Dressing Like a Nica

In my house we have two cute little fluffy  almost white dogs, Dogi and Bobi, who like nothing better than pulling my clothes off the line and eating them.  I have rescued shirts and underpants that were dirty by the time I got to them, but not ruined.  My luck changed about a month ago. I woke up from a nap and went out to check on the progress of the clothes drying outside.  My jeans were hanging on the line looking a little dirty, but when I checked on them I found a hole the size of washcloth eaten out of the seat.  Candida had found them on the ground and hung them up, somehow not noticing the huge hole.  She was horrified when she saw what the dogs had done and had several suggestions, among them sewing the edges together, which would have left no room for my butt, and sewing a patch on the seat which even she had to admit would be hard to miss as I walked down the street.  No, there was nothing to do but buy a new pair of jeans.

The ruined jeans were my first pair of Nica jeans.  I had bought them for the outrageous price of $27. at a mall in Managua with the assistance of a younger volunteer who had scoped out the mall stores and knew where I could go.  I bought this first pair because the two pairs I had from home were much too big, I’m happy to say.  But when you make $200 a month, $27 is a big bite.  So I asked my counterparts and they told me where I could go locally to buy jeans for a better price.  I spent an hour trying them on, an ordeal just as bad in Nicaragua as in the States, worse because it’s hot work on a hot afternoon and because the dressing room is a space behind a door, but I found a good pair for half the Managua price, nice skinny stove-pipe legged jeans, dark blue.  They’re made in China, but what isn’t.  They bleed when washed, but they don’t bleed when dry. And I fit right in, now, with Nica women for whom tight jeans are a uniform, although mine are not tight all the way to the ankles as is the norm.

But Dogi and Bobi struck again.  Somehow they got out of their pen unobserved, streaked through my room and grabbed the top item in my laundry bag, which just happened to be one of the two bras I have that fit. I brought 5 to Nicaragua but they don’t fit any more.  My sister came to the rescue with 2 new bras, but that means I’m always washing one while wearing the other. The bra was discovered the next day in the dogs’ pen, torn to shreds. Candida, who never throws anything out and is forever optomistic, suggested hopefully that maybe I could sew it, but a serious look revealed how impossible that would be. 

Bras are a fashion statement here.  (Are they in the US?) They are to be seen either through a blouse or their straps are color co-ordinated with a top. You can buy them anywhere, in pulperias along with eggs and cheese and beans. So, clearly unable to operate with only one remaining U.S. bra, I went shopping at two local local pulperias.  At the first I was disconcerted to find that one of my students, a little 12 year old girl, waited on me.  She wasn’t at all embarrassed to show me what she had in my size (medium by U.S. standards but big here in Nicaragua where I tower over most women and many men). Unfortunately there wasn’t much, only one actually, a purple number with big baby blue circles on it. “Nothing in white or beige?”  I asked, not really in the Nica spirit.  No, she said sadly.  She would have liked to sell her teacher a bra.

 I hit the next pulperia and was waited on by the owner, a man who seemed a little worried about showing me his stock of bras.   But he put all of them on the counter along with a plastic bag.  I should help myself.  The closest thing I could find to beige or white in my size (really in any size) was a lemon yellow number.  I reasoned, most un-Nica-ly, that yellow might not show through most of my clothes and I asked the price.  Thirty cordobas, about a dollar and a half.  So I bought it.

The bra is a little low on quality. But the price is right.  It, too, was made in China. I am amazed to think of countries like China not only making clothes for first world countries like the U.S. but third world countries, too, the quality a little shakey but the price unbeatable. 

So thanks to Dogi and Bobi, I’m starting to look as much like a native as a gringa can here.  I’ve replaced a good deal of my original wardrobe with cheap ropas americanas shirts, at 50 cents to a dollar per shirt.  I have Nica hair ornaments to hold back and up my longer hair.  Only my shoes and my skin betray me.  And my hair color.  Despite suggestions from Nica friends that I might want to try to dye my hair to get rid of the gray (women of all ages here dye their hair; rarely do you see a gray haired old person), I’ve had no trouble resisting that idea.

The transformation is on-going.  I find myself in the pulperias, having bought tomatoes or eggs, lingering over the jewelry offered for sale, eying the big colorful plastic hoop earrings, the long dangles, the red or pink disks the size of can lids. Might just have to ante up the 10 cordobas to complete the look.

