up having to excitedly flag down the bus on the highway. It was thrilling. The bus ride was cramped, but more or less unexciting (especially compared to the way back!). When we got off the bus, we had horses waiting to take us on a trip around Miraflor. When we informed the guide that most of us had only been on horseback once or twice before, his response was a shrug. It did not inspire confidence. My horse’s name was Mariposa, which, if you remember my Spanish class about “straat-taal”, I had learned a few weeks earlier can mean butterfly or homosexual (in a derogatory sense, not a descriptive sense). My horse had a baby, though, and horses don’t adopt so either it was on the DL, or it really did mean butterfly. My horse was also not a butterfly, though. Hmm. My horse’s baby was actually quite funny because it hadn’t had its breakfast because of our early start time. As a result, it kept trying to drink its mother’s milk while we were riding (with me on top). I felt like a really awkward third wheel.
Our first stop was a small farm for breakfast and tea, where I took the opportunity to abuse my camera’s macro-zoom capabilities on every flower I could see. I was so successful in this endeavour that my laptop has a new background. After that stop, we rode off to the orchid garden and forest walk, where I continued to macro-zoom, climbed about two storeys up the inside of a 250-year old hollow parasitic fig tree that had killed the original tree, and stared in awe at trails of leaf-cutter ants carrying leaf chunks four times their size. Also, in the only horse-related incident of the day, my dear Mariposa kicked at Xochi’s horse (maybe he made homophobic remarks?) and, as a result, kicked Xochi. Luckily (very, very luckily), the horse kicked the bottom of her foot which, if I know horse-kicks (which I don’t), seems to be one of very few places to get kicked without snapping bones in half. In an awful follow-up to that, our guide was walking us down the path when, the second that we were out of eye contact with the horses, he said “oh, I forgot something back there.” He then went back to the horses and we could hear whipping and we’re pretty sure that we saw him throw rocks. It was really sad (both because of what he was doing and because he thought he could fool us).
After the orchids and forest, we rode down to a waterfall which was delightful. Mariposa’s baby had taken advantage of our last stop to feed so he/she was incredibly less annoying on this leg of the journey. After the waterfall, we rode back to the farm where we had beet juice (Dwight Schrute would be beaming), and the freshest lunch I’ve ever had. Seriously, during our first stop at the farm, we watched someone pick a handful of carrots and beets out of the ground, those became our juice and veggies. There was also one chicken missing when we returned. I have reason to believe that became our protein source. It was all delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I spent the next hour (while we waited for the bus) snoozing in the hammock. Now that is a good meal.
The bus ride home was thrilling for one reason and one reason only- I got to fulfill a lifelong (actually 2 month long) dream of being a bus attendant wildly swinging outside of the bus at ridiculously high speeds. When we got on the bus, it was already almost full and I ended up standing in the aisle at the very back of the bus (an old school bus that probably had “Tallahassee School District #4” stamped on the side). When someone near the back had to get off of the bus, they whistled at the bus driver, who promptly stopped the bus, and then the passenger jumped out of the back door. Instead of closing the door like a normal person might, this person just sauntered off and the bus roared off down the road, back door flapping in the wind. I sensed panic for several reasons: 1) The lady on the back seat holding two chickens in a shoebox looked concerned, 2) if anyone was going to fly out of that back door and die a long, painful death, it was going to be me, given that I was standing directly in front of the open door, with no barriers and dicey handles, and 3) the actual bus attendant who would normally address matters related to door closing was at the very front of the bus. I decided to jump into action. I grabbed onto a handle near the door, swung my body out, grabbed the door handle, and slammed and locked the door in place. The chicken lady nodded her approval. I nodded back. It was epic. If this master’s degree doesn’t work out, I may pursue the wonderful life of a bus assistant.
Hey, have I told you about our evangelical church neighbours? They are louder than anyone should be allowed to be, they scream every word, don’t breathe between sentences, nominate the loudest lady with the worst voice as their lead singer (I believe the word is cantor?) and they do this four times every week (sometimes more). I hate them. Enough said.
One thing that I won’t miss when I leave Estelí (in addition to the church. I most definitely will not miss the church) is the stray dogs roaming the streets. Let me recount a few dog stories:
- I get to see dogs having sex almost every day. When I’m lucky, I might even get to see a dog orgy. I really wish a vigilante veterinarian (that sounds like a terrible movie, doesn’t it?) would roam the streets at nights neutering and spaying the stray dogs here. One of the hippies (remember them? Sigh. I don’t miss the sound of their pee, but they were fun, weren’t they?) had offered to do it with a bottle of kerosene, a knife, one other ingredient, and an extra set of hands. I offered him my hands but our plan never came to fruition.
- I saw a dog nearly knock a person off of their bike yesterday. While he stayed on his bike, he did get bit, which should mean a rabies shot. Maybe I should have gotten the rabies vaccine after all… I wouldn’t want anyone to have to organize a fun-run-pan-am for me. I do miss The Office.
- Many kids enjoy throwing rocks or kicking at the dogs. That is not a funny story and no matter what one’s position is on PETA (ahem, Rebecca Ross, ahem), it’s sad to see. That sounds like Rebecca is pro-animal abuse. That is entirely untrue. She’s just vehemently anti-PETA (and if you knew everything there is to know about PETA, you would be too. Did you know that they are against guide dogs? Who the hell is against guide dogs?).
- You know how they say that you can tell who is local in Paris because they are looking down in order to avoid the dog poo. Here you can tell who is local because they don’t bother looking down, knowing that the chance of stepping in dog poo is about 87%.
Wow, this is getting long. I was going to write about announcement cars and people’s driving habits. Those will have to wait.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Pictures! But you´ll have to slog through some text to get to them.
