This should have been posted on Sunday...

Hello friends.

A brief introductory note: This blog posting was meant to be posted on Sunday but the power went out for the latter part of the day. Much has happened since. I met a vibrant 80-something year old who wanted me to stay in his house while he took my flight back to Canada (so if my airport greeting party (there better be a party) sees a crazy 80-year old spouting off Spanish jokes wearing my backpack... then I have taken him up on his offer. Don't worry, though, he said that he would teach you all Spanish), I tried unsuccessfully to photograph a frog feeding, I fell in love with the world's stupidest insect, and I witnessed the scariest cliff-diving demonstration that I believe that I will ever see. More on all of that later, though, because it is on to Sunday's blog posting. Doo doo doo doo doo doo (that's the "going back in time" music from the movies)...

As a part of my project, I have spent the majority of the last week in a couple of rural communities. This has been an incredible experience and I have met some really wonderful people and families. I could get sappier but I don’t imagine that that is why you read these things. For that purpose, leaving Estelí has given me a completely new set of experiences that I will dutifully share below. This is only a tease, however, as not only do I have two more communities to visit, but I’m running dangerously low on time devotable to blogging because of a rainstorm that washed out the road into and out of the last community that I visited (meaning that I had to stay a little longer than expected). But more on that later. Enjoy!

In every community that I am visiting, I am facilitating a workshop and then spending the night with a family in the community. I should clarify, however, that the term “community” has seemingly no relation to geographical proximity in these areas. In the first community, for example, the workshop went really well but people kept joking throughout the morning about how far I was going to have to walk to get to the place that I was staying. They would point to the top of a far away hill and say “bye Vicente, see you tomorrow!” I chuckled, thinking that this was like people in Canmore who point to the top of a mountain and say “Oh, we live way up there”, when in fact they live about five minutes up said mountain. After the workshop, though, as we walked and walked and walked straight uphill for what seemed like hours, I realized that perhaps I should not have chuckled. Perhaps I should have saved every ounce of energy that I had for the hike. When we finally arrived at the house, we were, in fact, frighteningly close to the top of the hill and, although the view was beautiful, I could barely breathe. I had sweat coming out of places that had never sweat before. I couldn’t congratulate myself for making it though, because my exhaustion made me a sissy, not a hero, because: (1) the kids in this family have to do this hike every day to go to school and (2) as soon as we arrived, with me passed out on a chair, craving a puffer or something, one of the schoolkids grabbed a shovel and started working. Incredible. Perhaps as a testament to my atrophying muscles and my poor physical form, my legs were aching for four days following the hike up and down.

The hike was made a little bit more exciting because we were quite literally racing the rain. I am pleased to announce that we won by about 3 minutes. The hike down was also exciting (read: terrifying) because I ended up doing it completely myself. I was going to go down with the school kids (who likely would have laughed at my sweat and exhaustion), but apparently I took too long saying goodbye because they had already left. The people on top of the hill made it sound like they left seconds ago and that a brief jog would easily close the gap. Not thinking about what might happen if I didn’t find the kids, I set off jogging down the hill. Either the kids walked way faster than I could jog, hid in the bush and laughed as I jogged by, or took a shortcut because I never saw the kids. Do you know what can be scary? Going down a mountain road in the hills of Northern Nicaragua by yourself. Why is this scary? Because (1) I didn’t pay much attention to the road on the way up, (2) the sweat burning my eyes made me scared of blindness, (3) there are so many hills that you can’t really see your final destination, (4) on an earlier walk, I was so disoriented that when I pointed to a house and said “oh, is that where you live, you know, to orient myself?”, my guides laughed and answered that they live in the complete opposite direction (i.e. my orienteering confidence was pretty low), and (5) I don’t watch enough Survivorman to know what to do should I really get lost. Don’t worry, though, because I made it!

Hey, fun Nicaraguan fact: Did you know that cats here only have 7 lives. I don’t know what happened to the other two. It’s too bad, too, because they could really use the extras given the abuse that small children (and grown adults) put them through.

