War

Yesterday one of my high school students asked if the United States is at war with Venezuela.

Interesting right?


Also, I recently celebrated my one year anniversary in Nicaragua, wow how time flies. I have many a reflection to share, though as we all know I am terrible at updating this thing.

So I went to Mexico

And living Mexico has all the magic that the Mexico of my dreams has. The smells, the sounds, the colors, the food! I love it there. Though, as much as I do love it, when I was there I missed Cusmapa. I don't think anywhere, no matter how magical, contains the magic that Cusmapa does for me. This place is my home, and how lucky I am to be able to say so!

Guadalajara is a lively and fun city, all the old is mixed in with the new, I could live there I think. Unfortunately, it seems that lithography does not exist there outside of a very basic undergrad program at the University of Guadalajara. Though, if I were going into my undergraduate studies again, it would be an amazing place to study...the fine art center there is incredible! And the art of Mexico! I miss art when I am here in Nicaragua.

We're Really Shaking it Up

In Casa los Mangos we recently hosted the first, of what will hopefully be many, Fiesta de Mujeres Libres. Its a small group of women, half Nica, half American, that get together and have drinks, snacks and talk, dance, have fun. We made a big sign declaring: "Arriba las Mujeres del Mundo!!!" that is taped to our kitchen window. What we didn't anticipate, but really love, is that since its on the window (it was the only place the tape would stick) people that walk by the house outside can read it too. Now we've got passers-by hollering: "Arriba! Arriba las mujeres!" "Arriba todo el mundo!" or, "Arriba las mujeres del mundo????" Either way, it's out there.

Saturday we dressed up with fifteen kids and marched through the Cusmapa streets with home-made instruments and signs declaring "Viva Cusmapa" "Celebramos Alegria!" and other banners of the like.
Sunday we took a group of women to the park at the center of town to knit in public.

In both occasions the people passing by were very surprised. People stared at us in the park. People rushed our of their homes to see what the noise was passing by.

We're going to do it all again this weekend, and we're hoping to double our numbers.
Ooooooo what fun and ruckus!

It's a Craze!

When I started our women’s knitting group once a week I never imagined knitting would be so popular in Cusmapa. Our group that meets every Wednesday evening for two hours started a couple months ago as three women, it is now about 15. There are also a handful of sisters and cousins and nieces that come those evenings. The women bring many knit squares every week to contribute to the blankets we are making to donate to the Casa Materna. One girl in the group, who is actually a high school student of ours as well, has begun to make little hats to donate. I love that the women are all positive about the community side of this project.

Even more incredibly, all the little boys in our neighborhood are knitting now too, them and many of their cousins and siblings and friends, maybe twenty kids all around the age of eleven. Now that they have all gotten into knitting, the word is really spreading fast. Everyday kids I’ve never seen before come knocking at the door asking to learn. Students come to me asking to learn, or to inform me that some friend or cousin or sibling of theirs wants to learn.

There are too many requests now for me to fulfill them all. I’ve asked that all the more advanced knitters teach the new knitters so that I only have to teach more difficult stuff. Little Memo, who lives across the street, is happy to help and yesterday taught four little girls the basics. I think this will work out great, it makes it all more community oriented, which was part of my initial goal.

So, now that you all know how this project of mine is succeeding, that it is inspiring and teaching so many kids in Cusmapa, that it is snowballing quickly, I will tell you I am almost without supplies. I’ve told all the kids they have to knit with pencils as needles, which works great in the beginning until they become more advanced and want to make bigger things, or more complicated things. Our supply of yarn is quickly depleting and the people here have no money to buy such luxuries on their own.

ANY money or supplies you or someone you know would like to donate would be greatly appreciated and put to good use. Callie will be in the States in a month, so she could carry supplies back with her when she returns to Nica. Monetary donations can be wired here to me, or sent to my parents who can deposit them directly in my bank account. Needles can be made from dowels, a pencil sharpener and some sand paper, and it is much cheaper. Plastic needles are fairly inexpensive especially if large sets of multiple sizes are purchased. Sometimes yarn can be found at second hand stores, garage and estate sales, and craigslist is a good place to look too.

