Ometepe photos // On Time

Some belated pictures from Ometepe Island!

National flag and Sandinista flags on the ferry

Arrival!

Our tour guide waiting for us with a handmade sign

On a hike around the lagoon

View of the lagoon

Tour guide driving us around the island

Most beautiful beach

Leaving on a ferry

Volcano receding

Aaaaand some thoughts on the different pace of life in rural Latin America:

Thirteen ways of looking at time passing in nicaragua

1. your favorite pineapple
melting into smug fermentation
on a cool table
in a dark kitchen

2. a hot street --
motionless figures standing on doorsteps --
the only street in town

3. three clean twists of
barbed wire
cutting the sky into sections can you see
the different shades of blue

4. mangoes so tiny
their dusky purple bodies
taste like a hard bruise in your mouth

5. sitting with a silent baby
watching the flies
land on the floor's patch of sun
waiting for the water
to be turned on again

6. two women -- their backs towards you --
rhythm out a hot stack of corn tortillas
in the back of the kitchen
while a dog chases a cat and a baby cries

7. watching a large
(but harmless)
ant make a winding way down
the outside of my soft
white mosquito net

8. on hot maroon leather
of a refurbished schoolbus waiting to leave --
the old spanish ballads are playing and
out the window leaves undulate
in the hot breeze
and i sweat
and wave back with a blink

9. the rooster gang starts up its battle cry
4am on the dot every morning
(i check my phone
just to make sure)
the gang of dogs is up next

10. is there meat in this meal
then it's probably lunchtime

11. depending on whether i've met you
or not you may get an
hola
or an adios
as i pass you on the street
sometimes i decide
at the last second
to be generous with my eyes

12. crunching down the mountain
on that gravel path past the cows and
horses
past the gently crying river
take large steps
avoid getting stolen
watch the hilltops ascend

13. bench with yellow paint scraping off
mossy tiled roof and  low flying clouds
red toyotas and arched neck horses
bottlecaps in saturday afternoon dust
and groups of men in saturday afternoon hats

Photos!

A brief interlude of photos while I prepare a lengthy and introspective and probably boring post, ETA sometime next week.

 Matagalpa bus station

Street cobbletsones plucked up by too much rain

 Making earrings

 Children at the artisan shop!

 San Ramón, walk to work

 The office

 My house!

 Best bakery

 Matagalpa cathedral pt 1

 Matagalpa cathedral pt 2

 Walking between El Plomo and San Ramón

Best bakery pt 2

Collections of thoughts

Walking Home from Work, Part I: 

1. There is little in this world so beautiful as a tree ripe with mangoes hanging pink, abundant.
2. On the other hand, there is the beauty of the dog who finally, at my millionth passing of his house, does not bark madly at the end of his chain, but eyes me silently.
3. On the third hand, the hill behind my house.
4. On the fourth hand, there's the obscene non-beauty of the three-story house being built in the midst of a town full of one-story houses populated by plastic chairs, concrete floors, and outdoor latrines.

On things I have acquired/been given:
-nickname: Sarita. will dearly miss it upon return to the states.
-cocoa bean: very odd. filled with seeds that have a sweet gelatinous film around them. seeds themselves are bright purple and taste bitter.
-the ability to roll a bike's detached tire down a dirt road by pushing it with a stick: cool. taught by two eager young boys, Fernando and Jonathan.
-rice and beans, multiple times a day: yummmm
-the ability to say certain phrases with a perfect Nica accent:!!!
-a love for karaoke: working on convincing host brother to sing Bob Marley with me
-a macroeconomics textbook from the 80's: going to try to teach myself some things I should really know by now

On the way back from Matagalpa, 5th largest-city in Nicaragua and a 20min bus ride from San Ramon:

On a full bus, everyone on their way home from the city, right at dusk when the mountains and clouds and setting sun play their game. Idling in the bus station, the smooth music of people everywhere talking comes in through open bus windows. Waiting to move, the dim orange lights turning the warm bus even warmer, momentarily coalescing this mass of strangers into a homey togetherness. The man in front of me plays guitar, the man across the aisle sings, they pass the guitar back and forth and the bus slowly rocks forward on the hexagonal cobbletones. We make our exodus.

Walking from El Plomo to El Plomo Arriba:

5 yr old girl staring at me solemn, big-eyed, a young chicken in a black plastic bag tucked backwards under one arm.