I'm attaching a picture of Smith, featured in my last blog entry.

Teaching Little Kids

A while back, when I was looking for projects, I headed over to the library to talk with the librarian to try out on her an idea I had.  I determined that since kids don’t have books, don’t read as a rule and are not read to, I would come to the library on some kind of schedule to read books to little kids.  The librarian’s name is Ladi and she is a gentle, thoughtful person who actually does read, the exception to the rule. The library is funded by the mayor’s office. There are books, but not many, and many they do have bear the stamp of one non-profit or another. There are some games and puzzles, too. The library is a gathering place for kids, little kids in the morning, when the instituto is in session, and big kids in the afternoon when the primary grades are in school.   Some come for help with school assignments. Ladi has patience and tolerance for all the noisy demanding kids and the skill to help them find something among her meager resources to help with an assignment or to pass the time.

I knew my idea had an obvious big flaw—my artless Spanish, but Ladi gently, quietly advised that while reading was good what the little kids really wanted was to learn how to speak English.  I really wasn’t excited about the idea of another English class, but agreed to give it if we could include 15 minutes of listening to stories in the hour each week I’d offer English. So Ladi  agreed and became my new counterpart.

The class has a core of 10 or 12 loyal attendees but the numbers swell every Wednesday depending on who is hanging out in the library at 9 o’clock and how fun whatever we are doing appears to passers-by.  The age range of the kids is wide—second to sixth grade. But, as I’ve said before, that isn’t a problem for the kids, and my little 2^nd graders hold their own in the skills of greetings, family members and animals, which, along with numbers and colors, has made up the curriculum.

I do get a kick out planning these classes. I love the elementary teacher-style materials.  For instance to practice greetings and introductions I made a cute set of finger puppets out of a couple of small pieces of folded paper which I stapled on each side to form a little pocket.  I put a face on each puppet and showed the kids how they could talk while the fingers wiggled them to life.  One demonstration ( “Hello, how are you?  My Name is Lucia.” “Nice to meet you, Lucia.  I’m fine.  My name is Marco.  Where do you live?”) was enough to get everyone drawing and stapling the supply of folded papers I brought to class.  When finished, everyone’s fingers talked to each other and then to their neighbor’s fingers—a great exercise because the kids did all the talking, practicing without embarrassment. 

But the best are the songs.  As I’ve written before, Nicaraguans love to sing.  To practice names of family members and greetings, I wrote a song to the tune of Frere Jacques: Mother, Father, Sister Brother, How are you? How are you?  I am glad to see you.  I am glad to see you.  See you soon.  See you soon.    Smash hit.  They can’t stop singing it.  I hear it in the streets as I’m walking by.  They break out in class   I thought we couldn’t top that until I taught them several animal names and then Old Mac Donald.  The chance to make all those animal noises brought the house down and, while pronouncing the words to the song posed some difficulty, there was none whatsoever with the ee-ay-ee-ay—oo. Everyone joined in on that one, loud and clear.

After 45 minutes of English I tell the kids to put their heads on their arms and Ladi reads a chapter from Charlotte’s Web (Spanish version).  I’m always pleased and gratified to watch them listening, resting and letting the words of a good story work their magic.

I now have a following among the elementary kids who flock around as they never did before my little library class.  Today school was cancelled for the Oct 12 celebration called the Day of Encounter—another story in itself.  I was attending the festivities when one of my 2^nd graders found me.  Wherever I moved there was Smith (pronounced Smit), peppering me with questions, and filling the others in on my answers. Here are two questions: “In the United States, do they hate morenos (darker skinned people)?” and “Do your sons have video games?”  Smith made sure I met his mother and his teacher.  I am his new best friend.   I’ll attach his picture to the next blog entry.

The Good Life

My host mom Candida lives on a street surrounded by her relations, most importantly her two sisters. Next door her sister Isabel lives.  The houses share a wall and in the wall there is a window so that the sisters can talk to each other without leaving their kitchens. They don’t do that much, though.  Isabel is older than Candida and they had different fathers.  Every morning when I get up early to read before the day starts, I sit by an open front door to watch the world, and Isabel, stick-thin, partly deaf and not seeing so well either, is out in the street, dressed for the day in her long skirt and old sweater before nearly anyone is about.  She is sweeping the gutters in from of her own house and Candida’s as well.  She is also trimming the plants in front of the houses by pinching off over-zealous runners and cutting off roses which end up in front of a Virgin in her house or maybe in the church. In Isabel’s house live assorted grown children, grandchildren and a great grandchild. Isabel is religious but she’s not a big church-goer unlike her two sisters. 