As (another) aside, I don’t know if I have mentioned that the rains have started. Almost every night, and sometimes during the day, it rains with a vengeance (both in Estelí and in the communities that I visited). The rains here have a way of ruining conversations, because the sound of even a light rain on a tin roof is pretty loud and the sound of a sizable downpour is deafening. This really puts a damper on conversing. I must confess, though, that sometimes that break is well-appreciated on my part because the days that I spend surrounded entirely by Spanish (i.e. working in Spanish, talking in Spanish, listening in Spanish, etc.) are absolutely exhausting. Not sweating-exhausting like the hike, but I have no doubt that if my brain could sweat, my “all Spanish” days would take on a disgusting new dimension. As it stands, however, they just tire me out beyond belief, which is why at times I consider the rain to be a welcome excuse.

Where the rain is not welcome is when it wipes out roads. My planned one night stay in the community was extended because of the rains that made the road into and out of the town impassable. So impassable, in fact, that one of the residents of the house that I was staying in was on her way back from the big town at the bottom of the hill when the bus she was in got stuck. In the pitch dark, without a flashlight, she ended up walking all the way up the muddy hill in the rain (an endeavour that took her anywhere between 4 and 5 hours) to finally arrive unexpectedly at 10:30 at night. I didn’t ask why she didn’t turn around and walk the one hour back to the big town. I imagine she had a good reason.

When I was driving up to the community, I already had a feeling that this might happen because even without big rains, we had four river-esque crossings to negotiate. Unfortunately, someone (the government? Contractors?) has a tendency of leaving rural road projects abandoned at various stages – some have barely begun, others look near completion – and it is these areas that end up flooding or getting washed out. When the projects are not abandoned, they park huge trucks in the middle of the road, blocking the passage of cars on their way to various communities (but that is a rant for a different day).

Getting information in a community without cell phone coverage (and, for at least 24 hours, no power) is quite an adventure as well. Everyone had a different idea about whether the bus would arrive or not. One person was sure that the buses wouldn’t come until Monday, another said that the community was completely cut off and would remain so indefinitely, and yet another said that he had seen several buses rumble by already. I also have no idea where the information comes from. Someone can leave the house for three seconds to go dump out some water, not talk to anyone in sight, and return with a wealth of new information on the bus schedule.

The main source of information, the radio, (which unfortunately didn’t work when the power went out and stayed out) is also something that I have come to love in Estelí and Nicaragua. My favourite radio features are:
- The constant, never-ending reminders of what time it is. Before and after every single news story, halfway through songs, between commercials, and at several other intervals, the DJ happily announces what time it is. He or she often does so in a few ways in a single sentence, which in English would amount to: “It is three forty-five PM, quarter to four in the afternoon, three o’clock and forty-five minutes, fifteen minutes until we reach four o’clock of the PM”. That this method of sharing the time takes a full minute itself is of no concern.
- The huge number of birthday wishes (interrupted by time reminders, of course) that occur several times an hour. It almost seems as though every man, woman, and child in the country with a birthday that day is mentioned. If you have never before heard a birthday segment go on for 7 minutes, you don’t know what you are missing. It’s incredible.
- Interrupting songs to promote the radio station. At any point during any song, the DJ may throw on the “You’re listening to Radio ABC, the radio station that loves you most” recording. Ideally, this occurs during an instrumental section, but there really are no guarantees.

In terms of music in general, Nicaraguans are very, very musical. This is one of several characteristics wherein they and I differ a great deal. I consider music to be background noise. I enjoy having it on but don’t ever pay attention to it. As such, I don’t know many song lyrics, song titles, artists, or really any information about songs or music in general. Here, however, seemingly every single person knows the words to every single song. Whether this is a neighbour belting out “Si Yo Era Chico” at the wee hours of the morning or the bus driver and his attendants belting out some song about tears (lagrimas) while careening down a muddy slope, the love of music runs deep. It seems to defy most stereotypical musical categories, too, because young women sing along to ranchero songs while big, buff men are more than happy to sing along to sappy Enrique Iglesias-esque pop tunes.