Colors on la Isla de Ometepe:

1. Biking on a bumpy dirt path, three layers of color: black wall (volcanic rocks, stacked) green leaves (plantain fields, fronds waving) white clouds )wreathing the volcano).
2. Pale yellow lemonade, bright yellow straw, magenta tablecloth.
3. A dog hanging around our dinner table (on the street, dirt road) one eye brown, other eye light green.
4. Maroon bus, old man in one of those softly old-fashioned white button down shirts.
5. Lime green lizards fleeing the path as we walk down, sending dead leaves flying as they scamper by.
6. Faded red hammock, light gray hammock-chair, light blue tiles, cement floor.
7. Whitewashed wall, brown pot, pink drops of flower; whole scene bisected by a sky blue staircase.

Waiting for the bus to Matagalpa:

7 yr old boy riding a grey horse (trotting) down the street, feet dangling inches above the stirrups, casual with the reins in one hand resting on the saddle. Passes the Coca-Cola stand, turns head wistfully.

On the way home from Matagalpa, Part II:

I walk down the streets of Nicaragua weeping. Squinting from the sun, I extract a rope of tears. Another step and I weep at the men who stare, whistle, speak, follow. A river of tears for that barefoot city boy and the dog without a paw and the woman hunched on the nighttime sidewalk without a shirt. Three tears each for the bag of onions and the old man pushing the ice cream cart uphill and the women selling fried plantain chips and vinegar in clear plastic bags. During the sweeping hour I weep pools of dusty dears. The windy hour, oceans. I cry at the streets of now and then and red murals and Dios Bendiga Esta Casa and discarded mango peels and Hay Tortillas and that pineapple and those palm trees and the clutches of people that collect in silence and more, and the outlines of hills faint green behind houses layering up up up, and the music and radio baseball games flowing from courtyards, and a river so small and shining at this moment, my tears could swallow it up.

Isla de Ometepe (or, "Almost halfway through the summer")

I've been on many beautiful bike rides, and on much more comfortable bikes than this one, but biking between two volcanoes on the Isla de Ometepe is my current favorite biking memory. This past weekend I was able to make a quick trip to the Island of Ometepe with the other five Haverford interns who are in Nicaragua for the summer. We met up in Managua and had a wonderful time with ProNica superstars Ada and Ramon who helped us reflect on our experiences so far and plan for the upcoming rush of the next 7 weeks. On Friday, we were up and on the road by 5:15, taking a bus to the town of Rivas which lies on the shore of Lake Nicaragua, the largest lake in Central America. An hour-long ferry ride later, and we were on the island that is shaped in a sort of infinity sign around two active volcanoes. To recap: a beautiful tropical island of two volcanoes that looks like it's in the Caribbean, but instead lies in the middle of a freshwater lake in Nicaragua. So before I continue: Thank you, CPGC, thank you parents, thank you Nicaragua, thanks be to all.

Now, the bike ride was only the matter of one afternoon, but it was important. My friends and I biked from our hostel to a beach about 11km away. On the way there, I was in awe. Blue sky, lazy clouds, slow heat. Thick fields of plaintain flanking the road on both sides. Slyly curving road, walking the uphill, whooping down the exhilirating downhill. Then, coming to the top of a new hill, the landscape opens up, you can see the ocean (no, lake--but the waves look so convincingly oceanic) glittering just beyond some slopes and fields.

The beach itself is beautiful, of course. Grey volcanic sand, white tipped waves rushing in, bleached thatched roofs, candy colored bar/cafes peeking out from behind thick gardens. To my left, the water; ahead, the strip of sand; to my right, an isosceles triangle of lime green vegetation narrows to its tip at the horizon, behind it the darker green of the volcano rising up and out past the edge of the beach, misty with distance and fog.

On the way back from the beach it is that glorious hour just before sunset, the other volcano is now on our horizon and it is illuminated from beind by the sun. Beams come at us past its shadowy straight edge and filter through the plaintain fields, slapping down thick cuts of yellow light on our path. That traslucent golden film of dusk is laid over my eyes, everything glows. There is an absurd abundance of flowers red, orange, pink, pourple, all the shades between these--so big and busy I stare like I've never seen a flower before. Red tile roofs, wrinkled tin roofs, satellite dishes and christmas lights, chickens pecking at the roadside, a whole family sitting in the dusty distance between their house and the road, plastic chairs in a circle, speaking and doing nothing and watching the road. Up ahead a group of six men and a truck provide some music: two playing drums, two trombone, one trumpet and one observer to smile at passerby.

