On Friday I attended the monthly Ministry of Education Meeting with Karla. Karla claims that it is good for GVI to show its presence among the so called leaders of the Ministry of Education. I, personally, found the exercise futile.
The Government cancels school for the day (the Government has a certain affinity for finding reasons to cancel school in Nicaragua, they invent the most creative holidays), and all of the teachers in all of the preschools, in all of the departments, gather in their respective schools to hear the monthly speech given by the publicity arm of the Sandinistas. This month, the speeches were about prenatal care, and how to handle an infant in their first few months of life. And I quote “an infant begins to realize the world in their first months—hot and cold, blue and red. Then they will begin to make their first sounds.” As if we didn’t know. Why, in a meeting of preschool teachers, would anyone talk about prenatal care and care of three month olds? Your guess is certainly as good as mine.
I think everyone realizes how utterly useless these meetings are. People show up late and don’t exactly wear their Sunday best. In some cases, the tranny hookers in San Jose were better dressed. Of course, the tranny hookers are better paid—the Nicaraguan preschool teacher is paid 500 Córdobas every three months. This is US$25 per three months or US$100 per year—just US$.27 per day. Many of these women are young, early twenties in most cases. How are they to begin their lives on US$.27 per day? And for those women who are out of their twenties? For those women that already have families? Living is an impossibility.
I met a most remarkable women in the meeting—Marcia. Marcia is the paternal grandmother of three children. I did not ascertain what happened to her son, but Marcia did tell me that her daughter in law ran out on the children, when the youngest was just two years old, leaving them to fate. Luckily, Marcia’s heart is larger than her daughter in law’s disregard and she brought the children into her house, to be raised as her own.
Marcia now supports a third grader, second grader, and first grader on her US$100 per year. She is unmarried and she goes it alone.
The people I meet here never cease to amaze. The common resilience to hate and disregard astounds me. The ability to surmount inescapable odds captivates me. The people here have such a desire to live. And in many cases, although they do not have much, I think they live better than we do.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
In the Classroom and the Community
I haven't shown many pictures to you all yet so I figured I would do some uploading today...
Dengue and the USA
Dengue…
I have the unrivaled ability to succumb to whatever affliction is, at the time, making its rounds through Central America… Due to the large influx of tropical storms as of late, Dengue Fever has broken out in Nicaragua with a force, specifically in la Thompson, the community in which I work. And, but of course, I was the member of GVI who contracted the fever first.
It began with a dull ache behind the eyes last Sunday, and an endless feeling of exhaustion. It was difficult to make it through the entire day at school while still functioning. Then, in a rapid acceleration, the full effects of the fever hit me on Wednesday. I was sitting in Café Luz, my typical internet hotspot, a felt a wave of nausea sweep through my body. I already had not been feeling well. I took this new development as a sign to get home, or at least near one of the porcelain gods.
From five o’clock in the evening Wednesday until one o’clock in the morning Thursday (from what Aaron tells me, everything has blurred together for me) my body jerked with convulsions, expelled vomit—exorcist style, and could not seem to decide whether it was hot or cold. When my body saw fit to give me a break at any point during that hellish night, I lay shivering, covered in my own sweat, on the bathroom floor. Finally, mercifully, sleep overcame me.
Sleep, however, was only a momentary reprieve. The fever returned with a vengeance the next morning, turning my rear end into what I can only describe as the fountain at the entrance of Navy Pier. I never took a temperature, but heat was radiating off my body. You could hold your hand six inches away from my skin and still be scorched.
Everyone in GVI was trying to be really helpful. Aaron was a saint, buying me water, and checking to see if I was breathing at appropriate intervals throughout the night. However, he made a serious mistake, he allowed Karla our community-coordinating-mother-figure-who-thinks-she-always-knows-best come over and attend to me during their lunch break on Thursday. In tow, she brought soup (and I really hate her soup) and a syringe filled with “anti-nausea’ medication. Now, for those of you who know me well, you know I am only afraid of two things—scorpions and needles. I will jump off the cliffs of Acapulco with the resident cliff drivers, I will launch myself out of a plane flying 30,000 feet in the air, I will scuba dive until the depths threaten to crush me and the darkness encompasses me, but I will not let anyone come near me with a needle without a fight.
In my semi-conscious state I think I told Karla (and if I didn’t tell her, I definitely thought it) you must be on crack if you think your sticking that in my ass. Even through the fever and the muscle pains and the hallucinations, I still had the sense to not let a non-licensed health professional anywhere near my precious ass with that bringer-of-death. I would rather suffer the fever and the nausea.
She tried to hold me down, and in my weakened state, almost succeeded in injecting me. I fought her off, kicked her out of my room, and locked the door, not to be disturbed again.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. My fever broke late Thursday and, although the muscle pains have persisted, I feel better. No more frantic dashes to the washroom, no more praying before the porcelain god, and, thank god, no more needles.