I’m pleased to announce that my boredom from a couple of weeks ago is just a faint memory. I’ve had a very busy week with the organization I’m working with, taking all sorts of field trips and attending several of their events. Whenever I get home, I jot down some notes based on what I experienced but, as you may know from reading this blog and/or talking to me, I don’t really “jot down” notes. “Notes” inevitably turn into 6 or 7 page stories that take me hours to type out. One of my summer jobs included typing up meeting minutes which ended up being 20 page stories including descriptive lines like “then person X replied angrily…”. Those minutes were entirely useless. In fairness, though, about a quarter of my typing and note-taking time here is actually time spent playing Solitaire, Minesweeper, Hearts, or (my new love) watching TED Talks. TED Talks are a series of talks from experts in a variety of fields (biology, linguistics, music, etc.) that are available for free on the Internet. Whenever I’m at the Internet café, I try to download a couple to bring home. That way, at least my study breaks are making me slightly wiser instead of polishing my card and/or mine detecting skills (which, if I may say so, are getting quite good). Plus, I can throw cool factoids into my blog: Did you know that “the hardest, solidest, densest rock is really almost entirely empty space”? Don’t ask me to explain it. I don’t get science and each talk is only about 20 minutes. The one thing I did understand is that our brains have not evolved to intuitively understand this factoid. Although I’m pretty sure that Rebecca knows how to explain this empty space weirdness. She has apparently evolved differently…
This posting is mostly dedicated to pictures (scroll down if you don’t feel like reading and are instead in a picture seeing mood), but I have a few observations to share nonetheless. I may one day present these as a TED Talk. How wonderfully “circle of life” would that be? I could be someone else’s unearned study break! Wow. Although these musings don’t really count as “cool factoids” and certainly aren’t making anyone wiser.
I mentioned a few posts back about the English-Spanish mix that you can hear in Estelí. Another amusing dimension of the language phenomenon here is the use of Spanish and English names. Most of the students at the Spanish school where I was studying end up changing their names in some way: I became Vicente, Michael became Miguel, Katherine became Katerina (which sounds more Russian than Spanish, doesn’t it? But I’m biased because I didn’t really like Katherine or Katerina. She thought that every Spanish word she didn’t know meant “orphan”. I’m not joking. We went on a school trip to a preschool and at three different points, she tried to confirm with me that they were talking about “the orphans” (this was a preschool, not an orphanage. Mothers had to drop their kids off in the morning, which would be difficult if a mother was dead). The words that she thought meant orphan were actually “illiteracy”, “small bed”, and “playground”). Back to the names. The reason behind these name changes is just because of some Spanish pronunciations of words, just like I am essentially physically incapable of rolling my r’s or getting the “ll” or “j” sound quite right, there are certain sounds that the majority of Spanish speakers can’t quite make. My favourite aspect of names, however, is English names that have been transformed into Spanish ones. My two favourites are Roger, which becomes Row-Hair, and Bryan, which delightfully becomes almost yelled as Bry-YAN. It’s the same thing that happens to Dutch names in Canada (anyone named Hans (Hands), Klaas (Clause), or Joep (Yop, like the yogurt drink) must feel like Bry-YAN and Row-Hair).
I mentioned in my Dutch blog (which may or may not have come across in the translation) that given the huge number of road accidents that have occurred this month, the transportation police have been out doing random stops on the highway and main street. I don’t know what exactly happens during these stops, but watching the motorcycle stops gives you some idea of the laws and priorities of the police force. Consider the following: A motorcycle is roaring down main street with a man driving, a woman holding onto the man and a couple of bags of groceries, and a child or two smushed between the two adults. The transportation police, spotting something amiss, pulls the motorcycle over. After a brief chat (again, I’m only watching so I don’t know what exactly is said), the motorcycle driver puts on a helmet and drives off, passengers unchanged. Apparently this ride has been made “safer” not by a reduction of speed, not by a reduction of passengers, not by everyone wearing helmets, but by giving the driver of the motorcycle a helmet. In fairness this might cut the number of deaths from 4 to 3, but is that really what they’re going for?
Another example of strange “safe driving” laws? Whenever people in cars see the transportation police, they race to put on their seatbelts. As a passenger in the back seat, I try to do the same (I actually try to do it as soon as I get into the car) but have yet to find a car with seatbelts there. Just like the motorcycle case, it seems as though drivers are worth saving but passengers are entirely expendable. This is particularly unfortunate given that I am always a passenger. Sigh.
I should also note that the safe driving campaign fell on deaf ears for one of the people that drove a group of us to one of the communities, as she adjusted her bra and drove with her knees for about 2 kilometers at 100km/hr. It was quite an adjustment, I guess. She also almost killed about four bicyclists in the city.
The final observation I’d like to include here is about vultures. Not of the avian variety, though, but of the street vendor variety. The placement of vendors selling everything from trading cards to sweets is quite hilarious. They will perch right outside of the entrance to a school and spend all day waiting for school to let out. They sit in the sun for about 8 hours, waiting for about 20 minutes of big business. Some vendors, though, not content to wait for the kids to come out of school on their own accord, try to bait kids to buy candy. One particular vendor, standing outside of a big metal door to a school was tapping on the door with lollipops and, upon hearing something, would throw them over the door and (I assume) wait for money to come flying back. The ice cream sellers are even better. They will stand in one place (often right outside of a school, though sometimes in outrageously remote locations) and for hours upon hours ring their bells. Even after they are well-established (i.e. everyone in a place knows that they are there and no one new has come into the area), the ice cream seller will keep on ringing their bell. It does not end. If I want an ice cream, sir, I will come to you. I only need to hear a single ring of the bell to know that you are around. The 37th minute of bell ringing won’t change my mind.
And now, I present to you my photo-diary entitled: "Untitled Mish-Mash of Photos: A Photo Diary":
To start, may I interest anyone in a trip to the Bull Stank Bar?
My hard-earned diploma, complete with incorrectly spelled name. Sigh. Hopefully future employers still accept this as valid.
Some of Esteli´s murals and graffiti. The first two murals are the ones that are fighting for the title of ¨Vince´s favourite mural".
