Big Decisions

You know that thing people were posting on facebook for awhile about perceptions of certain careers? It had a series of 5-6 pictures for each profession and underneath it said; “what my mother thinks I do”, “what my friends think I do”, “what my boss think I do”, ect and finally "what I actually do". Well for all those offended by it, I would like to remind you that it is very nice that they at least think of SOMETHING when they think of what you do.

What to do? Friends and family try to be supportive; not ask too many prying questions about the process or make animated suggestions on what they think I could do. They say things like; “Your young! You’ll figure it out” hmmm REALLY? REALLY??? I am not THAT young, even under the new Obama care which takes into account adult children mooching off their parents for longer, I am not considered young enough to be a dependent of my parents.

What does “You’ll figure it out” even mean? “You will figure it out” or “someday you will do something and we will call that ‘figuring it out’?

I am sure that at 26 decisions are to be made. I am not sure they are BIG decisions, but they feel big. What makes them feel big is to see how, the work you do, the people you date, the friends you have, very much mould people’s lives. The other thing that makes them feel BIG, HUGE, GIANORMOUS is that, now, I have so many opportunities available to me (which I am thankful for).

 For 2 years I have learned to say phrases like “If God Wants it.” And “Such is life”, I have learned that life IS disappointing for the majority of the world, that people often do NOT fall down and get back up again, because of lack of energy, hope, freedom, independence, ect. That is not my reality, but learned that attitude and it made its way into my soul.

 I have been ‘home’ from Peace Corps Nicaragua for one month now and I have SEEN how many options there are, I have seen in how many different directions I COULD; ‘get back up’,’ get in there’, ‘work really hard and make something out of myself’. I spent the last 2 years trying to learn to accept the lack of options. and not to demand more. I thought this was overall a good thing for me. Be satisfied with what you have, don’t demand things from life. I thought these principles would stick with me. Then I went to Washington D.C.

In Washington D.C. I attended a career conference and they taught us how to do EVERYTHING right (i.e. resume, cover letter, handshake, interacting at a bar, waiting for an elevator, networking) they even taught us how to use the “right” vocabulary such as ‘in-transition’ instead of FREAKING OUT AND HAVE NO IDEA. Basically, how to get your ideal job (or let’s face it, any job really).

Even though I know they were in the right, there were times I think I felt they were saying- forget most of what you just learned. Unless it is a funny little anecdote, or fits into a 30 second elevator talk, or can be revamped into action verbs like ‘managed’, ‘supervised’, ect. Try to forget all that.

Dress differently, talk differently, and sleep less. Just network, focus on getting to know people you don’t know, who may not care to know you, but just keep writing them and bumping into them and selling your ‘re-vamped elevator speech’ where you widdle down a 2 year service into 10 seconds as part of a personal introduction. 

But, I admit, another part of me was really excited by the prospect of this new challenge. “ I can totally do this”, "I can write a resume, and make the subject line bold!”, "I can get business cards printed!", "I can certainly, talk to people I don’t know!”

Most analogies about this stage I am at in life,  have to do with being on a road or path. “Your at a cross roads”, “Find your OWN path”, “It’s a fork in the road”. I wish! On roads and paths there are usually limited options, limited intersections. I wish there were only 3-4 options. I would blindfold myself and twirl until my finger landed on a direction.

I must say my reality is quite different than a road. It is more like an airport and these phrases no longer feel sufficient to describe the chaos and panic that I feel at times, about what to do next. There are too many terminals, with multiple gates. I feel like I am watching all these people do cool things but I don’t have a ticket. I can’t decide whether I want to go to London with that trendy looking couple who just sauntered into a business lounge, or Disney World with that obnoxious family you are sure you would grow to love, or Hamburg with those Canadian backpackers who are always fun.

Don’t be fooled, usually I feel quite at peace in an airport, I know the ropes and I ALWAYS know where I came from and where I am going. But now, I just see all the options in front of me, I see the monitor with all those red colored words flashing gate information and I just stand there watching, uselessly,  trying to catch the info before it flashes away as quickly as it came. In the mean time, 3 new cycles of travelers have come and gone, seen their destination and headed towards their gate.

