Follow the frog!

You don't need to move to Nicaragua. Just follow the frog.

Peace Corps Comic Gold

This is brilliant. For volunteers and non-volunteers alike. Enjoy.

http://whatshouldpcvscallme.tumblr.com/

Peace Corps Shoes

Shoes inspired by 1960s Peace Corps volunteers, from SeaVees:

Look a lot nicer than anything I ever saw on the feet of volunteers.

Peace Corps, Expat Aid Workers

These gems were just passed along to me by two different friends. The first one needs no comment.



The second is a blog similar to Stuff White People Like but it's focused on expat aid workers. I found myself laughing and cringing, sometimes at the same time, while reading through. I've been guilty of a lot of it. Take, for example, the start of number four on Drivers which is eerily close to my description of arriving in Nairobi:

Upon arriving at the airport in a new country after a long flight, followed by the entanglement that is immigration, luggage retrieval, and customs, you stumble sweaty and bleary-eyed into the arrival pen. You scan the sea of unfamiliar faces, desperately hoping to see a sheet of A4 with your name on it. There it is! You make eye contact, nod and smile. And as you hand your whole being over to that other human, you can relax: You’re with the driver now.

I also liked number 14 on hot showers (the shower head in my bathroom is a "suicide shower") and this tidbit from Establishing Field Cred:

You can also drop hints that you’ve got field cred by always pronouncing the names of cities and countries the way a local would (eg., Nee-ka-ra-wa instead of Nik-uh-rah-gwa).

In the Peace Corps, I had a pretty good idea of whether or not I'd like you based on how you pronounced Nicaragua. Trying to establish field cred, in this case, wasn't going to get you very far.

Note: I've learned in my few short weeks in Nairobi that serving in the Peace Corps immediately gives you a deep reservoir of field cred in the eyes of non PC expat aid workers.

Blogger/daveande Stats

I've spent a little bit more time than normal within Blogger over the last few days, updating the blog's design and checking out the stats that are now available. I think the stats have been included in Blogger for some time now, but I haven't taken a look until recently. Blogger now provides the number of pageviews your blog has registered over any given time period and breaks out your pageviews by specific post and/or traffic source. What did I find when looking at daveande stats? A couple of funny things.

I nearly own the Google search term "syllabus week" coming in at number two right behind Urban Dictionary. Just this week, college students Googling "syllabus week" or some variation have registered 111 page views on my post about Nicaragua's syllabus week.



The daveande post with the most pageviews since May 2010 is Peace Corps Resume. I wonder how many big hearted, adventure seeking, service oriented people have Googled "Peace Corps resume" in hopes of finding some info on how best to format a resume for the Peace Corps application only to come across my post. "Banged my head against a large concrete wall in frustration, boredom, and craziness once a month for 24 months" may have been the basis for some second thoughts and new career decisions.

Doorknob in Spanish?

I just came across this while visiting the Push for Peace Corps website. Peter Hessler's strong defense of the Peace Corps, in response to Nicholas Kristof's March 2010 critique of the organization while calling for the formation of a Teach for the World initiative, is passionate, funny, and accurate. Give it a read.

I didn't know the word for doorknob in Spanish. There weren't any doorknobs in Palacaguina. Seriously. But if you want to know how to actually communicate like a Nicaraguan, I'm your guy. America would be a wiser country if we had more people who had an intimate understanding of a foreign culture. And that doesn't require knowing the word for doorknob.

Technology and the Peace Corps

NPR's All Things Considered recently aired this short segment on how technology, specifically internet and cellphones, is changing the Peace Corps. No doubt that technology has changed the experience, but I'd be interested in learning what percentage of volunteers have internet/cellphone service in their sites. The availability of both varied greatly throughout Nicaraguan Peace Corps posts, and I imagine this to be the case in other countries.

The piece doesn't contend that the improved availability of internet and cellphones is good or bad, but it does assert that this technology keeps volunteers from integrating into the community, an important goal drilled into the heads of all Peace Corps volunteers. I disagree. For the volunteers that are lucky enough to have easier access to internet, I'm confident that it does not keep them from integrating into the community as much as a volunteer living in a rural village hours away from a phone or computer. If you aren't integrating into the community because you can have a 20 minute call with Mom every morning and an hour or two of internet time at night, you likely wouldn't be putting too much effort into integrating into the community without those crutches. In fact, I wonder if countries or posts with easier access to technology have a lower volunteer attrition rate, improved project results and more successful community integration/learning because volunteers in these sites have just enough contact with support systems at home to stay motivated and confident. Maybe that 20 minute call with Mom and Dad every morning keeps the loneliness, that would otherwise cause a volunteer to quit, just far enough away to keep the volunteer trudging through the two years and onto the successful completion of a project that forges deeper and more meaningful community relationships.