(A close-up of mural #1)
This posting is mostly dedicated to pictures (scroll down if you don’t feel like reading and are instead in a picture seeing mood), but I have a few observations to share nonetheless. I may one day present these as a TED Talk. How wonderfully “circle of life” would that be? I could be someone else’s unearned study break! Wow. Although these musings don’t really count as “cool factoids” and certainly aren’t making anyone wiser.
I mentioned a few posts back about the English-Spanish mix that you can hear in Estelí. Another amusing dimension of the language phenomenon here is the use of Spanish and English names. Most of the students at the Spanish school where I was studying end up changing their names in some way: I became Vicente, Michael became Miguel, Katherine became Katerina (which sounds more Russian than Spanish, doesn’t it? But I’m biased because I didn’t really like Katherine or Katerina. She thought that every Spanish word she didn’t know meant “orphan”. I’m not joking. We went on a school trip to a preschool and at three different points, she tried to confirm with me that they were talking about “the orphans” (this was a preschool, not an orphanage. Mothers had to drop their kids off in the morning, which would be difficult if a mother was dead). The words that she thought meant orphan were actually “illiteracy”, “small bed”, and “playground”). Back to the names. The reason behind these name changes is just because of some Spanish pronunciations of words, just like I am essentially physically incapable of rolling my r’s or getting the “ll” or “j” sound quite right, there are certain sounds that the majority of Spanish speakers can’t quite make. My favourite aspect of names, however, is English names that have been transformed into Spanish ones. My two favourites are Roger, which becomes Row-Hair, and Bryan, which delightfully becomes almost yelled as Bry-YAN. It’s the same thing that happens to Dutch names in Canada (anyone named Hans (Hands), Klaas (Clause), or Joep (Yop, like the yogurt drink) must feel like Bry-YAN and Row-Hair).
I mentioned in my Dutch blog (which may or may not have come across in the translation) that given the huge number of road accidents that have occurred this month, the transportation police have been out doing random stops on the highway and main street. I don’t know what exactly happens during these stops, but watching the motorcycle stops gives you some idea of the laws and priorities of the police force. Consider the following: A motorcycle is roaring down main street with a man driving, a woman holding onto the man and a couple of bags of groceries, and a child or two smushed between the two adults. The transportation police, spotting something amiss, pulls the motorcycle over. After a brief chat (again, I’m only watching so I don’t know what exactly is said), the motorcycle driver puts on a helmet and drives off, passengers unchanged. Apparently this ride has been made “safer” not by a reduction of speed, not by a reduction of passengers, not by everyone wearing helmets, but by giving the driver of the motorcycle a helmet. In fairness this might cut the number of deaths from 4 to 3, but is that really what they’re going for?
Another example of strange “safe driving” laws? Whenever people in cars see the transportation police, they race to put on their seatbelts. As a passenger in the back seat, I try to do the same (I actually try to do it as soon as I get into the car) but have yet to find a car with seatbelts there. Just like the motorcycle case, it seems as though drivers are worth saving but passengers are entirely expendable. This is particularly unfortunate given that I am always a passenger. Sigh.
I should also note that the safe driving campaign fell on deaf ears for one of the people that drove a group of us to one of the communities, as she adjusted her bra and drove with her knees for about 2 kilometers at 100km/hr. It was quite an adjustment, I guess. She also almost killed about four bicyclists in the city.
The final observation I’d like to include here is about vultures. Not of the avian variety, though, but of the street vendor variety. The placement of vendors selling everything from trading cards to sweets is quite hilarious. They will perch right outside of the entrance to a school and spend all day waiting for school to let out. They sit in the sun for about 8 hours, waiting for about 20 minutes of big business. Some vendors, though, not content to wait for the kids to come out of school on their own accord, try to bait kids to buy candy. One particular vendor, standing outside of a big metal door to a school was tapping on the door with lollipops and, upon hearing something, would throw them over the door and (I assume) wait for money to come flying back. The ice cream sellers are even better. They will stand in one place (often right outside of a school, though sometimes in outrageously remote locations) and for hours upon hours ring their bells. Even after they are well-established (i.e. everyone in a place knows that they are there and no one new has come into the area), the ice cream seller will keep on ringing their bell. It does not end. If I want an ice cream, sir, I will come to you. I only need to hear a single ring of the bell to know that you are around. The 37th minute of bell ringing won’t change my mind.
And now, I present to you my photo-diary entitled: "Untitled Mish-Mash of Photos: A Photo Diary":
To start, may I interest anyone in a trip to the Bull Stank Bar?
My hard-earned diploma, complete with incorrectly spelled name. Sigh. Hopefully future employers still accept this as valid.
Some of Esteli´s murals and graffiti. The first two murals are the ones that are fighting for the title of ¨Vince´s favourite mural".
(A close-up of mural #1)
This one must have a slight advantage over mural #1 because a variation of it has become the background of my laptop.
All about the fight for rights. The blue sign in the top left corner is one of the street signs in Estelí. As you can see, there is nothing hidden or obscure about the signs. Why this location is described as "1 block west and 1 block south of that really tall lamp post" instead of 1st avenue and 4th street is beyond me. But I´ve had that discussion already.
In terms of quality photography, this one seems to win. Blue sky, bright colors, clarity. Well done, Vince.
As I´ve said, I quite like the graffiti here as well.
Sandino greeting people who come into Estelí. I stood for several minutes waiting for the wind to swoop up the flag in this picture. You are welcome.
I know that not everyone speaks Spanish, but I wonder if my Canadian readers can spot why this picture is peculiar, and perhaps why Michael Ignatieff looks so pleased with himself...
I know that not everyone speaks Spanish, but I wonder if my Canadian readers can spot why this picture is peculiar, and perhaps why Michael Ignatieff looks so pleased with himself...
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Fair Trade, funny t-shirts, and the trouble with landmarks
¡Hola a todos!