I have to say, I think this knitting craze in Cusmapa is one of the most important things I’m doing here. I think my classes are super important, but the people involved in the knitting are INTO it. Who knows, maybe we’ll see a small cooperative grow from this that can help provide a little income to some families. That would be absolutely incredible.

I arrived back Managua yesterday. I can not get back to my happy mountain home, however, because there is a national transportation strike. No buses are running in the whole country, the non-union taxis take you on these crazy back-alley routes to avoid union taxis throwing rocks through their windshields. A Fabretto truck was going to take me up but during strikes they don't take the vehicles out in the Managua area because cars get set-fire. So, here I am, stuck in the capital, and I miss Cusmapa. Oh well, asi es, as they say.

In other news, I have a new piece of body art that I love. It is a tree as seen by my friend Marlon in Cusmapa, he is nine years old.

I'm in the States

It's a little weird. I miss this guy------>

Well, I miss them all, I've gotten used to all the unpredictable energy. I've fallen in love with all the color and light and dust and dreams.

It HAS been a long time

I know, its has been. And I have wanted to write, and I 've tried to write. I must have gained the confidence of more people here because the stories have been spilling and overflowing and I'm brimming, all with ideas and emotions to express, but I think its just too much. I feel overwhelmed. I can't get them in order to tell. Maybe you don't need all the details, maybe just knowing I'm learning and loving is enough. And I am.

The Men They Honor in Cusmapa....

Father Rafael Maria Fabretto is considered a saint in this little pueblo. His picture hangs in every house, and his memory is honored on multiple occasions throughout the year. The celebration of his birthday includes burning a candle continuously the entire month in front of a shrine made to him complete with the very robe he wore in his lifetime, wrapped in cellophane.

A well meaning man to be sure, who did more to help a poor community in his lifetime than most of us can ever dream of. He was an amazing man with a giant heart who surely saved the lives of many. We should honor men like him, we should remember them always for their hard work and compassion. But we should remember them as the men they were.

We should remember that men are not perfect, and like any man, Father Fabretto was not perfect. In his lifetime he owned this little pueblo, he bought up all the land and helped it to grow from just a couple families to the several thousand people that live here now. Today, legal property ownership can be a challenge to arrange as deeds and distribution of land are mingled still in his memory. There are alliances and obligations among the people here as many are “old” Fabretto people; who as children grew up under his wing, watch, and guidance in education and spirituality. In the community now, these people are honored; they are the community leaders, regardless if they are doing their jobs at the Fabretto school well, or if they even have good intentions.

I can only imagine the power of influence Father Fabretto must have had in his lifetime over these people. I wonder perhaps if he, as the man he was, pressured more of himself onto the people here than we know; if he had relationships we do not know about and that those who do know - don’t talk about. I wonder if this community is his beyond mere ownership of the land.

Almost twenty years later, after Max’s death, the people here are beginning the same practices of honor for him. His photo hangs in the Oratorio, on welcome signs for visitors. He is remembered in prayers beginning the day, meetings, and blessings for the new year. Max was a good man as well, he worked hard for his community and for Fabretto, and he was a happy man, friendly and welcoming to all. Max should be remembered for these positive qualities, however, he should not be turned into the saint that they paint him as. The man had twelve children with almost as many women, seven on which are in Cusmapa. He left behind burdened mothers and abandoned children, who in his lifetime he certainly could not have afforded to support even had he wanted to.

Last week Fabretto fired one of the school directors in Cusmapa after finding out he has two illegitimate children in town that he is not supporting. Fabretto decided they can not have anyone like this on staff when we are trying to teach values to children; that our employees are obligated to always be positive examples for the entire community. So while we are honoring one man for this behavior we are casting another away. I suspect, also, that if we began investigating into the personal lives of all our employees we would find similar faults in many of them.

If we honor a man like this, turn him into a saint after his death, what are we teaching the young men here? How can we expect men here to change when they see machista behavior celebrated?

SAT in El Naranjo

02-20-08 El Naranjo with Marcos

My first outing to observe an English class in the SAT program was to El Naranjo, a community a bit more than an hour’s journey away from Cusmapa. I went with Marcos, the English teacher for the program, who I have promised my help with his classes, more because I want to know the rural areas around my little pueblo than because I want to teach more English.