UM/Peace Corps

Upcoming documentary on JFK's "launch" of the Peace Corps at UM in 1960.

Happy Birthday, Cristian

I was in Palacaguina on a training visit, a weekend trip designed to give me a chance to visit the town I would live in for the next two years, and was meeting my host family for the first time. I had gone around the room and met just about everyone – Maria, Estela, Angela, Herman, Sergio Luis, Carlos, Erlinda, Carmen, and Emanuel – when Rosa walked up cradling Cristian. I wasn’t really sure what to do when she introduced us. It was hot and we were all crammed into a small concrete front room that offered no breeze. I was overwhelmed with the number of people staring at me and the number of unfamiliar names that had just been thrown my way. I had struggled through each introduction with the Spanish of a three year old, and now I had to come up with a reaction or something to say to a sleeping baby. I asked how old he was. Six weeks. And then I said that he was the first person I had met in Nicaragua that knew less Spanish than I did. I said it more as a truth than a joke, but the whole room shook with laughter. I had only been in the country for six weeks but I had already learned that it wasn’t hard, as a self deprecating foreigner with a thick accent, to get Nicaraguans to laugh, and this proved to be an extremely easy crowd. Cristian had helped me knock my first impression out of the park.

After that first introduction though, we didn’t really bother with each other much. In fact, we got off to a fairly cold start. As far as I could tell, Cristian didn’t do much other than shamelessly breastfeed, making any entrance into the common area a dangerously awkward experience, and steal the hammock from me during his mid morning naps. There was only one time that I held him. His mother was running errands and his grandmother was in the kitchen, so I was left to answer his cries from the hammock, picking him up and tenderly consoling him. He quickly stopped crying and to thank me peed all over the front of my shirt. After that, I stayed away from him for the most part, preferring instead to spend my time with his older brother, Sergio, who offered abilities I found more appealing – jumping, running, playing, walking, talking, joking, laughing.

But Cristian didn’t hold my cold shoulder against me. He grew up quickly and within months was greeting me upon my arrival at the house with a big smile and my name, “’veeed.” When he was learning how to walk, Sergio and I would sit on opposite sides of the room and have Cristian try to walk from one of us to the other, betting candy on how far he’d make it before falling. After he was more sure footed, he’d walk over to me to slap a high five or compete with Sergio for space on my lap. It was fun watching him grow up and by the time he was more safely trained at using the bathroom, he had won me over. By the time I left, I knew I’d miss him just as much as his older brother.

Through my two years living there, Cristian’s family repeated my initial joke about my Spanish at least once a week. Jokes or remotely funny stories had a tendency to be frequently retold among Nicaraguans, and no matter how many times they were shared, they always seemed to earn the same reaction. The one hundredth time something was told was just as funny as the first. It was boring at times, always retelling the same stories and jokes, but the ease with which the laughter came was reassuring. No matter what, laughter was just one old story away.

Last week, Cristian turned four years old. I called him to wish him a happy birthday and we briefly chatted. His responses were mostly “yes’s” and “no’s,” but he did ask me when I was coming to visit and generally spoke very well for a four year old. When he returned the phone to his mom, I told her that his Spanish was now better than mine. Her reaction was predictable – a hearty laugh. I like to imagine that 20 years down the line, I’ll be in Palacaguina for a visit. We’ll all be crammed into the same front room, and I’ll tell Cristian the story of the first time I met him. Without a doubt, he will have heard it before but no matter. It’s comforting knowing that the story will be met with the same reply as that first day. The whole room will shake with laughter.

Happy Birthday, Cristian. May your Spanish always be improving.

Obama's UM Commencement Address

President Obama using John F. Kennedy's introduction of the US Peace Corps to inspire UM's 2010 grads to willingly contribute part of their lives to the life of our country.

Push for Peace Corps

Contact your representative now to encourage the signing of a letter urging $465 million for Peace Corps in FY 2011.

And for those that need to be convinced, I leave it to the authors of my favorite two books about the Peace Corps experience (The Village of Waiting and River Town).