Overall the weekend was an amazing trip, and I'm so glad I got to relax with friends for a few days. Now I'm back in San Ramon, and it feels great! I'm in love with my host family, getting to work developing some projects at La Casa del Niño, and getting more familiar with the streets and trees and the correct way to greet people and the many ways of eating plantain. There's so much beauty in everything here, it's hard to soak it all in, but this blog definitely helps me set certain small beauties down in words. Sending everyone love from Nicaragua!

On getting accustomed to things

A lonely mango in the road, and in the fastly moving clouds, a bright smear of yellow light, at its edge an inch of rainbow. A girl--her shorts the brightest red thing in the world right now--crosses the road as though she can't forget a ballet she saw once. Back home, the baby falls asleep, his arm a right angle dangling in the air beyond his mother's lap. The long curtain that hangs in the doorway to the kitchen billows in a sudden breeze, and the Pope prays above it. In the middle of the baseball game, all goes dark, the TV shuts off, we count to five then light a candle. A horse trots down the road in darkness and someone turns on the radio to listen to the score. The light comes back on, little boy cries in the corner.

---

I will never forget my grandmother's sad words as my family left her apartment in Medellin for the airport: "A lo bueno uno se acostumbra muy facilmente." One becomes accustomed to good things very easily. It was only our third family trip to Colombia, and it was easy to get used to seeing each other every day.

I've been thinking a lot recently about becoming accustomed to things, particularly in relation to travel. It's funny how after two weeks of eating rice and beans at least once a day, and often twice, I may feel completely accustomed to the habit, and suddenly, in my third week, a pizza craving strikes, and I realize that I was fooling myself all along! I have become accustomed to some things: tucking my mosquito net around the outside edges of my bed every night, and tying it up in a knot again every morning; the sound of at least two different species of frog croaking rhythmically outside the hosue at night; the rumbling vibration I feel in my chest when I'm lying on my bed and a semi passes by the highway just outside; the barking of dogs and the sound of rain on a tin roof; the soft Nicaraguan way of speaking Spanish.

I am not yet accustomed to the mountains--hills, really, but to me that seems too small a word to describe them. I am endlessly fascinated by their interactions with the clouds, the way an entire mountain can get lost in fog, then reappear again after the rain, all its shades of green illuminated in golden sunlight. Yesterday I had the privilege of a three hour hike around a mountain in the community of La Laguna, a small village of about 400 houses. We traipsed through coffee fields, past still ponds and tall palm trees with ripe bananas hanging temptingly close, through thick forest with monkeys and butterflies and toucans, and on open, sunny paths that invited a strong breeze and the gorgeous view of more mountains receding into the horizon. I was led by two young women, members of an almost seven year old group of local youth interested in helping their community through ecotourism. The building of their project has been slow. The process of coming together, organizing and educating themselves, articulating goals and raising money and finding a location and building a cabin (and then bathrooms, and then a kitchen) have taken time. One of the young women yesterday asked if I had been to the nearby community of San Pablo, where another group of young people, friends and allies of theirs, has started a similar ecotourism project. "They're a lot farther along than we are," she said, "because they're mostly men. We're mostly women, so it takes longer to build the cabin and do the work. Also a lot of our members have gotten pregrnant or married, and it's harder to find the time when you have kids." Both of the women I was with yesterday, ages 18 and 23, have a child of their own. Both spoke inspiringly about their dreams and hopes for their project.

At lunchtime, I followed my friend up a steep hill to the very top, to the house of one of the young women, where we sat in the shade and drank freshly squeezed orange juice and ate our rice and beans. There were three houses there at the top, all from the same family and quite near each other, each one small and constructed out of bare planks of wood, with sloping tin roofs. Chickens, skinny dogs and tiny kittens roamed around dirt floors in and out of the houses, and the sound of music and the TV came from two of the houses. Otherwise all was quiet, no sound of cars or other people. Coffee and beans and corn popped up in small patches on the downward slope beneath the houses, and mango trees and hydrangeas as well. From the open mountaintop, I could see more peaks and valleys extending into the distance, green and round and so peaceful. I turned to my friend and made some comment about how absurdly beautiful it was, and how I couldn't imagine being able to live there! She laughed and said "Se acostumbra." You get used to it.

Current plan of action is to continue getting used to things here, letting the culture seep into me slowly. Also letting myself be surprised by things, and keeping my eyes open so that I don't get accustomed to the hard or sad parts of this country. Constant cycle of getting used to things and reminding myself that I am still unused to most things. I'ts been great so far, more updates to come!