There is something about ‘knowing’ or feeling that everyone else has a destination, everyone else knows what’s up and, that makes the whole thing feel SO much bigger and so much HARDER. They all spin such good tales of their paths to success; living in garages, cleaning cars while doing unpaid internships on Capital Hill to ultimately work for the state department, or be the director of USAID, ect. When I hear it, I think “YES! I want to go there to!” But oh I haven’t gotten my ticket yet…

But why do these decisions seems so big and important? I always hear older, wiser people say “I wish I had known this” or “tried this” or “waited longer”, or “not hesitated”. So if ULTIMATELY I will just be saying those same things, WHY DOES IT EVEN MATTER? Maybe the truth is… these are big decisions but you will probably F*** it up so just DO something, because you have to account for your time. There is not space on the precious one paper resume under  EXPERIENCE for ; talked to a lot of people, got a lot of advice and THOUGHT about what I really wanted to do for 1 year while being unemployed and visiting family NO I think you need to fill this year with something you are ACTUALLY doing, whether you also think during that time is fine, but no one wants to see gaps of time for “finding yourself”. Well, at least they didn’t encourage it during the career conference, and they seemed to know what they are doing.

So should I worry so much? Should I call this next step a BIG Decision or is it just choosing a destination, knowing very well that I can purchase a different ticket later if it doesn’t work out. I don’t know, but I am sure some day when I am older and wiser I will say “well, when I was your age…”

Goergina Our Super Star

 

Dear Friends and Family,

I realize this update is much overdue, but I'm very excited to share the news that Georgina, the young nursing student in Nicaragua sponsored by friends and family, has surpassed all expectations!

Georgina is ranked 3rd in her class. She studies SO much. Before I left she had turned in her main project of the year, called a “documental”, kind of like a Nicaraguan thesis. She worked so hard for about 6 months straight. I have never seen Georgina so exhausted, She had to travel to a place called ‘El Cua’ which is a VERY rural area (way more rural than where I lived). She spent about 4 days a week traveling 5 hours there and back by bus with her 2 other group members. Then she still had classes on Saturdays and project deadlines. The topic was teenage pregnancy and awareness of birth control. It was a group project. Part of what they did was promote and educate young girls in rural areas on types of birth control, a very sensitive issue in Nicaragua, which is a very conservative country with a largely catholic presence. 

The coolest part of the “documental” for me was that Georgina herself learned so much. Georgina also comes from a very catholic family who lives in a very catholic town. Before I met her she had never seen a condom, nor did she really understand the mechanics of how one gets pregnant. This is part of the reason so many young girls get pregnant, lack of understanding. Georgina has not only had to LEARN all that stuff, she also HAS TO TEACH it to others. Who is better equipped to teach skeptics about the importance of birth control than a reformed skeptic?

Attending university has taught her so many other valuable life skills (as it always does). She has become more independent, learned how to use the Internet and email, and has traveled on her own. It has increased her confidence, she sees that if she works hard she can accomplish something with her brain, and that her value is not based solely on her ability to be a virgin bride. She has learned how to use the internet and even has email!

I am now in the United States (my life update below) She has been emailing me on her progress. She said that she is now in “practica” which I guess would be like residency here. She has started to see patients and tells me stories about how her and her fellow classmates have to practice injections and assist doctors. She says that everyone wants her to be the one to inject because she has a “steady hand, and does not get squeamish”. I can’t verify that all her classmates want her to go first, but she does have a steady hand, I watched her attend to her dad when he cut himself with a machete, and there was blood everywhere. She handled herself calmly and coolly (while I left the room). I think she does have a natural ability.

Georgina is doing well in school. I am very proud of her, as is her family. I am also very proud that together we made this possible. After my two years of service I still feel that of everything I did, this initiative has had the highest impact. I learned so much during my service but the biggest lesson for me was that the best way you can help is by supporting someone who wants to help themselves. We can donate food and clothes and build schools, but if people don’t want to do it for themselves our efforts are wasted.

Before I left, I gave Georgina money so she could pay her tuition in advance up to October because I was going to be leaving. We were sitting in her bedroom, there are two children size beds on either side of the room with about a yard in between. The beds are perfectly made the sheets crisply ironed (in her life and school work, Georgina is super precise). I sat on one bed and she on the other. We closed her wood slab door with the iron rod to bolt it closed for privacy (only her mother, father, and brother know about her scholarship-we did this two save face on both our parts, I couldn’t provide scholarships for everyone who asked, and she was embarrassed that she was getting help from me).

 I handed her the cash she glanced down and said “thank you” quietly, then she added “it gives me embarrassment accepting this money from you, it gives me embarrassment because I know that it comes form your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, your friends. These are not rich strangers with tons of money, they give money because they love you. I never want you or them to feel like I take it for granted. I will work hard to be successful.” Then she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. May God bless you” (they say that a lot). I swallowed hard (she always says stuff like this and it makes me uncomfortable). I said “I did it because I love you and your family has done so much for me, I don’t know what I would have done these two years without you and your family. I would have been so lonely and sad”.