Abutting Isabel’s house on the other side is the house of the other sister, Dona Celia. Celia is closer in age to Candida than is Isabel, and Celia and Candida had the same father. Candida and Celia are very close.  They both spend the mornings working in their respective houses, but they spend most afternoons visiting each other.  Candida will walk up past Isabel’s house to Celia’s or Celia will walk into our house calling out for La Candita.

Candida and Celia have a lot in common. They are both taller than the average Nicaraguan. Both live alone (except, of course, for me in Candida’s house).  Both have married children and grandchildren in the pueblo, but both have unmarried daughters who live elsewhere. Both are pillars of the church, intensely religious.  There are differences, too.  Celia was a school teacher.  She is educated.  Candida refers me to her when I ask a question she can’t answer. That difference in education matters not at all as far as I can see in their devotion to each other.

Candida and Celia clearly love each other a lot, but there are occasional observable small rivalries among the sisters. For example, Celia just finished putting an addition on her house. I had observed the work from the street but couldn’t see much over the wall that fronts the house.  I had never been invited over to check out the results.  This week, however, Celia’s daughter Marta was visiting her mother.  I like Marta.  She’s 45, single and works for a non-profit in a city a distance from my town.  She has a responsible job working with orphaned or homeless kids.  She invited me over to see that addition which is really amazingly modern, tasteful and commodious. And you can see the differences in the taste and preferences of the two sisters. Celia’s house has greater formality and fewer chatchkes (sp?) like artificial flowers and tacky ceramics and religious icons. When I got back to my house Candida asked me how I liked the changes in Celia’s house. I said they were beautiful and then Candida wanted to know if Celia’s house was better than hers.  Of course not, I lied, but it was interesting to me to see the small competition.

I wondered (to myself) how Celia had afforded such a fine renovation.  She is a retired school teacher.  Candida offered, maybe by way of explanation for the differences in their houses, that Marta paid for the additions.  The plan is that Marta, when she retires, will come live with her mother, which explains a lot.  Similarly Candida’s daughter who lives in Spain will return home to live in her mother’s house.  Candida’s daughter also  is a “soltera” and probably about Marta’s age.

Isabel has her competitive side, too.  One day when we were kibitzing over the wall that separates the two houses, she proudly told me that she had way more children and grandchildren than the other two had and, further, she had a full house, while her two sisters lived alone. So her house may not be so fine, but she has what matters, in her view.  Candida and Celia might just have to agree with her.  Having family around matters a lot and the absence—or inattentiveness-- of children and grandchildren is a great burden, even if the kids live in town. I think that the expectation may be that by the time you are the age of the three sisters, the family should be taking care of you, or at least much in evidence at your house. The daughters and even daughters-in-law pick up the obligation. Candida’s daughter-in-law stops by more often than does her son.  Sons aren’t expected to be around as much although the infrequency of their visits in our house is noted.

But the relations living close by are more numerous than the three sisters.  Candida’s brother lives a block away as do various cousins, nephews, and nieces to the farthest generation. Some new person (new to me) is always dropping by looking for “Tia” (aunt). “Who was that?” I ask Candida. She explains that he is the nephew of her brother’s grandchild.

This boggles the North American mind.  What would it be like if my two sisters lived right next door and my brother a block away? Sounds like a dream to me.  Imagine dropping in on one another, familiar and comfortable like we were when we were kids. Imagine the comfort in talking about not much-- what we were making for dinner, food preferences of the grandchildren, who is doing what in his/her house. Imagine the children and grandchildren all in the same town, wandering from house to house, looked after by a passel  of adults all of whom knew all about them and had a stake in them. Imagine, also, maybe, the boredom, although Candida’s family doesn’t seem bored.  One day I asked her if she missed work, because there are times when she stands at the door watching the world as if looking for something to happen, someone to come by.  The afternoons sometimes hang a little heavy for her.  But he says, no, she’s done with work. It’s time to visit Celia.

Visiting the Comunidades

When I first started teaching here in Nicaragua I got a good idea—I would visit the small communities where many of my students live.  The instituto is in a pueblo, my home town, the  county seat of a large municipality.  But there are 22 other communities in the municipality and all can send students to the only high school in my town. I wanted to see how the kids lived, but up till recently only managed to visit two communities.  Two weeks ago I visited the third, less than a kilometer away, and a week later I walked to the fourth.  I must say these two visits were two of the best things I’ve done in Nicaragua.