In both communities that I have stayed in, I have stayed amongst a plethora of chickens, chicks, roosters, dogs, cats, and a pig or two. My favourite are the chickens. Particularly the catching of chickens. The speed and agility required to catch a chicken is something that I do not possess. It is also something that a few old gentlemen and ladies don’t possess (if you’ve never a four-foot something women chase a chicken, you haven’t lived.). The successful chicken catchers can catch, transfer, and release a chicken with the single swoop of a hand (e.g. from the living room into the chicken room). Also, if you have never seen a chicken with its legs tied together try to escape from under a basket, it is a sight to behold. He made it quite some ways, but was then transferred to a spot under a large pan. And then into the large pan. With veggies and herbs. A very natural progression. Also, if you are wondering why Nicaraguans are so good at baseball, it may be because the rural kids catch chickens by throwing rocks at them first. An exercise that would take me about four days takes them just a few throws and a few minutes.

¡¡I'm back!!

I know that I have used the “I’ve been crazy busy” and “I was out of the country” excuses before so I won’t bother repeating them here. Let us instead rejoice that a new blog posting has finally been, um, posted. I will be in and out of Estelí, Internet connectivity, time, and project stuff over the next two weeks so this particular entry may have to hold you over for a while. I can’t promise that it will be good but I will do my darnedest. I should also say that I have no idea what I have and have not written about already so this might be repetition. Think of it as a way to fact-check (or triangulate, as we researcher types might say) what I’ve said before. I hope that I am consistent. I doubt that I am.

In the most pressing of news, I may or may not have been given a strange nickname by one of the staff members in the organization that I am working with. You see, my name has caused a great deal of confusion here. This is as a result of a few things. First, I got caught up in the previously described habit of Spanishizing my name at the Spanish School. Thus, Vince became Vicente. This was fine because at no point did I submit or share any type of written work with my name on it so I was always Vicente. When I started my work with the organization, however, things got weird. I was writing my name on attendance sheets (alternating between Vincent and Vicente), introducing myself as Vicente (as I had become accustomed to doing), and responding to everything (from Vicente Fernandez [a famous ranchero singer] to Beenson). While Beenson may seem to be quite a ways from Vincent, I should explain that the “b” and “v” in Spanish are essentially interchangeable, to the point that very academic documents have spelling mistakes with “b”s substituted for “v”s and bice bersa. The sound of both is closer to our “b” than our “v”. There’s your Spanish lesson for the day. Back to the nickname, all of this labelling nonsense came to a head this week, when someone demanded to know what my name was: Vicente or Vincent (pronounced Beenson). After being berated (that’s an exaggeration) about names being universal and immutable, I confessed that yes, my name is Vincent, which I, too, pronounced Beenson. I then created even more confusion by saying that actually I shorten it to go by Vince. This was repeated back to me as “Beans” and hence, I may or may not have become “Frijole” (the Spanish word for beans). That was a really long story with a largely unsatisfying ending. I apologize, my dear reader.

Do you know what name is nowhere near Vicente, Beans, Vincent, or Beenson? Santiago. Apparently someone had gone the last three months thinking that my name was Santiago. I don’t have a clue how she got to that and really don’t even have a humorous hypothesis to share with you. I can’t help but think, however, that my Spanish would be much, much better if I was a Santiago.

My trip back home to Canada was wonderful and very much needed, thank you for asking. I enjoyed excellent company that I had missed dearly, delicious Hilde cake (ditto on the missing), a big blanket (ditto), Killer Bunnies (ditto), and an airplane de-icing (not so much, but I do like the winter, I won’t lie), amongst other great things. I would be lying if I said that I was not overwhelmed at times (Market Mall can be a scary place after several months away), but it was no coffee conference, I can tell you that. Oh, Atlanta, how I don’t miss you. I also still hate you, CNN, in case you were wondering.

