Amongst my friends, Victor Victor comes up at least once every two weeks. His absurd name and obnoxious questions I described here, reserved a place for him in friends speak lexicon. Which is a shame because I didn’t like the guy and I spent less than one full day with him during the entire two years. He was nothing more than an extra. I’d much rather spend time talking about the people I enjoyed and actually knew at the end of two years. So, I’m going to try to introduce a few more characters. And although you might think otherwise after reading this post, at some point I’ll write about someone older than ten years old.
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I met Diego while walking through town to the main bus stop. He ran up from behind and yelled “Oy, chele!” (hey whitie!) and offered to shine my shoes. Over his small shoulder he was lugging the typical wooden box the shoe shine boys used to carry their brushes and polish as they ran around town looking for work: dusty cowboy boots and leather shoes. He was about eight years old and had a cocky strut. His hands, face, and tank top were smudged and, in some places, nearly covered with shoe polish. He wasn’t wearing shoes. I declined his offer because I was headed to teach a class, but I told him to stop by my house the following day. “You go to school in the morning?” I asked. “Yeah. In the morning.” “Come by tomorrow afternoon then.”
He showed up the next morning. “Didn’t you say you go to school in the morning?” “School was canceled today,” he told me. I didn’t believe him, but before I could question him much further he was fast at work. Bent over his wooden box polishing my shoes, he had a quick rhythm. Two fingers into the polish, rub the shoe, two fingers into the polish, rub the shoe, grab the brush, brush the shoe. Repeat. He was wearing an old blue hat with the Valvoline logo on the front. It was set to the smallest size, and he wore it with the brim pushed way up over his forehead. While he was working the hat would slowly creep downward until it reached his eyes and he had to push it back up. He worked this movement into his rhythm. Grab the brush, push the hat up, brush the shoe. Repeat. “I like your hat,” I said. He kept polishing and asked what the logo meant. “It’s a brand of oil for cars. I have a blue tshirt that has the same logo on it.” He stopped polishing and looked up with wide eyes. “Really,” he skeptically said.
My Valvoline tshirt was one of my favorites. I had bought it at the Flint Goodwill a few years ago and wore it a lot around the house and to the gym. It had the three qualities I looked for in a good tshirt: a good fit; a comfortable, worn in fabric; and a perfectly sized neck - not too tight, not too big. While Diego was finishing up my shoes, I went back to my room and fished the shirt out from the wooden shelves I had made to hold my clothes.
I unfolded the shirt and showed him. His eyebrows went up and the whites of his wide eyes and glowing smile painted a stark contrast to his dusty, shoe polish smudged face. He couldn’t believe that my tshirt had the same logo as his hat. He got closer to the shirt and studied the logo before yanking the hat off his head and holding the two together. “They are same! The hat and shirt are even the same color! Tuani,” he said. Cool.
He finished up my shoes, and I overpaid him. As he was leaving I asked if his feet hurt from running around barefoot. He looked back over his shoulder at me like I was crazy and let out a half laugh. No, he scoffed. I’ve never felt less tough. He hurried away looking for his next customer.
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Diego was in the unfortunate group of kids that had to work to help support their families. Since there was a morning and afternoon session of classes at the elementary and high schools, these kids could theoretically attend school for half the day and work for the other half. It rarely played out so nicely though. It was my experience, as well as the experience of several elementary school teachers I asked, that these working kids came to school only sporadically, if at all. Presumably, they only made it to class when their family had enough money to eat. I had a hunch that Diego wasn’t attending any classes until I saw him one day in his school uniform. Blue pants, white shirt, and black shoes. Besides for a missing button on his shirt and a small hole in the top of his right shoe, he could have passed for an elementary school student in the States. I wished that he could wear that uniform everyday. He waved when I passed.
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He continued to show up at my house once every few weeks during my two years, and the visit never changed. He’d polish my shoes and then ask to see the tshirt. To Diego's unbelieving mind, comparing the tshirt and hat never got old. When he had once again assured himself that the two logos were indeed the same, he’d reveal his white teeth with a bright smile, return his hat to the top of his head, pack up his things, and take off. On his way out, I’d always ask “Why aren’t you in school today?” I go in the morning or I go in the afternoon or classes were canceled or I didn’t feel like it today. His reply was quick, said as he was turning his back and hurrying away to find his next customer.