…the USA
Last Saturday, the US played their first group play match against England. I was in a state of turmoil. Usually, I root for England in the World Cup. I feel that I identify more with the European, and English, perspective on politics and life. For those of you that know me, you know I am rather critical of the United States and United States policy. In fact, I had all but written off the United States. I was ready to apply to Grad Schools abroad and have been busy planning for a life led in another country, probably working with an organization much like this one.
However, something curious happened during the game. England scored in the first three minutes. I should have felt enthralled, vindicated. The evil United States who monopolizes everything, from global sports to global economics to global politics cannot have this one thing, they cannot have the World Cup. However, I did not feel vindicated. I was sad, sad that my country was losing. Then, when the United States scored to level the game I cheered.
Then, this last Friday, the United States played their second group play World Cup match against Slovenia. At half time the United States was down 2-0—a deficit that no team in World Cup history has overcome in group play. The United States battled back to a 2-2 score and again scored in the last minutes of the game. With a score of 3-2 and a win in their sites, the US was set to make history. However, a whistle blew, a foul was called. For what is unclear. The US was stripped of their final goal and the game ended in a tie. I wished a slow death upon the referee. How could he do this to my country?
It is amazing, this new found patriotism. I would never have said my country before. I have indentified myself less and less as an American as the years have gone on. I have contended that it is not where you are born that dictates who you are, but your attitudes and your ethics. I still believe that. However, there is something to be said about the undeniable bond that an individual shares with their country. It is where they spend their life, where their family is, where their attitudes and ethics are born. In your country, you will always have a home. In another country, no matter the circumstances, you will always be an outsider. In your country you can be comfortable in your own skin.
I will never give up my travels. I will never stop trying to help those in other countries, those countries which my country has deliberately oppressed. There are evil people in the United States, both in the government and walking the streets. However, I believe that for every evil person there is a good. And if we mobilize the good through the power of a just idea, it might benefit not only the people in other countries which the US government has oppressed, but those who have been oppressed at home. I guess I am saying that I haven’t given up just yet.
Amazing the profound effect sporting events can have upon the viewer…
I have the unrivaled ability to succumb to whatever affliction is, at the time, making its rounds through Central America… Due to the large influx of tropical storms as of late, Dengue Fever has broken out in Nicaragua with a force, specifically in la Thompson, the community in which I work. And, but of course, I was the member of GVI who contracted the fever first.
It began with a dull ache behind the eyes last Sunday, and an endless feeling of exhaustion. It was difficult to make it through the entire day at school while still functioning. Then, in a rapid acceleration, the full effects of the fever hit me on Wednesday. I was sitting in Café Luz, my typical internet hotspot, a felt a wave of nausea sweep through my body. I already had not been feeling well. I took this new development as a sign to get home, or at least near one of the porcelain gods.
From five o’clock in the evening Wednesday until one o’clock in the morning Thursday (from what Aaron tells me, everything has blurred together for me) my body jerked with convulsions, expelled vomit—exorcist style, and could not seem to decide whether it was hot or cold. When my body saw fit to give me a break at any point during that hellish night, I lay shivering, covered in my own sweat, on the bathroom floor. Finally, mercifully, sleep overcame me.
Sleep, however, was only a momentary reprieve. The fever returned with a vengeance the next morning, turning my rear end into what I can only describe as the fountain at the entrance of Navy Pier. I never took a temperature, but heat was radiating off my body. You could hold your hand six inches away from my skin and still be scorched.
Everyone in GVI was trying to be really helpful. Aaron was a saint, buying me water, and checking to see if I was breathing at appropriate intervals throughout the night. However, he made a serious mistake, he allowed Karla our community-coordinating-mother-figure-who-thinks-she-always-knows-best come over and attend to me during their lunch break on Thursday. In tow, she brought soup (and I really hate her soup) and a syringe filled with “anti-nausea’ medication. Now, for those of you who know me well, you know I am only afraid of two things—scorpions and needles. I will jump off the cliffs of Acapulco with the resident cliff drivers, I will launch myself out of a plane flying 30,000 feet in the air, I will scuba dive until the depths threaten to crush me and the darkness encompasses me, but I will not let anyone come near me with a needle without a fight.
In my semi-conscious state I think I told Karla (and if I didn’t tell her, I definitely thought it) you must be on crack if you think your sticking that in my ass. Even through the fever and the muscle pains and the hallucinations, I still had the sense to not let a non-licensed health professional anywhere near my precious ass with that bringer-of-death. I would rather suffer the fever and the nausea.
She tried to hold me down, and in my weakened state, almost succeeded in injecting me. I fought her off, kicked her out of my room, and locked the door, not to be disturbed again.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. My fever broke late Thursday and, although the muscle pains have persisted, I feel better. No more frantic dashes to the washroom, no more praying before the porcelain god, and, thank god, no more needles.