As you can imagine we both shed some tears. We spoke about the journey of this scholarship. Which felt as painfully real to me as it did to her. We applied to two other scholarships one local and one from USAID before I thought of reaching out to all of you. Each time we were rejected she lost more hope and I got more frustrated. My mom so correctly said that in those two years was the first time I ever experienced “a door being closed to me”. In my life there had always been a way to make something happen, I may have had to knock on a lot of doors, but one always opened. Her life was the complete opposite. Nothing was ever open to her, as a single young woman from a poor family who lived in the countryside, there were not any doors even visible.

I provided the doors to knock on but all of you opened it for her. As she would say “Thank you and may God (or your higher power) bless you”.

On that note, costs for her studies have risen. She has more costs than I initially calculated because of all the travel she has to do for her residency and her materials (she had to buy a stethoscope, blood pressure gage, nurse’s uniform ect) for residency. In addition to those unforeseen costs, the local currency, the Cordoba has decreased even more and it is now almost 25 Cordobas to the dollar, as opposed to 23.5 Cordobas to the dollar, when I arrived. It now costs her $35.00 a month to go to school. Between her father and I we have shouldered the costs and she is now half way through her studies. I was going to continue to shoulder the cost myself, but a very wise woman said “Ask for more money!”

So I’m going to! As I hope you can see your investment has been successful! She is doing better than I expected in school and I have faith that she will continue to do so. Therefore, I will continue to accept any donations you would like to make. Any money that is not spent will be reported and returned (Don’t worry my mom is a good accountant).You can send them to:

Alicia Harvey

11008 Dreamy Way Dr. NW

Albuquerque NM, 87114

If you would like to contact Georgina (and can speak Spanish) her email is Georgina Palacios georginadejesuspalacios@gmail.com. If you would like to write her a note but don’t want to translate it. Email me and I will forward it on to her.

Here is a break down of where the money goes and her monthly costs:

$_8  - transportation for a month from __Sisle_ to _Jinotega__ for Georgina to go to school

$_20_-transportation for a month from Sisle to el Cua for her unpaid internship “residency”

$25__ - tuition for Georgina each month

$_13_ - school books, supplies

As for me, in September I accepted a part time position with a non-profit that is based out of Jinotega, the nearest city to my community. I am working with them on marketing and community outreach. Right now I am based out of New Mexico working from my mom’s house (thanks mom). At the end of October I will be going back to Nicaragua for 5 months to work with their volunteer outreach program. One of my goals is to continue my work with girls in some capacity. Since the position is only part time, I know that I can do it. I have the experience, connections, and now I will have the Internet capabilities. During my service my girls meeting was one of my favorite project. It was weekly and we talked about self-esteem, peer pressure to have sex, the costs of having a child, our relationships with our parents, and how to make friendship bracelets. Often, I danced around energetically trying to explain what the mechanics of sex are, why women are more likely to get infected with HIV, and how to put on a condom/ get a man to agree to wear a condom.

I WELCOME your thoughts/ideas. Actually, I NEED your thoughts and ideas on how to continue work with these girls.

From the bottom of my heart I thank you for all your support to both Georgina and myself. I love you all!

Potato Truck Adventures

Yesterday, I found myself riding in a potato truck. This mostly happened due to a cascade of random events, fate and well you know; I live in the campo of Nicaragua. This simple event brought me so much joy, it totally turned my day around and made me change my attitude and appreciate all the random adventures I have here.

I had been back in site all of two days, when I decided that I needed to get out, because I was going crazy!!! It is all a state of mind, really, I have spent many more days doing much less then I did yesterday, but I was feeling restless, and furthermore a friend of mine had decided to leave site, and was tempting me with the option of going out to dinner and watching a movie, so you see I had very little choice in the matter…

November, December, and part of January are really boring months in my site (I mean life is never super riveting here) but these months are extraordinarily boring because everyone is out cutting coffee, and it pours rain every other hour, people close their houses up when they leave to go out into the fields, and those who stay lock themselves inside to hide from the cold rain and abandoned streets. Even the kids go cut coffee. Both my kids meetings on Thursday and Friday were canceled (not because I canceled them but because no one showed up, and honestly, who am I to say that they should give up a day’s work to come to my two hour book club or baking class).