I’m pleased to announce that things related to my thesis project are slowly but surely moving along. I’ve had a few very constructive meetings with the organization that I will be working with and have even gone on a field visit to one of the coffee-growing cooperatives that the organization supports. I have a few more field trips planned for this coming week and hope to meet with one of the directors to set out a specific timeline for the project. For those of you that don’t know about my project, or for those of you who have been confused by my attempts to explain it (i.e. probably everyone), here’s a short synopsis (my tendency to babble endlessly makes these synopses very difficult so hopefully this doesn’t confuse the matter more):
There is a certification system for coffee that is called Fair Trade (in North America you may recognize the small black and white symbol on some coffee packages). In order for coffee growers and coffee buyers to access this system and use the label, they need to meet certain criteria, including the payment of a minimum price and premiums (a condition for buyers), organization into cooperatives (for producers), the use of environmentally sustainable practices (for producers), and the provision of pre-harvest credit (for buyers). While a number of these conditions have been studied, it is unclear whether one condition, gender equity on coffee cooperatives, is actually happening on the ground. Cooperatives are still very much male-dominated (a so-called sausage fest, if you will) which means that the men control the money and make the decisions despite the fact that women do a huge amount of work on coffee farms (and do basically all of the work in the home). It is difficult to assess “gender equity”, though, and the gender equity component of the Fair Trade standards is incredibly vague. Here is where my project starts. I will be working with a women’s organization that supports several cooperatives that grow coffee. The organization’s main goal is the empowerment of women and coffee-growing (and other economic activities) is one small part of their program that includes education, consciousness-raising, advocacy, anti-violence programming, and literacy. Because this organization revolves around women’s empowerment rather than economic gain but is nonetheless involved in coffee production, I am hoping that they will be able to express what they want out of Fair Trade (a few of their cooperatives are certified, others are thinking about it), what they consider gender equity in coffee production to be, and whether they think that Fair Trade is the way to go about achieving that goal. The link to health arises in a couple of ways: gender equity is an important factor towards improving health (in addition to the direct impacts of violence against women, women who have no power, no access to resources, and a disproportionately high burden of work have worse health outcomes); also, economic empowerment which may result in a small way from receiving Fair Trade coffee can be linked to health both directly (the ability to purchase medicines, sufficient food, invest in your house, etc.) and indirectly (through lower vulnerability to price shocks, lower stress and anxiety, etc.). So there you have it. That wasn’t short at all. Sorry.
The fact that the cogs of my project are slowly beginning to turn hasn’t resulted in a lack of weird and wonderful things in the world of Estelí. Here is your weekly dose of Estelí wackiness:
Because of cargo ships full of used/surplus/donated/rejected/other clothes that show up in Nicaragua from the United States and other countries, there are quite a few t-shirts with English phrases floating around in Nicaragua. Because English is not a first language here, people seem to buy and wear shirts without knowing exactly what it is that they are declaring to the world around them. A few of my favourites:
- A 60-something year old women sporting a t-shirt with “Ghetto Fabulous” written in sequins.
- A buff, 20-something year old man wearing a High School Musical shirt.
- An Estelí (generally a very left-wing, anti-USA (or at least anti-Bush) area of Nicaragua happy with the Nicaraguan allies of Iran and Venezuela) man declaring his love of the “Red, White, and Blue”.
- The pièce de resistance (Amy saw this one, I did not)… an elderly women with a t-shirt sporting two words and nothing else. Those two words: Fuck You.
I seriously think that it would be fascinating to spend a few days in a port just gaping at what comes off of cargo ships here. Food products labelled “FOR EXPORT ONLY” in big, bold letters (it doesn’t really inspire confidence if the manufacturers are that concerned about getting the product out of their domestic market), canned goods subject to pesticides not approved for use in the United States, and piles of surplus Disney gear are just some of the things that roll off of these ships. One day I will provide you with a sample inventory list of a shop in Estelí. I guarantee that several styles of Hannah Montana backpack will be on the list.
I’m not sure if I have described the way that directions are given here but it is both fascinating and perplexing. Despite Estelí having a near-perfect grid pattern and numbered streets and avenues, people here (and everyone in Nicaragua) give directions and have addresses using “landmarks”. For example, my old house was “From the central laboratory, one block east”. These directions are given to cab drivers, post office workers, and anyone visiting your house or office. This system is incredibly difficult for me for a few reasons: (1) I don’t know where landmarks are, (2) I don’t know what landmarks are (how is it that “Titanic Restaurant” is a landmark but “La Luna Restaurant” is not?), (3) my landmarks are different from their landmarks (apparently “the spot with the pile of rotting oranges” is not a valid landmark) and (4) their landmarks are not always in the present. Consider my two favourite directions so far. For our house: From where the southbound bus station used to be, one block west. What the hell am I supposed to do with that direction? I’ve been here six weeks and the bus station has only been in one place! How could I possibly be expected to give and/or follow that direction? And, my personal favourite, the direction to the house of one of the teachers at the school: “From where they used to have the cockfights, no not those cockfights, the cockfights closer to the main street, yeah that old cockfighting pit, 2 blocks north and 1 block west.” Outrageous.
As a warning, falling asleep in a hammock leaves ridiculous burn/tan lines. The front of my legs are completely burned in a line that is about two inches wide because of the way that I was enveloped in the hammock. I would have put on sunscreen but I didn’t plan on staying out that long. My intention was to study (because how many people can say that they studied in a hammock under orange trees and mango trees?) but, as is often the case, studying quickly turned into napping. I like to think that the sun was only teaching me a lesson about the importance of being learned and the perils of being lazy. Unfortunately I can’t even out the color of my legs because lying on my stomach, face down in a hammock is not exactly the picture of comfort.
As a closing paragraph, do you remember those girls that took my picture while I was admiring some art? The ones who giggled and ran off, leaving me feeling both confident in my self-image and remarkably violated? Well, that story recently took a turn for the weird. Listen to the following conversation that I had in a bar:
Xochi (my housemate): “Vince, these are the neighbours I was telling you about, the ones across the street.”