El Naranjo is one of twenty-some rural communities that surround Cusmapa, it is not the farthest away, but it is one of the more remote. To get to El Naranjo you go on a motorcycle to just beyond Angel Tres, another community, on the main road heading down the back of the mountain. From the main road, a bumpy dirt one, you take a turn back up and around the mountain on a smaller and very rocky road, perhaps better called a trail. This trail is steep, so steep that on the moto you move very slowly, often rocking around so much on rocks that Marcos balanced and guided the bike with his feet on the ground. The incline is so extreme that we had to pull ourselves forward as far as possible on the bike to prevent our weight from tipping us backwards and the bike from flipping back down the mountain upon us.

At the top of the mountain the trail ends at a little cluster of homes where we left the bike, paying a small amount to the woman there to care for it while we were gone. I imagine this must be helpful to her, as she lives in a circumstance the same as all the people in the communities. A house made of sagging adobe bricks and sticks, constructed such that any animal or disease-ridden insect can come and go freely through the walls. Worse, the rains in the wet season all come through, leaving not a single thing dry in the house. The structures are small, with dirt floors, and many, many occupants. This woman does have a nice location, however, from the top of the mountain where she overlooks the many valleys beyond.

The hike to El Naranjo from there is about forty minutes straight back down the other side of the mountain. The trail goes downhill fast and is slippery this time of year with all the dust and dry dirt on the rocks. I am curious how the hike must be in the rainy season, especially in its height during October when I imagine the trail must be more like a river. At that time in the year I think many communities are left totally isolated; the people unable to leave and no one able to venture in. The walk is beautiful, though strenuous. Every time the trail switches back the other way there is a new view of the mountains rolling out beyond to Honduras, El Salvador, and the Pacific Ocean.

We arrived in El Naranjo a little early, enough time to gather ourselves, have a drink of water, and for me to play a little with a bunch of kids just getting out of school. In the communities, sometimes it feels like you may be the first gringo the people have ever seen. They stare, mouths open, and won’t answer your questions until you’ve tried for a response at least five times (in my case this could be a language barrier issue). If you take out your camera, they stand like stern soldiers for every photo, giggling in between. And when they see themselves in the camera screen, they laugh wildly, pointing at themselves and their friends and siblings, like they’ve never seen their own reflection before and they’re shocked at how they look.

The class I went to observe is first year high school English, the students are all in their first and second year of high school, twenty of them altogether. Every SAT student is required to take four years of English, as is every high school student in the country as mandated by the ministry of education. The group of students in the class is diverse, as the SAT program is designed to accommodate. SAT (Systematica Aprendizaje Tuturial) is a rural education program that Fabretto is sponsoring in six communities around Cusmapa, now in its second year of five. The idea of the program is that the teachers go to the communities rather than the students all traveling the distance to Cusmapa.

There are no high schools in the communities, public education is offered through the sixth grade, at which point, if students complete primary school at all, they are likely not fully literate. This is where most people in the rural areas end their education, and as they age and never see the written word anywhere in their environment, they lose what little they have and move forward with their lives in the routine of mere survival. SAT is the opportunity for these people to break this trend of ignorance. There are students in the program who have been out of primary school for years, who have families, and are in the same class as thirteen year olds, all beginning their high school education together.

Most of the students are from El Naranjo, with several walking the distance from other communities in the area. One student is a public primary school teacher, he gives his classes in the mornings and stays into the afternoon for SAT. It is incredible to think this man teaches primary school when he himself is not educated beyond the very level he teaches. There are several older teenagers in the class, returning to school after years away. There are at least two mothers, one very young, the other older, whose children waiting outside the building during class wandered in an hour into the ninety minutes. The children of the younger mother, a six year old girl caring for her fourth month old brother, came into the class part way so that the baby could breast feed while his mother took English notes.