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I spent most of my last week in town, tracking people down to say goodbye and leave them with some insignificant possession I had promised them. A Frisbee, a baseball, a school notebook, a backpack, a deck of cards. That whole week I kept my Valvoline shirt in the bag I carried around town. I was excited to run into Diego to give him the shirt. It’d be too big for him, but so was his hat. He’d be a Valvoline sponsored nine year old shoe polisher. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction. His wide eyes and blinding smile. His high five.
I never found him. I tell myself that he was no longer roaming the streets looking for dusty cowboy boots and leather shoes. I imagine he turned in his shoe polish and brush for a notebook and pencil. It’s easiest to deal with poverty when I pretend it doesn’t exist. When I convince myself that I couldn’t find him because he was in school. He was doing homework. He was a student. My Valvoline shirt isn’t fit for a student anyway.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Happy Birthday, Sergio
When I was living with his family for the first two months in Palacaguina, Sergio and I would eat dinner together. There was a small, wooden table that sat in the central patio of the house and we’d sit on either end of the table facing each other. Everyone else that lived in the house would serve themselves and eat sitting in a chair or along a bench, but Sergio and I were always seated and served at the table. Oftentimes, the family would even set the table with a tablecloth and a white cloth placemat outlined with doily-esque gold designs. I received nothing but the best hospitality. His mother or grandmother would serve us. A fork, a plate of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and a plastic, Winnie the Pooh plate with two tortillas for me. A spoon, a bowl of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and half a tortilla on top for Sergio Luis. After one meal about two weeks into my stay with his family, I finished my meal, put my fork down, and looked at Sergio Luis. He was still finishing up his tortilla. I smiled and said, “I beat you.” He quickly finished his tortilla but didn’t say a word.
The following night, we again ate dinner together. A fork, plate of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and a plastic, Winnie the Pooh plate with two tortillas for me. A spoon, a bowl of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and half a tortilla on top for Sergio Luis. I ate my meal normally but watched horrified as Sergio lifted his bowl to his mouth, slightly tilted his head back, and shoveled the food into his mouth. It wasn’t pretty and a lot of the food ended up on the table and down his shirt but it was very efficient. He didn’t say a word during the meal until he slammed the bowl down onto the table, raised his arms, and screamed “I beat you!” I struggled to keep from laughing and when I had composed myself, I calmly said “You beat me because I do not eat like a dog. You shouldn’t either.” At that moment, smiling at a four year old boy covered in food, I realized I had a student that was paying close attention.
I had come to Nicaragua to teach a high school business course, but truthfully I was never very good at teaching at the high school. I was just never great at teaching a group of 50 teenagers. I struggled to get them focused. I hated dealing with discipline problems. I had few resources besides a blackboard. I had no formal teaching experience and was easily frustrated or overwhelmed. Even after classes that went particularly well, my momentary high of a job well done was coupled with an exhaustive feeling of “I can’t do this tomorrow.”
Teaching smaller groups or individuals was a better fit. It allowed for more interaction; it was less overwhelming and more rewarding. It was possible to change activities quickly and easily within a small group. But most of all it was simply less formal. In smaller groups, I was seen more as a facilitator than a teacher. Students were more willing to ask or answer questions and have fun when I was seen as a friend and not a teacher. And the most informal and enjoyable teaching I did was with Sergio Louis.
We started with colors. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange. I’d buy two small packs of candy and reveal the bags to a delighted, squealing Sergio. The pieces of candy were similar in size to Skittles, though not as tasty. I’d fish one small piece from the bag and ask Sergio to name the color of the candy. If he got it right, he got to eat it. If he got it wrong, I got to eat it. It was, perhaps, a cruel way to teach a four year old the standard colors of the world, but Sergio was a quick learner. The first time he named every color correctly he danced with joy. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange.