Vince: “Wonderful. How very nice to meet you. Hey, were the two of you (our neighbours) in a play at Don Felipe’s birthday? (the birthday party I went to with the Spanish school).”
Neighbour: “Yeah, we were. We work at the Casa de Cultura and put on the play through that organization. I think that I saw you there once.”
Vince: “Oh?”
Neighbour: “Yeah, I took your picture.”
Vince: “Whaaaaaaat?”
Neighbour: “Yeah, you were looking at some paintings and I took your picture. When I came home and realized you were my neighbour, I was really embarrassed.” (What is critically important to note here is how chronologically strange this statement is. She took my picture about three weeks before I became her neighbour. There is no possible way that she went home and was embarrassed the same day.)
Vince: “Well. Um. Nice to meet you.”
What is a reasonable reaction in this situation? I was caught completely off-guard! Do I ask why? Do I demand an apology? Do I say thank you? Do I spend the rest of my time here avoiding eye contact and conversation? I’m going to stick with the latter.
Speaking of sticking with things, my Yahtzee score remains 426. I assure you that this has not been through lack of trying.
I’m pleased to announce that things related to my thesis project are slowly but surely moving along. I’ve had a few very constructive meetings with the organization that I will be working with and have even gone on a field visit to one of the coffee-growing cooperatives that the organization supports. I have a few more field trips planned for this coming week and hope to meet with one of the directors to set out a specific timeline for the project. For those of you that don’t know about my project, or for those of you who have been confused by my attempts to explain it (i.e. probably everyone), here’s a short synopsis (my tendency to babble endlessly makes these synopses very difficult so hopefully this doesn’t confuse the matter more):
There is a certification system for coffee that is called Fair Trade (in North America you may recognize the small black and white symbol on some coffee packages). In order for coffee growers and coffee buyers to access this system and use the label, they need to meet certain criteria, including the payment of a minimum price and premiums (a condition for buyers), organization into cooperatives (for producers), the use of environmentally sustainable practices (for producers), and the provision of pre-harvest credit (for buyers). While a number of these conditions have been studied, it is unclear whether one condition, gender equity on coffee cooperatives, is actually happening on the ground. Cooperatives are still very much male-dominated (a so-called sausage fest, if you will) which means that the men control the money and make the decisions despite the fact that women do a huge amount of work on coffee farms (and do basically all of the work in the home). It is difficult to assess “gender equity”, though, and the gender equity component of the Fair Trade standards is incredibly vague. Here is where my project starts. I will be working with a women’s organization that supports several cooperatives that grow coffee. The organization’s main goal is the empowerment of women and coffee-growing (and other economic activities) is one small part of their program that includes education, consciousness-raising, advocacy, anti-violence programming, and literacy. Because this organization revolves around women’s empowerment rather than economic gain but is nonetheless involved in coffee production, I am hoping that they will be able to express what they want out of Fair Trade (a few of their cooperatives are certified, others are thinking about it), what they consider gender equity in coffee production to be, and whether they think that Fair Trade is the way to go about achieving that goal. The link to health arises in a couple of ways: gender equity is an important factor towards improving health (in addition to the direct impacts of violence against women, women who have no power, no access to resources, and a disproportionately high burden of work have worse health outcomes); also, economic empowerment which may result in a small way from receiving Fair Trade coffee can be linked to health both directly (the ability to purchase medicines, sufficient food, invest in your house, etc.) and indirectly (through lower vulnerability to price shocks, lower stress and anxiety, etc.). So there you have it. That wasn’t short at all. Sorry.
The fact that the cogs of my project are slowly beginning to turn hasn’t resulted in a lack of weird and wonderful things in the world of Estelí. Here is your weekly dose of Estelí wackiness:
Because of cargo ships full of used/surplus/donated/rejected/other clothes that show up in Nicaragua from the United States and other countries, there are quite a few t-shirts with English phrases floating around in Nicaragua. Because English is not a first language here, people seem to buy and wear shirts without knowing exactly what it is that they are declaring to the world around them. A few of my favourites:
- A 60-something year old women sporting a t-shirt with “Ghetto Fabulous” written in sequins.
- A buff, 20-something year old man wearing a High School Musical shirt.
- An Estelí (generally a very left-wing, anti-USA (or at least anti-Bush) area of Nicaragua happy with the Nicaraguan allies of Iran and Venezuela) man declaring his love of the “Red, White, and Blue”.
- The pièce de resistance (Amy saw this one, I did not)… an elderly women with a t-shirt sporting two words and nothing else. Those two words: Fuck You.
I seriously think that it would be fascinating to spend a few days in a port just gaping at what comes off of cargo ships here. Food products labelled “FOR EXPORT ONLY” in big, bold letters (it doesn’t really inspire confidence if the manufacturers are that concerned about getting the product out of their domestic market), canned goods subject to pesticides not approved for use in the United States, and piles of surplus Disney gear are just some of the things that roll off of these ships. One day I will provide you with a sample inventory list of a shop in Estelí. I guarantee that several styles of Hannah Montana backpack will be on the list.
I’m not sure if I have described the way that directions are given here but it is both fascinating and perplexing. Despite Estelí having a near-perfect grid pattern and numbered streets and avenues, people here (and everyone in Nicaragua) give directions and have addresses using “landmarks”. For example, my old house was “From the central laboratory, one block east”. These directions are given to cab drivers, post office workers, and anyone visiting your house or office. This system is incredibly difficult for me for a few reasons: (1) I don’t know where landmarks are, (2) I don’t know what landmarks are (how is it that “Titanic Restaurant” is a landmark but “La Luna Restaurant” is not?), (3) my landmarks are different from their landmarks (apparently “the spot with the pile of rotting oranges” is not a valid landmark) and (4) their landmarks are not always in the present. Consider my two favourite directions so far. For our house: From where the southbound bus station used to be, one block west. What the hell am I supposed to do with that direction? I’ve been here six weeks and the bus station has only been in one place! How could I possibly be expected to give and/or follow that direction? And, my personal favourite, the direction to the house of one of the teachers at the school: “From where they used to have the cockfights, no not those cockfights, the cockfights closer to the main street, yeah that old cockfighting pit, 2 blocks north and 1 block west.” Outrageous.