The class went well, the students were all extremely attentive and Marcos engaged them well. The program seems like an extremely interesting and rewarding one to be involved in, not only for its many qualities I have thus described, but because the students are all there because they choose to be. Marcos himself is an interesting and talented guy. He is twenty four, my same age, married with a little girl. He learned English, which he speaks and understands much better than any of the Nicas I have met with university English degrees, all from spending time with American volunteers who lived in Cusmapa over the years, and by translating American hip-hip music into Spanish. His pronunciation is fantastic and he can carry a coherent conversation in his second language. After realizing the potential of his English abilities he began attending a university in Somoto on Saturdays working toward a degree in the subject. He just began his second year of study in the five year program.

After finishing the class, then chatting with little Karlita and her four month old baby brother as they waited for their mother (stealing a quick photo), Marcos and I began our trek back up the mountain. I was tired coming down, with aching thighs, but going up my lungs heaved the whole way. Two thirds of the way up, my legs were burning and a little farther along they started shaking. The sun was hot and bright and I was sweating beads down my face. Marcos, with the wisdom that comes with being a local, had the usual Nica bandana, not just to wipe away his sweat, but to drape over his dark hair to cool and protect himself from the sun. I will remember this next time, and a bigger bottle of water too as I shared much of my water with Marcos, who, also in the Nica tradition, brought a bottle of Coca-Cola with him rather than water.

At the top of the hill, we arrived back at the spot with the moto to find that the gas cap was not screwed on; that it had certainly been tampered with somehow and some gas perhaps stolen. Marcos checked the level of fuel that we had and guessed (correctly, thankfully) that we had enough to return home to Cusmapa. We said nothing and continued on our way, silently acknowledging that it is sometimes easier to just let it go. The moto trip back to Cusmapa went a bit faster - down the steep trail is a lot faster than up it, though a bit more frightening for me. Marcos is a good driver though, and I trust him, though he did tell me he fell on the bike just the day before. I hope that I can make more trips to the communities with him in the future. SAT is a great program, I think one of the stars of Fabretto, and I hope I can be more involved in it in the future.

Chiguines

My days here are full of children. They come to the house in the morning and our door, always left open, has groups of them coming and going all day and into the evening. They come in the morning to pass the early sunny hours outside; they come in the afternoon for math lessons, to draw, to play in the garden dirt or card games outside on the patio, and they come in the evenings to chat and draw some more, or to flip through the pages of our animal encyclopedia, the book favored by all. There are several groups that we know the best and visit us often, all together about fourteen kids with several others that come by less frequently.

They bring all their friends, siblings, and cousins to the house. Together they come in the evening and have dance parties where they invent the best moves I’ve ever seen, mixing ranchero swing, salsa and interpretive dance all together. They help you get oranges from the trees, climbing among the branches like agile monkeys while I wait on the ground always terrified. They help to water the plants in the garden and plant cloves of garlic in the earth to grow. If you need bananas, or flour from the venta, they go get it for you. If they know you are alone in the house they will come by to see you so you won’t be lonely or afraid.

They come to take you to their houses for visits there, to toast and grind coffee, to make tortillas, or to review their homework where I always try and sneak in extra problems disguised as fun. They take you to their homes where you can meet their mothers, always standing above the stove, and who no matter how little they have, always offer you a taste, or a fresh cup of coffee always full of sugar. They will tell you the story of their family, and give you the tour of their back yards with their pilas, pig pens and adobe bricks drying in the sun.

As you walk the streets of little Cusmapa, the whole ten minutes it takes to cross town, they holler at you from gardens unseen, from open windows and doorways, passing in the street: “Adios Profe Loren!” Walking by the house in the morning they yell outside your window “Buenos dias profesoras!” or my eternal favorite “Buenos dias amigitas!” (Good morning little friends!).

These little visits light up my days, they fill the slow times with meaning. Still, sometimes it takes no small amount of patience to give of yourself and your space all day to so many energetic, attention-thirsty chigüines. Some days, when the third group shows up at my door, I have to take in a slow, deep breath and re-gather my energies before getting out the next game or laying out the next sheet of drawing paper. I try to remember always that really, these kids teach me more everyday than I can them. I always hope to rise to this challenge and return to them all the energy they give me, to be the most attentive and present companion I can.

Barbas y Piratas

For your chuckling pleasure....

Feliz dia del Amor y Amistad

----> I cut it again yesterday, and now it is REALLY short.

