Conversations with My Family

I spent most of last week in Rivas, the nearest city to San Juan del Sur, the surf mecca on the Pacific coast.  I planned and taught 5 classes with a Nicaraguan counterpart and another volunteer. I was assigned to a school a half hour away from Rivas on the most deeply rutted road I can remember, past a side-of-the-road dump, stopped by oxen and horses who wonder what you’re doing in their way.  The school is a small one in a town the population of which is mostly indigenous.  I loved the students who had an earnestness when it comes to studying English which does them real credit considering everything.  They struggled to speak the language and were so openly pleased when they succeeded that you had to love them.  Rivas was a nice break from training.  We all managed to get to the beach for one afternoon.  What a pleasure to walk in the serious sun, but in the warmest water I’ve felt in Nicaragua.

I returned to pour on the Spanish study.  Next week we have evaluations of the language progress to date.  Although I think I’ve progressed, I’m not near where I need to be.  But yesterday I took a long break to talk to my host parents about their experiences during the revolution.  I’m going to write what they said with the warning that I may not have fully understood, but I understood enough to get the picture.  The revolution and the 10-plus years of armed conflict following the overthrow of Samosa is recent history here.

My host mom has lived in this pueblo all her life.  Her dad farmed on the side.  During the revolution, she says the American bombed Jinotepe, a city nearby.  I can’t find anything to confirm that in my reading on the history of Nicaragua and I may easily have misunderstood, but whatever happened to the residents of that city, refugees streamed south to this town and were taken in by the townspeople, sometimes 6  to a house and provided food.  Then, and later, there were food shortages, some of that caused by blockades, some by the disruption of agriculture.  My mom’s father was able to grow enough to feed his own family of ten. The food was not varied but they had enough. Her brother was required to serve in the army and was sent off to the wars in the mountains to the north.  She reports fearing knocks on the door because they could mean the announcement of his death.

My host dad told me that his eldest brother was a member of Samoza’s National Guard.  He says that after the revolution his brother was imprisoned for 3 years and that he and his mom travelled to Jinotepe and to Managua to visit the brother every week. He had another brother who went off to fight with the Sandanistas and returned safe from the fighting in the North. However, this brother has been affected by the war with something psychological that sounds like PTS.  He has periodic recurring bad times. My dad was drafted and served two years, but returned home unharmedPolitical feelings here are colored by the experiences of families during the revolution, maybe less than by theory.

  I asked about the feeling of my family and others in Nicaragua about Americans.  Reagan is their nemesis, but they like Americans. This reminds me of the Vietnamese. It’s amazing, the ability of people to distinguish between the actions of governments and those of individuals.

I am impatient with the rate of Spanish acquisition, But when I think of these two conversations yesterday, albeit with people who talk slowly for me, enunciate and pick their words, I am glad I’ve come as far as I have. I’m looking forward to more of these talks, another incentive to study and practice.

Conversations with My Family