As a warning, falling asleep in a hammock leaves ridiculous burn/tan lines. The front of my legs are completely burned in a line that is about two inches wide because of the way that I was enveloped in the hammock. I would have put on sunscreen but I didn’t plan on staying out that long. My intention was to study (because how many people can say that they studied in a hammock under orange trees and mango trees?) but, as is often the case, studying quickly turned into napping. I like to think that the sun was only teaching me a lesson about the importance of being learned and the perils of being lazy. Unfortunately I can’t even out the color of my legs because lying on my stomach, face down in a hammock is not exactly the picture of comfort.
As a closing paragraph, do you remember those girls that took my picture while I was admiring some art? The ones who giggled and ran off, leaving me feeling both confident in my self-image and remarkably violated? Well, that story recently took a turn for the weird. Listen to the following conversation that I had in a bar:
Xochi (my housemate): “Vince, these are the neighbours I was telling you about, the ones across the street.”
Vince: “Wonderful. How very nice to meet you. Hey, were the two of you (our neighbours) in a play at Don Felipe’s birthday? (the birthday party I went to with the Spanish school).”
Neighbour: “Yeah, we were. We work at the Casa de Cultura and put on the play through that organization. I think that I saw you there once.”
Vince: “Oh?”
Neighbour: “Yeah, I took your picture.”
Vince: “Whaaaaaaat?”
Neighbour: “Yeah, you were looking at some paintings and I took your picture. When I came home and realized you were my neighbour, I was really embarrassed.” (What is critically important to note here is how chronologically strange this statement is. She took my picture about three weeks before I became her neighbour. There is no possible way that she went home and was embarrassed the same day.)
Vince: “Well. Um. Nice to meet you.”
What is a reasonable reaction in this situation? I was caught completely off-guard! Do I ask why? Do I demand an apology? Do I say thank you? Do I spend the rest of my time here avoiding eye contact and conversation? I’m going to stick with the latter.
Speaking of sticking with things, my Yahtzee score remains 426. I assure you that this has not been through lack of trying.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
How to rid oneself of a stalker (who is probably on drugs)
Hello again everyone! After a little break thanks to guest bloggers and guest languages, I am back. Luckily for you, I have suffered from a crippling boredom this past week (I’d say that it is a fate worse than cheese balls but that would be a big lie). Why is that lucky for you, you ask? Well, when I get bored, I do one of four things: sleep, sit in the hammock (that’s right, we have a hammock in our new house), watch perfectly legitimately purchased movies that happen to be on DVD-Rs, and observe. The latter is most relevant here. When I (or anyone, really) observe things in Estelí, I notice weird things going on. You get to read about these things.
First and foremost, a strange fact. Did you know that not all roosters crow in the morning? How do I know this? Apparently our neighbourhood rooster, possibly confused by the faint smell of chicken from the nearby market, feels the need to inform everyone of his presence between 10:00 and 11:00 PM. There is no sign of dawn at that hour. I do not understand this rooster’s behaviour.
Another behaviour that I don’t understand is that carried out by certain Nicaraguan men on hot days. These men have invented a posture that is simultaneously bizarre and hilarious. They pull their t-shirts up just past their belly button, in order for it to be able to rest on the crest of their belly. Once their (often big) bellies are fully visible to the general public, they place on finger firmly in their belly button, as though something would leak out if they didn’t. With their belly exposed and finger in place, they proudly look around, content to show off their new pose. I don’t know if they are cooling themselves, searching for lint, or just given themselves a good rub and pick, but this posture makes me laugh out loud every time. It also seems to be a popular posture in all situations- leaning against posts, walking on the street, sitting in a chair on the porch, I have yet to find a place where a bit of belly button air is not needed.
The English that is spoken here is quite wonderful, both because of the vocabulary and the randomness. Most young people speak a few words of English but unfortunately, their teacher has been rap music and/or Hallmark cards. Every once in a while, I get a very proud “what’s up foo?” or simply a “’sup?”. I don’t regularly answer these questions in Canada so I certainly don’t know what to say here. Amy was once asked by her homestay family what the lyrics to “the lollipop song” meant. Her response was that rap music (hip hop?) is not the best place to learn English. When not inspired by the musical stylings of our generation, the English words are strangely out of place. At 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I may get a hearty “good morning!” or, as I’m approaching someone, they yell a confident “good bye!”, only to be greeted by my confused expression. The only other thing I get is “I love you” and/or kissy faces and/or sounds from 15-17 year old girls. I’ve become so terrified of them that I avoid the streets when the schools let out and cross the street when I see a group of them.
In addition to these observations, I have two more stories to tell. They are entirely unrelated to one another and have to do with drug accusations and entirely inappropriate stalkers. Do read on!
I miss several things about my homestay family, and one of those things is the use of drugs as an explanation for nearly every strange behaviour that my dear homestay mom reads about, hears about, or sees. For example (I am not making these up):
- Three years ago, her neighbour’s son tragically kills himself because his mother did not let him go swimming with his friends. My homestay mom suspects he was on drugs.
- A Nicaraguan man who swept a Canadian student off of her feet was actually married and had a child. He must have been on drugs.
- A Canadian student is swept off of her feet by a Nicaraguan man who ended up being married and having a child. She must have been on drugs.
- A student had an epilepsy-related seizure in my homestay family’s home. She must have been mixing hard drugs with her epilepsy medications.
- After an argument with his girlfriend, a Canadian tourist kills himself in their hostel. He must have been on drugs.
- A Swiss student staying with the family lost a lot of weight. The cause, you ask? Drugs.