I was given the key to my new classroom today, and it is beautiful. I've got a giant old fashioned green slate chalkboard, desks without missing wood planks that won't give my students splinters, two big desks for myself and a little bookshelf. There are windows running the length of the room on two sides providing so much natural light I don't need to turn on the lights at all...and the windows have glass...so hopefully the room won't be all wet in the rainy season. The room is on the second floor of one of our new buildings...the only two story buildings in town. Pretty cool.

One other bit of fun...Chele, he just has so many fun ideas, told me today that on Saturday we need to put guaro in the garden...(yes, that's moonshine)...I didn't understand why, some kind of pesticide I think. I say one for the garden...one for me...one for the garden...one for me....

Quick Bits of Fun

Chele Mancho told me yesterday, as he was dusting all the plants in our garden with sugar, that doing so will attract ants that will eat the worms that are eating the garden. His very own brand of organic pesticide. I can't wait to see how an ant manages to eat a worm.....oh, Chele...

We had an amazing Sunday afternoon with lots of kids, drawing giant sheets of paper colaboratively, sidewalk chalking, face painting...it was fun, and there are photos on flickr. Facundo and his family all came from the community down the mountain where they live. It was great to finally meet his wife and see all of them together, they are a beautiful family and his wife is incredible. At almost forty years old she will be going to school this year on saturdays to work toward earning her highschool diploma.

In other fun, I cut all my hair off, it feels good. I think I may cut it much shorter still in the coming weeks, vamos a ver. The kids and passersby in the street act like they've never seen me before, I think maybe they think I'm a new gringa in town and that La Lorena must have gone back home to the States.

errrrrggggg

I had meetings for sixteen hours in the last two days. The first day we half spent preparing for the second...and the second day our boss said completely different things than he had the first...he lied to us the first day and then changed his story when the rest of the staff was there. I've never felt so frustrated, Callie and I practically got in a yelling match with him in front of all the educators at our school...and his subdirectors (he is the director of education) just laughed at us. Some days the complete lack of direction, organization, competency, and work ethic are just maddening!!!


I must remember: small steps...baby steps....

Cusmapan of the Month: CheleMancho!

And now, for our first co-written blog (well, Callie-written, I chimed in my ideas here and there), the Cusmapan of the Month: CheleMancho!!!!!!
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"buENNNNNAAAsssss!" Maximo, the happiest man in Cusmapa choruses as he briskly walks past our front door into the budding garden. Lauren and I giggle because every time he greets us, he sounds like a car whizzing past "vvvvvrrrOOOOOOOmmm!"

Maximo, known as "Chelemancho" or "el Chele" by his fellow Cusmapans, is the 40-some-year-old thick-mustached school gardener, and has Lauren and my vote for "Cusmapan of the Month", our new feature series here on blog-land.

Chelemancho's area of expertise, horticultura (gardening), is showcased day-after-day here at the school. He teaches students (and us gringas) about a variety of plants and their medicinal properties, and practical uses as well. According to Chelemancho, if a small cactus is placed in front of your computer screen, it will absorb the powerful and dangerous UV rays emitted from the computer, protecting you from certain doom. Chelemancho also believes that if Lauren and I drink the tea made from flowers of a plant he's cultivated in our garden, we will be "flying airplanes for three days". He sprinkles laundry detergent and chili water throughout our vegetable patch to deter pests and parasites. The dirt excavated from our yard to build a compost pile is currently "frozen" though it has been unearthed for over 3 months (and the temperature here never gets below 50 degrees). Chele claims that the earth must sit in the sun for six months or one year before being used for gardening purposes. He also presented us with some type of sketchy fruit wine which apparently has the power to solve all of our intestinal issues. AND he politely informed me the other day that once our beets and tomatoes come in, if we eat a plethora, we can consume all the oil our hearts desire and it will have no negative effect on our bodies.

