¡¡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!