I lived in perennial fear of making any sort of complaint, strange movement, or asking a strange question lest I be accused of being on drugs. I don’t doubt that drugs are a big problem here, but they certainly aren’t the single explanatory cause for: machismo, unfaithful partners, weight loss, slow Spanish learning, car accidents, love at first sight, every suicide, etc.
The second story is an outrageous story of a Nicaraguan man enamoured with one of my housemates (Xochi). Xochi’s camera had broken so she looked around town to see if it was cheaper to order a new one, have it fixed, or send it back to Canada to have it fixed. While trying to price the latter option, she had to give her name and phone number to an agent at the DHL Shipping office. With all of her price comparisons done, Xochi returned to our house for supper. Not a good story yet, I know. What happened next, however, was beyond strange. While Amy, Xochi, and I were eating supper, her phone rang. It registered as an unknown number, but since all of us are slowly developing contacts with various groups and individuals in Estelí, this wasn’t strange and Xochi answered. It was quite obvious that something was up (given her constant replies of “I think you have the wrong number.” “How did you get this number?” “I wasn’t at DHL today.” and “How about I call you instead?”) but the weirdness of the story wasn’t evident until Xochi regaled us with details of the phone chat. Apparently, this individual (Raphael) said that he was behind her in line, got her number from DHL (we assume he was either eavesdropping or he snuck a peek over the counter), and was hoping for “friendship” and “someone to practice English with”. He was probably on drugs. Given the outright creepiness of this behaviour, we saved the number in Xochi’s phone as “creep”. Not content to let her go, “creep” text-messaged Xochi the next morning, saying that he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression, just that he wanted friendship, that she should meet his family, and that he could visit her house. He proceeded to phone three more times that day, two of which Xochi ignored (since the number now popped up as “creep”) and the third of which I answered. Raphael seemed caught off guard by a Spanish-speaking male. He asked about “his friend from DHL”. I told him that I didn’t know who his friend was and that some Canadian girl sold me her cell phone that day. Apparently he didn’t really want friendship because he wasn’t interested in befriending a Dutch man (I told him I was from the Netherlands to avoid being asked about English practice) and was only interested in his DHL friend. As ridiculous as my excuses sound, he has yet to phone back. He either believed me or got the hint. Regardless, the outcome is the one that we were hoping for!
I just thought of a third story so I apologize for lying earlier. This past weekend, I visited what can only be called a lifeguard’s nightmare. With the intention of lowering my core temperature which for six weeks has felt somewhere around 72 degrees Celsius, I went with Xochi and a few friends to a pool near our house. The scene was chaotic. See if you can guess how many injuries we witnessed based on the physical and behavioural descriptions below:
Setting the scene…
- A pool no more than five feet deep (not an exaggeration. At no point did the water rise above my chest.)
- That same pool measuring about ten feet by twenty feet.
- A pool so densely packed with people it may well have been Bangladesh.
- Slick rocks and tiles surrounding the pool.
- No lifeguard on duty.
Actions we saw that made me shudder and, at least a few times, scream…
- Teenagers diving head first into the pool. These were not so-called “shallow dives” but full head first dives. They dove from both the deck and from a three foot platform (why this pool had a diving platform I have no idea).
- Kids fighting (with angry expressions so I don’t want to call it play fighting) to throw each other into the pool. Chalk it up to stubbornness or machismo, but the kids refused to give up and seemed more willing to be dropped on the rocks than thrown into the water.
- Full on sprinting up and down the deck of the pool.
- A white girl in a bathing suit who clearly distracted the young men’s attention. Seriously, men here (and some women, too, I suppose, but men are much more guilty) make no attempt whatsoever at subtlety. They stare and stare and stare and don’t care who notices. This happens on the street all the time but seemed amplified in the pool. When Xochi was about to get into the pool, with a claim of “I’m so excited!”, my only response, based on the young men’s eyes glued to her, was “So are they…”.
- Oh yeah, there was also rampant underage drinking.
And the final tally of injuries… 0. I know. I could not believe it. I was relatively certain that I was going to have to phone the ambulance at least 5 times, if not more.
Also, we threw a party (house-warming / thanks for being our Spanish teachers) for our Spanish teachers on Friday. It was delightful and eventually ended up with a few people dancing, as most Nicaraguan parties are wont to do.
No change to report in my Yahtzee score, so mom’s record is still safe. In other gaming news, my crippling boredom has made me into a Minesweeper, Solitaire, and Hearts champion. Unfortunately Windows tracks how many games of each I have played and I am pretty sure that number will be well into quadruple digits by the time I come home…
First and foremost, a strange fact. Did you know that not all roosters crow in the morning? How do I know this? Apparently our neighbourhood rooster, possibly confused by the faint smell of chicken from the nearby market, feels the need to inform everyone of his presence between 10:00 and 11:00 PM. There is no sign of dawn at that hour. I do not understand this rooster’s behaviour.
Another behaviour that I don’t understand is that carried out by certain Nicaraguan men on hot days. These men have invented a posture that is simultaneously bizarre and hilarious. They pull their t-shirts up just past their belly button, in order for it to be able to rest on the crest of their belly. Once their (often big) bellies are fully visible to the general public, they place on finger firmly in their belly button, as though something would leak out if they didn’t. With their belly exposed and finger in place, they proudly look around, content to show off their new pose. I don’t know if they are cooling themselves, searching for lint, or just given themselves a good rub and pick, but this posture makes me laugh out loud every time. It also seems to be a popular posture in all situations- leaning against posts, walking on the street, sitting in a chair on the porch, I have yet to find a place where a bit of belly button air is not needed.
The English that is spoken here is quite wonderful, both because of the vocabulary and the randomness. Most young people speak a few words of English but unfortunately, their teacher has been rap music and/or Hallmark cards. Every once in a while, I get a very proud “what’s up foo?” or simply a “’sup?”. I don’t regularly answer these questions in Canada so I certainly don’t know what to say here. Amy was once asked by her homestay family what the lyrics to “the lollipop song” meant. Her response was that rap music (hip hop?) is not the best place to learn English. When not inspired by the musical stylings of our generation, the English words are strangely out of place. At 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I may get a hearty “good morning!” or, as I’m approaching someone, they yell a confident “good bye!”, only to be greeted by my confused expression. The only other thing I get is “I love you” and/or kissy faces and/or sounds from 15-17 year old girls. I’ve become so terrified of them that I avoid the streets when the schools let out and cross the street when I see a group of them.