George Packer:

Peace Corps provides the best return on the dollar in America’s entire foreign policy budget. The program educates thousands of young Americans in each new generation about the reality of life as lived by most of the world’s population.

Peter Hessler:

I was fortunate to attend Princeton and Oxford universities, but the most important part of my education was the two years I spent in the Peace Corps. I learned to teach and communicate with people very different from myself, and I learned Chinese — but the most important lesson was one of perspective. I saw the world differently, and that viewpoint has informed everything I’ve written since. This is true of many former volunteers in many walks of life: teachers, organizers, diplomats. It’s a shame that in a country with such an active foreign policy, relatively little attention and support has been given to the Peace Corps.

Peace Corps Week

In honor of the Peace Corps' 49th anniversary and the annual celebration of Peace Corps Week, I'll share with you a short tour of my former house (nicely updated by a current volunteer, Penny) in Pacaguina, Nicaragua. Complete with a shot of the latrine, the chickens, the neighbors, and the concrete washing table.

UM Peace Corps

UM marks the 50th anniversary of the Peace Corps with this new site.

My Old Home

My old abode getting a face lift. Fleas and all. Good luck, Penny.

Commute

I finish class and walk out to the main road. I wait fifteen minutes before a truck approaches and I extend my thumb. It slows down and I run to catch up to it, jumping on just as it comes to a complete stop. I slip the front half of each foot onto the metal bumper that offers a narrow eight inches from the back of the truck. The heels of my feet dangle off the back but I use both hands to grab onto the frame of the truck and feel secure. I bang my hand against the side of the truck signaling to the driver that I’m ready to feel the wind. We depart.

The truck has a flat bed that extends ten feet from a small two person cab. The frame of the bed is six feet high, solid metal along the lower half and three one foot metal sheets spaced six inches apart surround the upper half. The bed is, unfortunately, filled with a very fine, dry dirt and as the driver shifts into second and third gear, the increasing speed sends the dirt through the cracks and spaces of the bed frame. When we reach a healthy speed, the tires kick up the dust of the parched dirt road and I am completely engulfed by earth. Dust from the road and dirt from the truck is all I breathe, hanging off the back of my hitchhiked ride.

I close my eyes, trying to escape, but the darkness throws off my fragile balance. I look down towards the road and the cloud is less intense but the road dizzying, quickly passing below. There is no respite from the cloud. It throws its dirt into my eyes and forces its dust into my mouth. I decide the best option is to stick my head around the side of the truck where the dirt blowing out of the bed is less intense. I squint my eyes and imagine what the driver sees in his side view mirror. A decapitated head with narrow eyes peeking out from the side of the truck.

I struggle to hold on. Putting my head to the side of the truck makes my grip less secure and my arms are quickly fatigued. I curse myself for sticking my thumb out and accepting the 15 minute ride into town on the back of a large truck filled with dirt. I swear to only hitchhike rides from pickup trucks. To wait longer for the bus. To buy a bike. To walk.

We reach the paved section of the road and the dust subsides. I don’t dare take a hand off the back of the truck to wipe the dust from my eyes which are barely open, still shielding themselves from the truck dirt. As we get closer to the center of town, I hear the familiar cries of “Oye, David!” from those in the street and I blindly return the greeting. The truck stops at the park and lets me off. I wipe my face off with the inside of my shirt and slap my chest, legs, shoulders, and book bag. Giant mushroom clouds emanate from each slap. I walk to the cab of the truck and look the driver in the eye.

-Thanks for the ride.

-Any time.

San Jose to Palacaguina and Beyond

There are a lot of memories that still come back effortlessly. I’ll see or hear something that will trip some deep subconscious recollection and I’ll spend the next few minutes in a reflective trance reliving, smelling, tasting, or feeling a specific moment from my service. And most of the memories are still surprisingly clear: the sulfur like taste that always preceded the parasites; the humid, slightly warm earthen smell of my backyard after a rain; the trapped, clingy feeling of a pair of blue jeans on the hottest days. I’ll hear a song and think of a town dance, or I’ll see a school bus and think of my “commute” to a rural school. These memories come quickly, and sometimes unexpectedly, but they are mostly fleeting thoughts, no longer than a few minutes. As effortlessly as I retrieve them, my brain quickly re-files these subconscious notes when I’m done reminiscing and I simply continue with my day. But there are still memories and thoughts that I think about more regularly; thoughts, feelings, and memories that wait for me to fully process, sitting in my more immediate conscious as they wait to be properly filed. Where do I put a memory that I revisit everyday as I get on the #22 bus to go to work?