One thing that was noticeably absent in Canada, other than public displays of affection, announcement cars, heat exhaustion, and all of the things I normally write about was mangos. I have reason to believe that I have told you about our backyard mango trees (since most of what I write is intended to inspire jealousy), and I am incredibly, incredibly pleased to report that they have started to bear fruit. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, mango trees bear way more fruit than two people can handle so I have had to adopt a mostly mango diet to avoid waste. This diet includes mango juice, mango chunks on pancakes, mango jam, “cusnaca” (a mango yogurt/smoothie type concoction), mango chunks without pancakes, as well as a variety of mango and other fruit combinations. There is also an exercise component to this diet which includes gathering mountains of mangos every morning and evening, dodging mangos as they fall from above, carrying sacks of mangos to the neighbours, and jumping in fright when the mangos slam onto the tin roof. I feel myself getting stronger already…

The mango surplus and subsequent need for recipe inventiveness have combined very well with the aforementioned (in an earlier blog) Doña Carmen Challenge. I don’t think that I explained this challenge. It goes a little like this: (1) put any combination of any food and/or non-food item on the counter, (2) challenge the wonderful Doña Carmen to make something with it, (3) watch her knowingly grin that she is unbeatable, and (4) enjoy the ensuing deliciousness. This has thus far happened with a root that someone gave to Amy (a wonderful soup resulted), a bag of je-ne-sais-quoi (ooo, français!) that turned into juice, and orange peels that somehow became jam. One day, I will challenge her with stale bread, old batteries, and three jelly beans and am sure that some sort of pasta sauce will emerge. The woman is unbeatable and she knows it. The unfortunate flip side for her is that she becomes insanely bored when our fridge only has “the regulars” in it. Those would be the same regulars that I mistakenly labelled as vegetables earlier.

I also know that some among you (and/or a certain hermano of mine) are considering the purchase of a motorcycle. While you may think that this limits your ability to transport large items like a bag of hockey equipment, building supplies, or other things, let me assure you that it does not need to be that way. The things that people here carry on their motorcycles, often in addition to two or three family members and/or friends, are stunning in both their diversity and size. Have you ever ridden your motorcycle to Totem Building Centre only to lament the fact that you will be unable to buy the 16 foot length of rebar you suddenly realized that you needed? Don’t despair, because all you really need is a shoulder to throw it on and away you can ride. It doesn’t really matter that the back part of the rebar is scrapping, does it? Are you doing your weekly groceries? Ditch the car and take your motorcycle- there’s no limit to the number of bags you can carry. My favourite motorcycle cargo, however, was an inflatable kiddie pool (something that on numerous occasions I have thought of purchasing). Normally, one wouldn’t even notice if you were biking with this kind of pool. In fact, it could easily fit in a backpack. Unless it is inflated. That’s right, apparently this motorcyclist was craving a dip in the pool so much that he didn’t have time to open the valve and just brought it home completely inflated. It, like the rebar, was scraping on the ground and I can only imagine that the pool did not last long once it got home. All of these feats, it should be noted, also apply to bicycles, so if you’re not in the market for motors, there is always that option. I, for one, plan on moving from Calgary to Victoria using only my bicycle and one willing friend to ride the crossbar and hold some things.

On the same topic of transportation, my understanding of driving and traffic laws in Nicaragua has become even more confused. Consider the following situation: one truck, two seatbelts (none in the back, remember), 10 people, 50 kilometers, police check stop 100 meters from the starting point. How does one get all 10 people back to Estelí in one trip, passing the police checkpoint without incident? It takes a keen awareness of the traffic laws, it would seem. Here’s what I thought, put a couple of people up front, a few extras in the back, and the two or so left over could sit strategically in the box of the truck, waving at the police as they noticed too late that there were passengers in the box. Here is what we did instead. Put the driver and one passenger in the front, put three people in the back, and cram all of the bags, materials, and five remaining passengers in the fully open and visible box. I was sceptical, but we roared by the police and it was through to Estelí. When I asked my fellow box passengers why there were only three people in the back, they answered that apparently the law says that you can’t have more passengers than (theoretical) seatbelts. The law says nothing, apparently, about the people in the box of the truck (also known as “the majority of the population”). This kinds of smacks of the motorcyclist getting reprimanded for not wearing a helmet instead of being talked to about the four non-helmeted passengers and dozen grocery bags he was riding with. It should be noted, much to mother’s disapproval, that I was one of the passengers in the box. I was also terribly seated with my back against the flap (is that the right word? Where the box opens out to the back?). This had two consequences. First, I got outrageous gusts of wind right in my face, which I have reason to believe irreparably damaged my hearing. Second, I entered a deep meditative state reflecting on how reliant I was at that moment on whichever factory worker assembled what at that point I hoped was anything but a flimsy “flap handle”. If that swung open, I was a goner. I also, therefore, meditated on how best to protect my head should I be thrown from the truck. I figured that no posture would be protection enough. Luckily, my deep meditation actually put me to sleep. If you have never slept in the box of a truck going 100 km/hr down a winding highway, I highly recommend it as a coping mechanism.