The little community of Salamasi is home to about three hundred people, about 25 of whom are my students. The tiny town has one paved street dead-ending on a rutted dirt road which winds around and up the surrounding hills.  There are a couple of wells in the community, there being no running water. I’d guess that nearly every house had a pig in the yard, some of them shockingly large (pigs, not houses).  The houses are the most basic sort, made of adobe bricks, each with some sort of fencing, usually barbed wire, and a latrine. 

It’s hard to describe how gratifying it was to hear the greetings from my students as I walked by their houses. They were so surprised and happy to see me in their town, although some asked what I was doing there as though I must have a dark motive. I explained that I wanted to take a walk to get to know their communities. One boy who met me in the street –a 1st year student—told me in English he had 2 houses, one of his mother and one of his grandmother.  He walked with me up a dirt road and said goodbye at his grandmother’s house and I continued on up and down the impossible roads.  At another house I saw one of my more challenging  students out playing in a yard with 5 other kids.  They were spinning tops.  He did such a double take when he saw me, but smiled, I felt, excited that I came. We’ll have a connection back in the classroom.

A week later I walked to a further town, maybe four kilometers from my town.  As I walked down the highway I kept asking people if the town was ahead and they kept saying yes.  But I almost missed it, there being nothing on the highway itself to indicate a town.  I stopped at a house to ask again and was told I’d found it.  Almost immediately a student who lived up the hill spied me and came running down.  She introduced me to the people I’d been talking to and at once their attitude toward me changed from polite but suspicious to warm and pleased when they found out I was a teacher who had walked  a distance to see their town.  I asked my student to give me a tour and she brought me to her house to get permission.  I was introduced around and given the one plastic chair in sight and peppered with questions, but pleased questions.  Like was it easier to live in the United States and did I like Nicaragua more. Smiles all around.  I felt an honored guest. 

My student got permission to take me on the tour, so we crossed the highway and accessed the rest of the town on what I can describe as goat paths (although there no goats) up into the hills. She explained that water had to be hauled from the well by the women who carried large buckets on their heads, maybe 7 or 8 trips a day to take care of the all the family needs. From time to time the trail widened into a cluster of 3 or 4 houses, the folks gathered to sit outside in groups at the end of the day.  We stopped at the house of another student.  The girl looked shocked and then pleased to see us.  The three of us continued up the path to the house of the third student.  Her mom, most gracious, invited us in and found a place to sit for all.  She and I talked a little about the importance of education (her subject) and then she handed me from her basket a red and a green pepper to smell. My recollection of that moment, the dark windowless house made of adobe bricks, the color of the peppers in the dim light from the door and her daughter, my student, sitting inside the house still in her school uniform, the white shirt and socks glowing in the semi-darkness—that recollection I return to again and again.  We had to move on. The señora put 4 peppers into a plastic bag for me as a gift. It was getting dark and the students were going to show me where to get a bus back to my town, the highway not being safe, not because of bad people, they said, but because of fast vehicles and dogs roaming at night. We scrambled back down to the highway, passing the house of another student who was not at home and meeting up with a student who gave me the now familiar confused double-take followed by big grin. On the way I was also invited to two quinceanos parties (parties celebrating the 15^th birthdays of my 2 guides.)  I said, sure I’d come.  I hope they meant it.

Three kids waited with me until my bus came and waved goodbye in the twilight.

Today I went to the mayor’s office where Juan Pablo was glad to oblige with a request of a map of the municipality.  I left with 4 of them. (Juan Pablo loves the computer he has in the mayor’s office and he loved being able to produce not just one map as requested but 4 maps each offering a little different information.)  I took them to school and asked some students to circle those of the 22 communities that send kids to the instituto.  Because some of the comunidades are a significant distance from town, I was sure that there wouldn’t be students from them, but not so.  Nearly every one of the comunidades sends students to study.  One community, so far from any dirt or paved road that the two students who attend ride a burro over the mountains, may be too much for me to visit because of safety issues (getting lost), but the others are do-able.  If my kids can come to me, I can get to them.  This will be an adventure. I figure at an average of 3 per month, I will have visited them all in 6 months.  I’ll keep you posted. Attached. I hope, is a picture from inside a house.