I was in San Jose, Costa Rica, finished with a week long vacation trekking around the country with two friends from home. My friends were flying home that afternoon, and I was making the long haul back to Palacaguina alone. I left the hostel very early, just as the sun was breaking, and flagged down a cab to take me to the bus station. There was a time, early in my service, that a solo cab ride was a deeply frightening chore, but I had more than a year’s worth of experience at this point, and compared to the unruly streets of Managua, where I cut my chops, San Jose was child’s play. The red cab was a newer model Toyota Yaris and actually had a meter, something you’d never get in Managua, and I confidently told the driver where I was headed. It was a long trip across the city, and the driver, as most drivers in San Jose and Managua were prone to do, struck up a conversation. He asked all of the standard questions and I answered with all of my standard replies, replies so well rehearsed that, when finished, the driver observed “your Spanish is very good,” and asked me where I learned. When I told him that I lived in Nicaragua, he started to make fun of the Nicaraguan culture and people. There was a common mistrust and, at times, soft hatred between the Ticos and Nicas, and since I considered myself more Nica than Tico, I defended my people and friends by cutting the driver off midsentence and using some classic Nicaraguan phrases. He laughed and was impressed with how well I knew the country. After he dropped me off at the bus station, I was pretty impressed myself. Not with just how well I knew Nicaragua, but with the simplicity of the trip across Costa Rica’s capital city. Flagging the cab, giving directions, conversing, joking, defending, all done as if I was in my hometown. It had been so easy. I got on the bus thinking about how impossible this all would have been just a few months prior.

The uneventful bus ride was a welcomed rest before reaching the routine chaos of the border. The bus pulled up and parked among five to ten other busses. I had to get through customs and then, on the Nicaraguan side, catch a different bus to Managua. The border, like the day’s heat, was reaching it’s peak hour and though I had passed through on my way to Costa Rica, the border was still confusing. There were no signs or directions about where to wait in line or what window to visit first, and as I tried to sort out the disorder, I was persistently hounded by bus exhaust, offers to change my money, and calls of the next bus departure. When I finally found the right line and started to wait, a guy approached offering to get me through customs in five minutes. He flashed an absurdly fake, homemade badge and tried to convince me that he officially worked at the border; his Indianapolis Colts tshirt said otherwise, but the line was long, the sun was hot, and I was still 10 hours away from my home, so I was a little more willing to hear him out. I quickly sized him up as he was convincing me and decided to take a shot. I bargained him down from $10 to $5 to shepherd me through the whole process, and when I agreed he took me up to the front of the line and we waited to the side. He folded up the $5 bill and slipped it into my passport. When he took both from my hands and walked away towards the customs window I was ready to chase after and tackle him the second he took one step in any direction not towards the window. But my initial judgment proved legitimate and I watched him walk straight to the window and slip my passport into the hands of the customs agent. The customs agent put it to the side and tended to a few more folks from the line. As I waited, still curious as to how this all might go down, I was cautiously optimistic, and when I saw the agent stamp my passport and quickly pass it back to my partner in crime, I was downright ecstatic. I had shaved off 2 hours of waiting in the midday sun. I did feel a tinge of guilt for supporting such overtly illegal behavior, but I convinced myself that I deserved the break. I had been beaten down and taken advantage of so much over the last several months that it was about time I notched a point in my column. I had beaten the system this time, and though I had to cheat to do it, it felt good. I strutted through the long border area and officially into the country I called home. The Nicaraguan, 1980s yellow school busses with “Jesus Christ is Lord” decals across the windshield waited in an unorganized, trash filled, dirt parking lot. Welcome back.

The four hour bus ride into Managua was uncomfortably warm and crowded. Driving through the southern, Pacific Coast part of the country, with its unforgiving heat and endless fields of sugar cane, always made me appreciate the cooler air and lush mountain landscapes I was used to in the north. I turned on my iPod to discourage any would be talkers and watched the country pass by, imagining I was on an air conditioned Grey Hound. My imagination had gotten good at these games and I found them to be one of my favorite defense mechanisms. No shower was too cold, no parasite too painful, no ray of sun too hot, when I could mentally checkout of the present and check-in to a Ritz Carlton. So I sat there, on a school bus with no shocks, and pretended for four hours I was sitting in first class, riding on air.