We didn’t stop with colors though. Over the course of two years, I helped Sergio learn how to write, how to tie shoes, how to swim, how to eat ice cream, how to sing Hail! To The Victors, how to whistle, how to apologize. He posed curious questions like “Why don’t you have earlobes?” and learned that everyone is different. He jealously asked “Why don’t I have a beard” and learned that children can’t grow beards. Our class time was informal, spent swinging in a hammock or hiding from the piercing sun under a tree, but the learning was serious and quick. And it was unusually enjoyable.
After a long day of struggling to get all my students focused on vocabulary, formulas, and homework assignments, it was always refreshing to return to Sergio’s curiosity. He soaked up, as fact, anything I threw his way. I didn’t have to struggle to get his attention, and rather than wasting time trying to teach percentages I could focus on teaching what was really important. Like how to appropriately greet me.
We’d start with closed fists. I’d bring my fist down, knocking his fist, and as if it were a direct result of my blow, his small fist would swoop above mine and come crashing down to knock my fist. This happened rapidly, and without hesitation we’d finish off the two initial knocks with a standard fist bump. There was some confusion when we were first learning, but when I started to call out the steps “Mine! Yours! Middle!” he was an old pro within days. Like any good teacher who senses his students are ready for more, I introduced a more challenging handshake; one that can be best described as the Eight Mile greeting.
We’d shake hands normally, pivot our wrists around grasped thumbs, shake while grasping each others' thumbs, slide our hands away, grip our fingertips together, pull and snap our hands back and finish with a snap of our fingers. The Eight Mile greeting proved to have a lot of steps where a beginner could get lost or confused, but we broke it down into manageable parts and practiced diligently. With time we perfected each step and slowly put them all together for the full greeting.
The final step was an easy one. We combined the fist bumps and Eight Mile shake into one, long, beautifully choreographed, impressive greeting. I’d enter the house and without word Sergio would hold his fist out giving me the queue to bring my fist down on his to start the fluid chain reaction of moving fists, hands, and fingers. After the final snap of our fingers, we’d casually move along with our conversation as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. As if we didn’t notice the jealous looks from our audience. As if a four year old and a twenty five year old hadn’t just greeted each other with an elaborate secret handshake.
After mastering the handshake, it was clear: we were an awesome teacher/pupil tandem. As a team, I could teach him anything and he could learn everything. Spending time with Sergio was the most enjoyable and successful teaching I did in Nicaragua.
---------
On my last day in Palacaguina, I went over to Sergio Luis’ house and we greeted each other with our handshake. He sat on my lap and I explained to him that I was leaving the following day. He asked why I couldn’t stay. Why are you leaving? Why can’t I go with you to the United States? And as I struggled to come up with replies, Sergio and I learned that we had our limits. The awesome pair was fallible. We learned that I couldn’t teach him things that I didn’t quite understand myself. We sat down to dinner that night and I worried –as any teacher does – that Sergio wouldn’t remember anything I taught him. That in a few short months he wouldn’t even remember his teacher. Consumed in thought, I looked up and noticed Sergio’s side grin from behind the bowl he was holding up to his mouth. He slammed the bowl down, raised his arms, and said “I beat you.” I smiled. He’d remember.
The following night, we again ate dinner together. A fork, plate of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and a plastic, Winnie the Pooh plate with two tortillas for me. A spoon, a bowl of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and half a tortilla on top for Sergio Luis. I ate my meal normally but watched horrified as Sergio lifted his bowl to his mouth, slightly tilted his head back, and shoveled the food into his mouth. It wasn’t pretty and a lot of the food ended up on the table and down his shirt but it was very efficient. He didn’t say a word during the meal until he slammed the bowl down onto the table, raised his arms, and screamed “I beat you!” I struggled to keep from laughing and when I had composed myself, I calmly said “You beat me because I do not eat like a dog. You shouldn’t either.” At that moment, smiling at a four year old boy covered in food, I realized I had a student that was paying close attention.