…the USA
Last Saturday, the US played their first group play match against England. I was in a state of turmoil. Usually, I root for England in the World Cup. I feel that I identify more with the European, and English, perspective on politics and life. For those of you that know me, you know I am rather critical of the United States and United States policy. In fact, I had all but written off the United States. I was ready to apply to Grad Schools abroad and have been busy planning for a life led in another country, probably working with an organization much like this one.
However, something curious happened during the game. England scored in the first three minutes. I should have felt enthralled, vindicated. The evil United States who monopolizes everything, from global sports to global economics to global politics cannot have this one thing, they cannot have the World Cup. However, I did not feel vindicated. I was sad, sad that my country was losing. Then, when the United States scored to level the game I cheered.
Then, this last Friday, the United States played their second group play World Cup match against Slovenia. At half time the United States was down 2-0—a deficit that no team in World Cup history has overcome in group play. The United States battled back to a 2-2 score and again scored in the last minutes of the game. With a score of 3-2 and a win in their sites, the US was set to make history. However, a whistle blew, a foul was called. For what is unclear. The US was stripped of their final goal and the game ended in a tie. I wished a slow death upon the referee. How could he do this to my country?
It is amazing, this new found patriotism. I would never have said my country before. I have indentified myself less and less as an American as the years have gone on. I have contended that it is not where you are born that dictates who you are, but your attitudes and your ethics. I still believe that. However, there is something to be said about the undeniable bond that an individual shares with their country. It is where they spend their life, where their family is, where their attitudes and ethics are born. In your country, you will always have a home. In another country, no matter the circumstances, you will always be an outsider. In your country you can be comfortable in your own skin.
I will never give up my travels. I will never stop trying to help those in other countries, those countries which my country has deliberately oppressed. There are evil people in the United States, both in the government and walking the streets. However, I believe that for every evil person there is a good. And if we mobilize the good through the power of a just idea, it might benefit not only the people in other countries which the US government has oppressed, but those who have been oppressed at home. I guess I am saying that I haven’t given up just yet.
Amazing the profound effect sporting events can have upon the viewer…
Friday, June 11, 2010
Baseball
Aaron and I have taken to playing a version of baseball with the neighborhood kids around us. Obviously, the kids cannot typically afford gloves, or bats, or other materials that would make playing baseball, actually playing baseball. Instead, the kids use a ball of crumpled up paper, wrapped tightly in tape, as a ball, and a wooden stick as a bat. The bases are improvised—whatever is lying around usually gets thrown in. We have to play in the street because green places in Estelí are few, far, and nowhere in between. This causes problems for us. Whenever a car passes we have to stop the game to allow them to pass. Sometimes I feel as if we spend more time waiting then actually playing.
The kids are great. They come to our door at all hours of the day and ask us to play. We usually agree; it is fun for both Aaron and I to get out and play. I am glad that we are getting involved in our own community. It has given me an idea as well. I would love to start a community sports program down here. These kids don’t have much and it would be wonderful to have the opportunity and give them something. I know I loved playing sports. I felt like I was a part of something and I had a ton of fun. I would love to help spread that to these kids.
The kids are great. They come to our door at all hours of the day and ask us to play. We usually agree; it is fun for both Aaron and I to get out and play. I am glad that we are getting involved in our own community. It has given me an idea as well. I would love to start a community sports program down here. These kids don’t have much and it would be wonderful to have the opportunity and give them something. I know I loved playing sports. I felt like I was a part of something and I had a ton of fun. I would love to help spread that to these kids.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Seven Reason why San Jose is the New York of Central America
1. Pigeons consistently try and shit on your head and/or shoulders.
2. English is closely a second language.
3. Street bands play for quarters in the few green spots of the city.
4. Street vendors constantly try and sell you substandard, probably disease ridden, food.
5. The hotels are overpriced.
6. There is one fast food place per every five people.
7. Transvestite prostitutes roam the streets at night.
From these seven reasons, one might be led to believe that I did not enjoy my time on San Jose. However, that is not the case. It was nice to get away from Esteli and into a bustling metropolis where I could get myself some subway. Being in San Jose made me realize how much I miss the big cities every once in a while. There is always something to do in a city that, truly, never sleeps.
2. English is closely a second language.
3. Street bands play for quarters in the few green spots of the city.
4. Street vendors constantly try and sell you substandard, probably disease ridden, food.
5. The hotels are overpriced.
6. There is one fast food place per every five people.
7. Transvestite prostitutes roam the streets at night.
From these seven reasons, one might be led to believe that I did not enjoy my time on San Jose. However, that is not the case. It was nice to get away from Esteli and into a bustling metropolis where I could get myself some subway. Being in San Jose made me realize how much I miss the big cities every once in a while. There is always something to do in a city that, truly, never sleeps.
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