When we got into Managua, I knew I had under two hours to make it to Mayoreo to catch the last express bus up north. I knew the express bus schedule by heart and had learned the hard way what it meant if I didn’t make it there on time: a three hour trip standing in the aisle salivating for a seat or a five hour trip on a bus that picked up any man, woman, child, or chicken that needed a ride. I wanted neither, so I grabbed my bag a little tighter, slipped my wallet into my front pocket, and stepped off the bus, into Nicaragua’s overwhelming capital.

Immediately, I had four cabbies surrounding me and grabbing my arm and bag. This wasn’t always the case in Managua, but this bus station was particularly bad and the cabbies were more aggressive than normal. Because there were no meters in the taxis, you always had to negotiate your price before getting into a cab. If you looked like a tourist, you were given outrageously high prices in American dollars. If you were a tourist, you happily paid this price because it was still cheap compared to the States. If you were a Peace Corps volunteer, you knew the Nicaraguan prices you should pay and let the cabbies know you weren’t some rookie. Turning them down and sneering at their high prices was always rewarding, and I relished the opportunity to brush off the four cabbies grabbing me. I scoffed at their high prices and as I was walking out to the street to flag down a different cab, I mentally raised two middle fingers and swung them in the direction of my aggressors. I got in a cab that offered me the standard fare, C$40. $2.

On our way to the Mayoreo bus station, I had the taxi take me to a “take-out” restaurant I knew of. For another C$35 I wolfed down a piece of fried chicken, a plate of rice and beans, and two tortillas. I ate this quickly, in the cab, without utensils. There was a time, in my first year, that this would have horrified me, eating from a roadside stand, in a taxi, with my bare hands. But time and experience had softened many fears, and my rules for sanitary conditions no longer applied.

We pulled into the station right on time, and I didn’t waste any time making it to the ticket window. Ten minutes later I boarded the bus and was headed north. The hardest part of my journey, the border crossing and navigating Managua, was complete, and as the bus got just north of Ciudad Dario, I felt the humid air of the lowlands turn into the fresh, mountain air of the north. I knew this bus ride like the back of my hand, and the enjoyable scenery always made it a relaxing three hour ride. I got off at “La Shell,” the stop along the Panamerican Highway where a side road took you six kilometers into Palacaguina. “La Shell” used to be in reference to an old Shell gas station. It no longer existed, but those names had a tendency to stick and if you asked why they didn’t just start calling the stop Palacaguina, you’d get a look that suggested you were the crazy one. It was best to leave some things alone.

There were two taxis waiting at “La Shell,” and I rode into town with Don Alberto. When I had to catch early morning buses to Managua, Don Alberto was always the guy that gave me a ride out to the highway. He was often the guy that gave me a ride back into town upon my return too, so it wasn’t rare for Don Alberto to play the role of last goodbye and first hello in Palacaguina. And he played the role very well, always offering me a warm welcome back to my town. He’d ask how my trip was and where I went. He’d joke, calling me a “vago,” or drifter, but then retract and acknowledge the importance of getting away and travelling, even if he couldn’t do much travelling himself. Don Alberto, though I only knew him in the short five minute rides in and out of town, had a unique ability to always make me feel like I was missed during my time away. After my long trip back from Costa Rica, it was especially nice to spend the final five minutes of my 13 hour trip with a guy that seemed like an old friend.

When I finally got into my house, I threw my bags down, unpacked, and cleaned up a bit before slipping into bed. In that moment, safe and sound in my own home, such pride and confidence! I had started my morning in San Jose; 13 hours, three buses, three cabs, two capitals, one border, and one bribe later I was safely home. And I did it, the trip, the negotiations, the talking, the directing, all with surprising ease, with the grace of an old veteran. Central America was no longer the intimidating, ass kicking force it had been for more than a year. It was home and I knew it intimately. Swearing with the most foul mouthed Nicas and joking with the most common phrases, I knew the language, and the prices of taxis and schedules of buses were all conveniently memorized for quick recollection when I needed them most. I knew how to eat the food and how to navigate chaotic borders and the confusing streets of Managua . I knew that after a long trip from San Jose to Palacaguina, Don Alberto would patiently wait at "La Shell," greeting me warmly to welcome me HOME. Covered safely by a mosquito net, I lay in my bed thinking about all of this, and with these thoughts, came an exciting feeling of the world's possibility. I could go anywhere and do anything, learn and understand a country or region, and build a home and a sense of place in cities and countries very foreign to my own. The world felt bigger...large and hopeful.