I had come to Nicaragua to teach a high school business course, but truthfully I was never very good at teaching at the high school. I was just never great at teaching a group of 50 teenagers. I struggled to get them focused. I hated dealing with discipline problems. I had few resources besides a blackboard. I had no formal teaching experience and was easily frustrated or overwhelmed. Even after classes that went particularly well, my momentary high of a job well done was coupled with an exhaustive feeling of “I can’t do this tomorrow.”
Teaching smaller groups or individuals was a better fit. It allowed for more interaction; it was less overwhelming and more rewarding. It was possible to change activities quickly and easily within a small group. But most of all it was simply less formal. In smaller groups, I was seen more as a facilitator than a teacher. Students were more willing to ask or answer questions and have fun when I was seen as a friend and not a teacher. And the most informal and enjoyable teaching I did was with Sergio Louis.
We started with colors. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange. I’d buy two small packs of candy and reveal the bags to a delighted, squealing Sergio. The pieces of candy were similar in size to Skittles, though not as tasty. I’d fish one small piece from the bag and ask Sergio to name the color of the candy. If he got it right, he got to eat it. If he got it wrong, I got to eat it. It was, perhaps, a cruel way to teach a four year old the standard colors of the world, but Sergio was a quick learner. The first time he named every color correctly he danced with joy. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange.
We didn’t stop with colors though. Over the course of two years, I helped Sergio learn how to write, how to tie shoes, how to swim, how to eat ice cream, how to sing Hail! To The Victors, how to whistle, how to apologize. He posed curious questions like “Why don’t you have earlobes?” and learned that everyone is different. He jealously asked “Why don’t I have a beard” and learned that children can’t grow beards. Our class time was informal, spent swinging in a hammock or hiding from the piercing sun under a tree, but the learning was serious and quick. And it was unusually enjoyable.
After a long day of struggling to get all my students focused on vocabulary, formulas, and homework assignments, it was always refreshing to return to Sergio’s curiosity. He soaked up, as fact, anything I threw his way. I didn’t have to struggle to get his attention, and rather than wasting time trying to teach percentages I could focus on teaching what was really important. Like how to appropriately greet me.
We’d start with closed fists. I’d bring my fist down, knocking his fist, and as if it were a direct result of my blow, his small fist would swoop above mine and come crashing down to knock my fist. This happened rapidly, and without hesitation we’d finish off the two initial knocks with a standard fist bump. There was some confusion when we were first learning, but when I started to call out the steps “Mine! Yours! Middle!” he was an old pro within days. Like any good teacher who senses his students are ready for more, I introduced a more challenging handshake; one that can be best described as the Eight Mile greeting.
We’d shake hands normally, pivot our wrists around grasped thumbs, shake while grasping each others' thumbs, slide our hands away, grip our fingertips together, pull and snap our hands back and finish with a snap of our fingers. The Eight Mile greeting proved to have a lot of steps where a beginner could get lost or confused, but we broke it down into manageable parts and practiced diligently. With time we perfected each step and slowly put them all together for the full greeting.
The final step was an easy one. We combined the fist bumps and Eight Mile shake into one, long, beautifully choreographed, impressive greeting. I’d enter the house and without word Sergio would hold his fist out giving me the queue to bring my fist down on his to start the fluid chain reaction of moving fists, hands, and fingers. After the final snap of our fingers, we’d casually move along with our conversation as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. As if we didn’t notice the jealous looks from our audience. As if a four year old and a twenty five year old hadn’t just greeted each other with an elaborate secret handshake.
After mastering the handshake, it was clear: we were an awesome teacher/pupil tandem. As a team, I could teach him anything and he could learn everything. Spending time with Sergio was the most enjoyable and successful teaching I did in Nicaragua.
---------
On my last day in Palacaguina, I went over to Sergio Luis’ house and we greeted each other with our handshake. He sat on my lap and I explained to him that I was leaving the following day. He asked why I couldn’t stay. Why are you leaving? Why can’t I go with you to the United States? And as I struggled to come up with replies, Sergio and I learned that we had our limits. The awesome pair was fallible. We learned that I couldn’t teach him things that I didn’t quite understand myself. We sat down to dinner that night and I worried –as any teacher does – that Sergio wouldn’t remember anything I taught him. That in a few short months he wouldn’t even remember his teacher. Consumed in thought, I looked up and noticed Sergio’s side grin from behind the bowl he was holding up to his mouth. He slammed the bowl down, raised his arms, and said “I beat you.” I smiled. He’d remember.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Viva Nicaragua!