I am safe in Estelí, though, so crisis avoided. No announcement car will be needed to announce my passing. I wonder if they would say Vicente or Beenson? I don’t mean to dwell on death, but while we are on the topic, have I ever shared my “likely ways I will die” list with you? I think that I have mentioned a few, including bus crash, car-on-pedestrian “accident” (although I am quite possibly the best jaywalker in town, if I may say so myself. Bring it on, cars.), dog mauling, and others, I would like to add mango to the head, bladder overfilling, and heart disease to the list. The latter is only there because of statistical probability. Also, I hope they say Beenson. I’d also like to see them try Terstappen. That has yet to happen.

I visited a photo printing center today and was thrilled to find not only the greatest, most impatient (a wonderful quality for instant prints, by the way) photo printing lady ever (whose answer to every glitch seemed to be to physically assault the machine harder and harder) but also perhaps the cherry on top of the “surplus crap that gets shipped to Estelí” sundae. Here I was, wasting some time perusing picture frames when what should I see but a frame etched with the words “Jackson Hole Wyoming”. I have never been to Wyoming. In fact, to be honest, I don’t ever plan on going to Wyoming. I’m sure that if I were to go to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I would buy a commemorative frame. I would not, however, buy that frame in Nicaragua. Why in god’s name would someone load that into a shipping container to bring over here? It boggles the mind.

Before I sign off, I feel as though I should also tell you about a popular pose that I don’t think I have shared yet. I will call this pose the watcher. As a quick background note, almost every doorway on the houses in the central part of Estelí have a metal gate right in front of the door. Our house is no different. This is actually quite nice because you can throw a lock on the gate, leave the door wide open, and have a breeze blow through the house. For residents of Estelí, however, it is also nice because it lets you pose. “The watcher”, normally appearing in the early evening, involves either a shirtless man or an older lady standing inside their houses, leaning heavily on the gate and watching the world go by. If you are a particularly old lady you have earned the right to forego the leaning and you may instead pull your wicker rocking chair directly to the gate. “The watcher”, maybe better described as a “glarer”, is completely immobile, doesn’t make a sound, and tends not to be noticed until you have wandered awkwardly close to their door. As creepy as the watcher may be, I can relate wholeheartedly. When I was in Saskatoon, there were times where I would stand at the window for a solid ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Other times, I would look out of the peephole for a few minutes for absolutely no reason. On a few rare occasions, I would move from watcher to listener and push my intercom button just to see if there was a conversation going on in the entrance of the building. Creepy, yes. Undoubtedly, in fact. Kind of embarrassing, too. But now, fate has brought me closer to my fellow watchers. Look out world.

And now, here’s a parting joke: How do you know that a Latin American is amongst the 8 people staying in your hostel dorm room at a coffee conference in Atlanta? There’s dirty toilet paper in the garbage can next to the toilet! Ha! Also, if you substitute “Latin American” for “Vince”, “8” with “4”, and “hostel dorm room at a coffee conference in Atlanta” with “3-bedroom basement suite in Victoria”, the same answer reveals an unfortunate habit that took me a day or two to shake in Canada. Sorry ladies.

Bye for now friends!