Chelemancho lives on the edge of Cusmapa, in a large cabin-like structure (owned by a gringo ex-Peace Corps volunteer who got married to one of our co-workers then ditched town, but not before buying a significant amount of property) which overlooks the valley and communities below, offering the best sunset lookout in town. Chele's "screened" porch includes a variety of entry points for hungry mosquitoes, a single hammock for napping purposes, a handful of halved Coke containers with sprouting flowers, and in baby-blue paint the word MANCHO stomps across one wall. He tells stories of the olden times in Cusmapa, where during the rainy season our half of town was cut off from the rest because there was no bridge. For a few months of every year, he used to live off the land and read gardening books in languages he does not speak.

Chele has recently taken to sporting a navy-blue and white checkered blazer, complete with shoulder pads. We believe the blazer may have previously been owned by an obese NASCAR official. It gives Chele this robotic gangster look that's simply marvelous.

What we love most about Chelemancho is his constant state of glee. He is, perhaps, the jolliest man we have ever met. Even when describing the hardships of life, Chele meets the world with a grin, eyes crinkled at the sides, moustache corners tickling his rosy cheeks. Yesterday, he arrived at our house completely sweaty and out of breath, wheezing: "I've been riding my bike so much lately that now whenever I walk I am exhausted!" and with a chortle, trotted off to water our plants.

Lauren decided to collect leaves from our banana tree to dry them for book-making purposes. Chele, busy as usual planting eggplant and strawberries, sprung from his gardeners stoop when his watch alarm beeped at 5 PM on the dot, exclaiming, "Y ahora, estoy alegre para estar un dia mas viejito!" (translation: "and NOW, I am happy to be one day older!").

Entonces, Chelemancho wins the award for "Cusmapanian of the Month: Febrero 2008" for his unlimited knowledge of the plant world, unrivaled sense of style, the best and fullest moustache we have seen in years, and for his revolutionary philosophy on aging. Now we are off to drink flower petal tea and "fly airplanes" or maybe find a few cacti to absorb the death rays being transmitted by our laptops.

Hats off to you, Chele. May your 5 PM alarm continue to beep-beep for decades to come.

Art! I saw art!

I had yet to see a real art space in Nicaragua so I took my time meandering through the streets of Leon on my way to the art museum....I wasted a full hour of the hour and a half that I had...and when I finally arrived, I had only thirty minutes to rush through the halls of the best collection of art this country must have. There was real art, and lots of it. I could have spent three days there. And now, to go back, I have to spend seven hours on a bus.

For me, to visit that place again, is reason enough to make the trip and pay for the hostel while I'm there. I left that museum inspired and ready to create. I have neglected my creative impulses far too long. I think maybe today I'll get messy with some charcoal.

Surprise Concert and Party!!

A group of Cusmapa musicians and friends surprised us at our door with music last night....they arrived with a couple guitars, a guitaron, a little mini guitaron, a trumpet, and seven loud singing voices. This was one of the best surprises of my life: seven loud and happy serenadors. After coming into the house, after we watched and listened to the first song at our doorstep, they continued to play for more than four hours into the night. A surprise concert in my very own living room. I just never know what is ahead of me in this country; what wonderful surprises are coming. With a sigh, I acknowledge daily just how lucky I am.

Granada with My Family

The visit with my family was great....short, too short, but full. Full of trips to Laguna de Apoyo, Masaya, Esteli, Las Isletas...exploring Granada, Managua a bit. Six days of visits. Six nights of being spoiled rotten by yummy food.

And in that time I got to experience Granada a bit, enough for me. The place is not at all like the rest of Nicaragua. If you saw only Granada you would never understand the way the rest of the country lives. There are restaurants, hotels and shops everywhere catoring to toursits. It is clean, at least much cleaner than any other place here I've seen. It doesn't smell of burning trash. There are still street dogs, thought less of them, and they are well fed. There are people, including lots of children, everywhere selling trinkets on the street, and begging. It feels insincere. It feels like a facade, I think Granada is like a shiny box that is full of rusty and neglected trinkets.

((((The colonial architecture is beautiful. The eaves are carved wood, the roofs are all tile. The main park is pretty and the cathedral beside it is better kept than others in Nicaragua. It is hot and humid, but bearable...not like Managua. The shore of Lake Nicaragua is right there, and the Isletas right off the shore are beautiful. Laguna de Apoyo is very close and is a stunningly beatiful place...a volcanic crater lake. The water is slightly salty from the minerals and feels great on your body when you're in it. Comfortable vacations spots to be sure. ))))

Por Fin!