For those of you who haven't seen the newest NBA commercials:
For those of you who haven't seen a Nicaraguan fiesta:
For those of you who haven't seen a Nicaraguan fiesta:
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Chamorro Family
This is an excellent article on recent Nicaraguan history told through the lens of one of the country's most famous families. If you like the article and are interested in learning more about Nicaragua, or are just looking for a good book, I'd suggest Stephen Kinzer's Blood of Brothers.
The only critique I have of the article is when in the second to last paragraph, the author describes the Chamorro neighborhood as "middle-class." I can assure you that anyone in Nicaragua dining on seafood paella and living in a "sprawling four bedroom" is much wealthier than "middle-class," and it's a disservice to the country to describe the neighborhood as such when my friends and the majority of the country struggle to get by on less than $2/day.
The only critique I have of the article is when in the second to last paragraph, the author describes the Chamorro neighborhood as "middle-class." I can assure you that anyone in Nicaragua dining on seafood paella and living in a "sprawling four bedroom" is much wealthier than "middle-class," and it's a disservice to the country to describe the neighborhood as such when my friends and the majority of the country struggle to get by on less than $2/day.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
Bizarre Foods
Bizarre Foods' Andrew Zimmern was in Nicaragua a couple of weeks ago filming an episode for his show. I hope/wonder if he got giardia.
Once you get over the fear of parasites, I agree with Zimmern. The best way to understand a new country is by sharing a local meal with its people. And if you can help prepare it, even better.
Buen provecho!
Once you get over the fear of parasites, I agree with Zimmern. The best way to understand a new country is by sharing a local meal with its people. And if you can help prepare it, even better.
Buen provecho!
Nicaraguan Vampires
I'm glad I didn't read this article while I was living in Nicaragua. My "shanty" had "gaps big enough for the flying mammals to sneak through during the night," and sneak through they did. Ten minutes after my lights would go off, I'd hear my visitor swoop in and fly around. But I thankfully had a mosquito net and besides the droppings I cleaned up every morning, the bats in my house weren't too much of a bother.
The night before this picture was taken, however, was a bit less comfortable (check out the bat hanging above me). I had to sleep with my sleeping bag over my head and awoke several times through the night when the bat would fly so close I could feel it's wings hit me. There's a lot of things I don't miss about Nicaragua.
The standard Nicaraguan technique for getting rid of bats involved wrapping a clove a garlic in a red cloth and hanging the cloth from the roof. I was also told to smash garlic into the roof in the form of a cross. Neither of these worked. Go figure.
The night before this picture was taken, however, was a bit less comfortable (check out the bat hanging above me). I had to sleep with my sleeping bag over my head and awoke several times through the night when the bat would fly so close I could feel it's wings hit me. There's a lot of things I don't miss about Nicaragua.
The standard Nicaraguan technique for getting rid of bats involved wrapping a clove a garlic in a red cloth and hanging the cloth from the roof. I was also told to smash garlic into the roof in the form of a cross. Neither of these worked. Go figure.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
"No reason only the poor should experience this."
This is cool and presumably much more effective than a Microsoft PowerPoint presentation. Then again, a lot is more effective than PowerPoint when trying to explain poverty to rich people. Like experiencing this and living for two years here:
Also know that when US taxpayers send Peace Corps volunteers to countries with malaria and dengue fever, we provide them with mosquito nets and preventative drugs to defend against these diseases. As a Peace Corps volunteer sleeping under a US government provided mosquito net, why was my life more valuable than the 2000 African kids that died from malaria yesterday? Donate a net.
Also know that when US taxpayers send Peace Corps volunteers to countries with malaria and dengue fever, we provide them with mosquito nets and preventative drugs to defend against these diseases. As a Peace Corps volunteer sleeping under a US government provided mosquito net, why was my life more valuable than the 2000 African kids that died from malaria yesterday? Donate a net.
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