Poetry and Revolution before Breakfast

Hello from San Ramon, Nicaragua! Population: 6,000; location: mountains. My home until Aug. 10. I am here only because Haverford's Center for Peace and Global Citizenship thought it worthwile to sponsor my immersive educational experience here in community organizing and social justice work. And in addition because ProNica, a Quaker organization that suports smaller community initiatives throughout Nicaragua, has a solid network of solidarity-based organizations for me to tap into, work with, and learn from. That network exists at least in part because Nicaragua has auch a rich history of communities coming together to organize and act in times of great difficulty, whether in overthrowing Spanish and American control during colonial times, toppling a dynastic authoritarian regime in the 1970s, or surviving the Contra War of the 80s. The history of Nicaragua is one that is heartbreaking and inspiring, and I am lucky to be here.

I've now spent just over one week in Nicaragua. The first five days were full--our CPGC coordinator and the four other interns and I were herded around by ProNica miracles Ramon and Ada, from one meeting to another, learning about feminism in Nicaragua and the planned construction of the Great Interoceanic Canal and the complex political history and the Nica words all the hip kids are saying these days. Always with huge meals of rice and beans and fried bananas and fresh pineapple and roasted chicken and warm tortillas and fresh cheese and more and more...

Now, I'm living with a host family in sleepy San Ramon, and am spending the week figuring out what work I'll be doing, whether it's helping to develop youth-led ecotourism projects in nearby communities, or a working with an Artesania group of women who make jewelry from seeds, or organizing schoolchildren to be "friends and protectors of the environment." For now, a few of my scattered thoughts on being here:

I am gradually becoming aware of those things I take for granted at home, the things I see as given, now that I sense here their absence. Things like a front lawn, glass windows (or indeed, houses that are able to be completely sealed-up and closed-off from the outdoors), paved roads, indoor plumbing, internet access, and more are rare here, if not nonexistent. On the other hand, there are things here which are impossible back home (home being MN or PA): geckos on the walls and ceilings; cows and horses and chickens and pigs in the street and in the green space next to people's houses, even in town; avocadoes for 10 cents each, mangoes for free if you find them on the ground, or are willing to climb a roadside path of rough red earth, skirting the barbed wire fences that are omnipresent here, and toss green mangoes towards the upper branches to shake down ripe ones. There are green mountains rising up like soft teeth around the nestled town. There is the sound of rain on a tin roof and a piglet in the kitchen next to my room, and frogs outside, which you can hear because none of the walls reach the roof, or try to.

The word that keeps coming up in my mental attempts to articulate what I'm seeing, smelling, feeling, thinking, is "impossible." Impossible to describe, impossibly beautiful, impossibly strong, rich, poor, musical, steep, slow, sleepy, green, etc etc etc...

None of my words match the landscape, and perhaps it's just because I'm out of pratice at writing, or because my brain is too busy waking up it's Spanish side, but I cannot satisfactorily describe this place. And any of my attempts to do so inevitably reveal little about Nicaragua itself, and rather more about me and where I come from.

While the other interns and I were having our orientation in Managua, we were staying in ProNica's Casa Cuáquera, their Quaker House where they host guests and hold workshops. There's a nice little library there, and during some downtime I took Edward Abbey´s Desert Solitaire from the shelf and began to read it. The first line: "This is the most beautiful place on earth. There are many such places." So far that's the best way I can think of summing up my experience.

The one other line that stuck out to me from Abbey's book was short and enigmatic, a quick blip of a sentence without much elaboration: "Poetry and revolution before breakfast." Beyond being a nice line, it stuck with me at least partly because Nicaragua has been described to me, and it seems an apt description, as the land of poetry and revolution. (Also breakfast is my favorite meal--a nice avocado and cheese on a fresh corn tortilla with some sweet coffee--nothing better). I haven't yet begun reading Nicaraguan poetry, although Ruben Dario, I am told, is more representative of Nicaragua than even Augusto Cesar Sandino, the great revolutionary himself. Hopefully this summer will bring lots more poetry revolution and breakfast for me and anyone who might be reading! Sorry for the lack of photos and coherent paragraphs, this blog (as all blogs are) is going to be a really weird mix of public and private. Public since I'm advertising it on facebook and giving the link to my parents who may advertise it all over my hometown, and private since I sit here alone in this internet cafe with my notebook, struggling to organize and articulate my inner thoughts. Read on if you want!