Yes, yes, my darlings, I know I have neglected you. I have been so busy traveling around this amazing country I have had no time to sit and write blogs....surely you understand. Even the times I wanted to, and had time to, my few days at home these past two months....I could not for lack of internet. So, in hopes of making it up to you, there are several new entries below. Eat them up, and for desert, check my flickr site for lots of tasty pics of my fabulously Nica adventures.

Buen Provecho!

Reflecting on the Loss of Max

01-12-08 Reflecting on the loss of Max

Max was a driver and transportation guru for Fabretto, a go-to guy for when you had a problem, the ex-mayor of Cusmapa, a happy beaming man always with a smile on his face, a man with many women and many more children. Max passed away this week, unexpectedly, of a suspected heart attack. His funeral was in Esteli to accommodate his spread out family. Two bus loads of people from Cusmapa came to pay their respects. A bus load of people came from Managua, and family flew in from the States. The Cathedral in Esteli was full. He was loved and respected, and mourned dearly.

His various women were in the front of the Cathedral with his many children, twelve or so I believe. I wonder how it felt for them sitting together up there, mourning the same man, the man that was not really ever any one of theirs; a man who had families in every big city along the Pan American Highway running from Managua to Cusmapa.

I think the hardest part of going through the ceremonies of his death was witnessing the devastation of his children. He had seven kids in Cusmapa; kids I did not realize were his until his funeral. They crowded around what would become his tomb at the cemetery as speeches were made over his casket, dropping flowers into the earth. Many of them are within a couple years of each other, they are friends and classmates. They all mourned together with tears and hugs, I saw no resentment, though I wonder if it exists between them.

As a beaming character in the community, a star of Fabretto, and a patriarch of many, he will be greatly missed by all.

Rancho Tranquilo, my favorite beach on this earth

01-09-08 Rancho Tranquilo ........Los Zorros...........Tina, Dennis, and Jairo

If you take a bus an hour and a half north of Chinendega to Jiquilillo you will be just below Los Zorros where Rancho Tranquilo lies near the Padre Rama Estuary. Rancho Tranquilo is the home of Tina the Gringa, who moved there from San Francisco when she discovered paradise.

And it is paradise. The beaches are long and untouched. The sand is soft on your feet and there are abundant shells to search through. The waves roll into the shore in long stretches and are soft enough to play all day long, surfable too. The water stays shallow enough to touch until just beyond the breaking pointing of the waves, and if you swim beyond there you can just float and let the waves wash under you. It is a forty minute walk up the beach to the mouth of the estuary where the fresh water from the river dumps into the ocean mixing with the salty sea. There is a long sandbar that stretches out into the opening and is a hang-out for storks standing on their long legs in the shallow water.

Walking or riding a bike down the long, peaceful beach you encounter cows or running horses as often as you do people. The people you do encounter are small groups of kids combing the sand for little crab-crawfish-like animals they use to make soup.

Swimming in the ocean is the most incredible at night under a thick dome of stars. We would go out to the beach as the sun was setting, as the colors move above and around you and the colors of the beach slowly subdue and turn to black. In the black dark, when the stars peak their way out of the sky, even brighter for lack of electricity in the little town, and the electric lights of little fire animals in the water light up the water underneath you - you are surrounded, entirely, by sparks. They stick to your body and shimmer, twinkle, in your eyes. Then you can just dive, and feel every wave wash over your entire body, emerging every time into the sparkling wonderland of the Los Zorros night.

Rancho Tranquilo itself is a rustic home made of bamboo trunks. The wind blows through the cracks and through the entire house; sometimes a pleasant thing, sometimes not. The floors are all sand. There is generally no electricity, not for lack of wiring, but for the electricity rationing all over the country. There is a well for water, all showers are bucket showers. Water for drinking comes daily on a bus from Chinendega. The toilet, Hotel Chucaracha Verde, is a latrine out the back of the property.