And I revisit this thought as I board the #22 bus on my way to work. My commute is easy, nicely labeled with maps and signs directing the passengers, and it's convenience and routine can dangerously start to feel like boredom, a boredom that can very quickly make the world seem small. So I keep the memory of that day and that feeling of confidence, that sense of place, earned the hard way after conquering a foreign land, and that hopeful thought of a large world safely lodged in my immediate conscious. I do not want to file it away, to place it in a subconscious purgatory that begins to fade my recollection. I recall it on my way to work, fighting the boredom of my comfortable routine, and the world again begins to expand, beyond the calm borders of Chicago. I’m ready to explore.

Walter

It was the standard collegiate tshirt, navy blue with “Michigan” written in bright block maize letters across the front. And since “where in the states are you from” came immediately after “what’s your name,” “how many brothers and sisters do you have,” and “how much money do you make” in the horribly predictable Nicaraguan meet-and-greet conversation, everyone knew what my tshirt meant. Michigan was Daveed’s pueblo, and when I wore that shirt around town people would read it aloud. Meecheegan. So it was always a good day when I wore my pueblo around town, and it was a great day when I wore it on a Sunday afternoon during my second year of service.

Walter and I had become, for lack of a better term, drinking buddies. Though it only happened three or four times, our routine was as predictable as the meet-and-greet conversations I had with countless Nicaraguans. He’d see me walking through town, catch up to me in his car, and invite me out for a drink. Swooning over a private car and the thought of alcohol, I’d quickly oblige and hop in. We’d swing over to the local gas station to buy a six pack of Toña cans before driving around town and picking up a few more of his friends. Three grown men in the back and two in the front of his green Hyundai Excel, we’d pound the first couple of beers while on our way out of to Bar Titanic along the Panamericano. At the bar, we’d switch over to rum and coke and waste the day talking about Nicaraguan politics and how, no, I couldn’t easily get them a visa. The one drink he invited me out for always turned into several drinks, and by the time he’d drop me off at home, it’d take all my concentration to lock my doors, neatly tuck in my mosquito net, and pass out. I’d wake up the following morning with a headache.

The Sunday I was wearing my Michigan tshirt was no different. I was on my way to visit Maria’s family when the green Hyundai pulled along side me and offered a drink. Two hours later I was a few drinks deep sitting at Bar Titanic listening to my compañeros sing along to Mexican Ranchera music. And in the middle of Javier Solis’ ballad, Walter finished off his rum and coke, threw his hands up and screamed “Vivaaa…MEEEEEcheeeegaaan!” He looked directly at me when he said it and finished off his proud exclamation with a hearty laugh, gazing around at all of us for approval. I responded by grabbing the letters of my shirt to flip the sides out aggressively (think LeBron James grabbing the sides of his jersey after a thunderous dunk) and, nodding my head, said “Meecheegan!!!”

We stayed at Bar Titanic all day drinking an unhealthy amount of alcohol. After every drink, Walter would raise his hands and salute my home state with his rallying cry, laughing each time as if it was the first time he said it. By the third or fourth drink, all of us had enough liquid courage to join in and help him finish off the salute. By the fifth and sixth, we all knew to start watching for the last sip when the ice in the glass melted, and we joined in right from the beginning. Viva! MEEEcheeegan! By the seventh and eighth, we didn’t have to wait for Walter. When the spirit moved you, you’d put your drink down and raise your arms. Your compañeros would follow suit and we’d cry together, "Vivaaaa……MEEEEEEEEcheeegaaaaan!!”

I woke up the next morning with a hangover, and in an attempt to “work it off” I walked out to my backyard and started doing laundry, scrubbing my tshirts on a concrete slab. When I came to the Michigan tshirt, I was more gentle than normal. I only gave it a couple of scrubs along the concrete and only slightly ringed out the excess water. Instead of hanging it in the direct sunlight, I found a premium spot under the shade of my mango tree. That was my ranchera rallying cry I was holding. It was my pueblo I was guarding. I had to be gentle and caring. I couldn’t let those colors fade. I thanked Walter under my breath, went inside and slept off my hangover.

Viva Michigan!

Peace Corps Expansion Act

Maybe boring for most, but a good history of the origins of the Peace Corps and certainly worth watching for fellow RPCVs.

Diego

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.
____________________

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.

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.

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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.