In addition to these observations, I have two more stories to tell. They are entirely unrelated to one another and have to do with drug accusations and entirely inappropriate stalkers. Do read on!
I miss several things about my homestay family, and one of those things is the use of drugs as an explanation for nearly every strange behaviour that my dear homestay mom reads about, hears about, or sees. For example (I am not making these up):
- Three years ago, her neighbour’s son tragically kills himself because his mother did not let him go swimming with his friends. My homestay mom suspects he was on drugs.
- A Nicaraguan man who swept a Canadian student off of her feet was actually married and had a child. He must have been on drugs.
- A Canadian student is swept off of her feet by a Nicaraguan man who ended up being married and having a child. She must have been on drugs.
- A student had an epilepsy-related seizure in my homestay family’s home. She must have been mixing hard drugs with her epilepsy medications.
- After an argument with his girlfriend, a Canadian tourist kills himself in their hostel. He must have been on drugs.
- A Swiss student staying with the family lost a lot of weight. The cause, you ask? Drugs.
I lived in perennial fear of making any sort of complaint, strange movement, or asking a strange question lest I be accused of being on drugs. I don’t doubt that drugs are a big problem here, but they certainly aren’t the single explanatory cause for: machismo, unfaithful partners, weight loss, slow Spanish learning, car accidents, love at first sight, every suicide, etc.
The second story is an outrageous story of a Nicaraguan man enamoured with one of my housemates (Xochi). Xochi’s camera had broken so she looked around town to see if it was cheaper to order a new one, have it fixed, or send it back to Canada to have it fixed. While trying to price the latter option, she had to give her name and phone number to an agent at the DHL Shipping office. With all of her price comparisons done, Xochi returned to our house for supper. Not a good story yet, I know. What happened next, however, was beyond strange. While Amy, Xochi, and I were eating supper, her phone rang. It registered as an unknown number, but since all of us are slowly developing contacts with various groups and individuals in Estelí, this wasn’t strange and Xochi answered. It was quite obvious that something was up (given her constant replies of “I think you have the wrong number.” “How did you get this number?” “I wasn’t at DHL today.” and “How about I call you instead?”) but the weirdness of the story wasn’t evident until Xochi regaled us with details of the phone chat. Apparently, this individual (Raphael) said that he was behind her in line, got her number from DHL (we assume he was either eavesdropping or he snuck a peek over the counter), and was hoping for “friendship” and “someone to practice English with”. He was probably on drugs. Given the outright creepiness of this behaviour, we saved the number in Xochi’s phone as “creep”. Not content to let her go, “creep” text-messaged Xochi the next morning, saying that he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression, just that he wanted friendship, that she should meet his family, and that he could visit her house. He proceeded to phone three more times that day, two of which Xochi ignored (since the number now popped up as “creep”) and the third of which I answered. Raphael seemed caught off guard by a Spanish-speaking male. He asked about “his friend from DHL”. I told him that I didn’t know who his friend was and that some Canadian girl sold me her cell phone that day. Apparently he didn’t really want friendship because he wasn’t interested in befriending a Dutch man (I told him I was from the Netherlands to avoid being asked about English practice) and was only interested in his DHL friend. As ridiculous as my excuses sound, he has yet to phone back. He either believed me or got the hint. Regardless, the outcome is the one that we were hoping for!
I just thought of a third story so I apologize for lying earlier. This past weekend, I visited what can only be called a lifeguard’s nightmare. With the intention of lowering my core temperature which for six weeks has felt somewhere around 72 degrees Celsius, I went with Xochi and a few friends to a pool near our house. The scene was chaotic. See if you can guess how many injuries we witnessed based on the physical and behavioural descriptions below:
Setting the scene…
- A pool no more than five feet deep (not an exaggeration. At no point did the water rise above my chest.)
- That same pool measuring about ten feet by twenty feet.
- A pool so densely packed with people it may well have been Bangladesh.
- Slick rocks and tiles surrounding the pool.
- No lifeguard on duty.
Actions we saw that made me shudder and, at least a few times, scream…
- Teenagers diving head first into the pool. These were not so-called “shallow dives” but full head first dives. They dove from both the deck and from a three foot platform (why this pool had a diving platform I have no idea).
- Kids fighting (with angry expressions so I don’t want to call it play fighting) to throw each other into the pool. Chalk it up to stubbornness or machismo, but the kids refused to give up and seemed more willing to be dropped on the rocks than thrown into the water.
- Full on sprinting up and down the deck of the pool.
- A white girl in a bathing suit who clearly distracted the young men’s attention. Seriously, men here (and some women, too, I suppose, but men are much more guilty) make no attempt whatsoever at subtlety. They stare and stare and stare and don’t care who notices. This happens on the street all the time but seemed amplified in the pool. When Xochi was about to get into the pool, with a claim of “I’m so excited!”, my only response, based on the young men’s eyes glued to her, was “So are they…”.
- Oh yeah, there was also rampant underage drinking.
And the final tally of injuries… 0. I know. I could not believe it. I was relatively certain that I was going to have to phone the ambulance at least 5 times, if not more.
Also, we threw a party (house-warming / thanks for being our Spanish teachers) for our Spanish teachers on Friday. It was delightful and eventually ended up with a few people dancing, as most Nicaraguan parties are wont to do.
No change to report in my Yahtzee score, so mom’s record is still safe. In other gaming news, my crippling boredom has made me into a Minesweeper, Solitaire, and Hearts champion. Unfortunately Windows tracks how many games of each I have played and I am pretty sure that number will be well into quadruple digits by the time I come home…
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