I think next time we go, which we definitely will, we will bring a tent. We will save $1 a day and I think it will actually be more comfortable than their rooms. The charms of the place, the fun of it, are the people. Tina and her boyfriend Dennis are amazing people, and their cook and friend Jairo, is fun as well. Everyday Tina teaches a three hour long English class to a group of people in the community. There are people passing through to say hello all day. Staying there, you feel like part of the community, they invite you to see their homes, to walk with them, talk with them.

Jairo is a Nicaraguan who spent fourteen years in Los Angeles. He speaks Spanish slowly and clearly so I can understand him, and he speaks English with an LA accent. He’s big and fat like a buddha, and has one long dread coming out the back of his shaved head. He cooks fabulous vegetarian food, and makes his own yogurt and cheese curds. The cheese curds are a substitute for eggs in the morning for Tina, who is a strict vegetarian, and they are delicious. His family lives on Omnetepe where they have an organic vegetarian restaurant, he has invited us to go and stay there, an opportunity we will not pass up.

In almost two years of existence, Rancho Tranquilo has had sixty guests (we were numbers 58, 59, and 60). I hope the place stays quiet, though I worry it will not be for long. It sounds as though the man who bought up lots of property in San Juan Del Sur, to turn it into the tourist trap that it is, is doing the same in Jiquilillo. I hope that the transformation that is to pass in the future will be one that is environmentally and community friendly. I hope the locals are employed and paid fair wages, and I hope the beaches are not destroyed or divided. I hope that in the end it will still be tranquilo and totally Nica.

Don Gutierrez, tio mio

12-20-07 La Garnacha and Don Alberto Gutierrez

La Garnacha is in the Tissey nature reserve just above Esteli. It is a small farming cooperative that was begun in the Sandinista era and has transformed as needed to survive. They grow vegetables there that are hard to find in many parts of the country (lettuce!) and they also have a cheese making program. The cheese is delicious, and not at all like Nica cheese. They make swiss, gruyere, and raclette.

There are several cabins in La Garnacha where groups can stay for as little as $10 a night, and there is a small comedor where you can have all your meals. From the view point at sunset, you can see San Cristobal, the volcano near Leon, and Momotombo, the volcano near Managua. The view is sweeping and dramatic. The cabins have running water, but it so cold up there (colder and windier even than in Cusmapa) that the thought of a shower is frightening.

Just below La Garnacha, maybe a half an hour walk back towards Esteli, is the home of Don Humberto (sometimes Alberto) Gutierrez. Don Humberto began carving the rock mountain side above his home over thirty years ago to combat his alcoholism, and has not yet stopped. His life’s work, the sculptures come out of the mountain side as animals, religious imagery, scenes from cultures around the world. He says he wants to bring ideas from around the world to Nicaragua, where most people are never introduced to other cultures. The carvings wrap around the mountain. Some are painted, some have text. They are dynamic images, twisting and moving.

He recites poetry to you as you walk and take in the art. He talks almost nonstop the whole time you are there, explaining and describing. His sister, who he lives with, will offer you a cup of coffee as she beams in pride for her clean kitchen. He has many preliminary drawings tacked up on his workshop walls; they are as interesting as the sculptures. His place is a hidden treasure, perhaps my favorite Nicaraguan adventure thus far. I was amazed, and speechless.

Marcos and Christian

12-20-07 Marcos and Christian

Christian, the twelve year old younger brother of my friend and student Marcos, told me today that Marcos has started working. He is helping to carry things up the mountain. Marcos is the oldest of six kids in his home, his father abandoned their family.

Christian, who I met for the first time today, is two years younger than his brother though he is larger and looks healthier. He has his brother’s dark complexion, wide and narrow eyes, and bright smile. He has the same rough voice.

I worry for these kids. There are such bright lights in their eyes and smiles, but in the older ones, the older they get, the more they turn to a soft stare that is deep and dull. Marcos is a smart and creative young man, but sometimes I look at him and feel the weight of his poverty; it seeps out slowly and dully from his eyes. It sits heavily in his expression.

I do not want to believe that at fourteen years old he is beginning what is to be the routine of his life. I do not want to believe that he may never be able to explore his creative potential. I wish I could provide him with the resources to alter his destiny. I feel absolutely idle in my inadequate abilities to create change or momentum.