It was about 3pm when I decided I would try to go. I had been ‘waiting’ for some people to come to my house all day, and had been super lazy (because it was sooo cold, I just wanted to stay in bed, and the persistent rain had me lulled into a comfortable dream state) I read in bed until about 9am when I ate a healthy breakfast of Nuttela off a spoon, after which I returned to bed to continue reading until 1pm when I ate more nutella and some green bell peppers. That had been my day, finally one girl showed up to discuss her application for a girls camp happening in February, called GLOW, Girls Leading Our World. The girls going were supposed to be doing a raffle and having bake sales to earn money to pay for the trip. but no one has come to the last two meetings, and I refuse to do it for them. Grrrr I needed to get AWAY! My last bus leaves a 4pm…I had one hour to pack and close up the house, which is more involved then it sounds. I didn’t want to rush so I decided fate would decide whether I was meant to go, and fate came, in the form of a potato truck.

Now to prepare to leave my house there are a few things I have to do regardless of the rush I may be in. 1. Check that I haven’t left any clothes outside that will get all wet and dirty after I have carefully washed them by hand and moved them time and time again into the sun so they will dry fully. 2. Empty my chamber pot, because that is super gross to come home to. 3. Make sure my food containers are sealed so the little country mice don’t squeeze themselves in there and have a little feast. 4. Fill up my water buckets incase the water is shut off when I get back.

Ok with that done, I have no time to go through the bother of heating water to bathe myself (which I had not wanted to do for the past two days either, due to the freezing cold and rain) nor do I have time to change (plus what’s is the point in dirtying more clothes if I’m not clean), so I leave in my semi-clean jeans, muddy rainboots, and the same shirt I had been wearing for 2 days (which smells like a wood burning stove). I throw some clean clothes and soap into my bag (knowing very well that the shower options will be better in the city) along with my computer (no point in going to the city without it) and my adventure begins!

Not so fast, getting out of the house is only the first process of getting out of my community. I still have to make it to the road without anyone stopping me, and then find some motorized vehicle to get me the heck out of there!

 I walk maybe ten meters and all these people are coming back from cutting coffee (most of whom I have not seen since before the New Years) “Shit” , I realize I am probably not going to escape unnoticed nor catch the 4pm bus. They do the saunter/smile as they get closer and I know this is going to be a conversation, no way to avoid it without being rude. I tell them “happy new Year” and “how did you pass it?” they tell me that they thought I was NEVER coming back, and how can I WHERE am I leave to with that back pack AGAIN??? Well I decide to tell them the truth; “You are all cutting coffee and I am superrr bored and no one comes to my meetings and I want internet!” They surprisingly understanding but they CAN’T let me be bored. They say, “why don’t you come visit us more if your so bored, you are bored because you choose to hide in your house” (well they do have a point there, I can’t bear to tell them I am also bored of discussing the weather and town gossip with them) They invite me in for some coffee and food. I knew I was going to miss the bus, but I decided to go with it, thinking “fate”. I go in, we chat, joke, I eat beans, and scrambled eggs, they tease me for not wanting my eggs fried in a bowl of oil, not liking salt, and not wanting sugar in my coffee. I laugh along (I actually kind of missed it, while I was away) At 4:30pm I leave deciding that maybe the last bus will decide to pass late today after all (sometimes it passes, other times it doesn’t, there is no way to know).

As I walk out to the main road I see a giant truck clearly hauling something, it looks like they are on their way out of my site. Just as I’m walking up to them someone asks, “where are you guys going?”, they say “sebaco”. My heart rises in my chest, hooray, that is past Matagalpa where I wanted to go! It would be AMAZING to get a ride! I would save the 4 dollars in bus money (better spent on food, anyway) and I would not have to get on two separate buses (which stop every meter) and then a taxi! Could this be fate???…

 

It was! I step up into the cabin, squished between to skinny working men with mud covered jeans, and boots, both trying to give me a respectable amount of space, typically silently curious. I try to make friendly conversation but they are as quiet as can be, and honestly I’m fine with that (talking to men here does not usually lead any place good). We ride along, I find out they have potatoes in the back (all covered under a blue tarp) we pull into customs at the city entrance where they tax everyone for bringing in trucked goods, they negotiate with the customs guys and we pass through and pull into a coffee unloading place (weird since we have potatoes…) the driver proudly tells me, “Love, I lied, so we wouldn’t have to pay as many taxes, that is why we have the tarp” he winks. Hmmm, pretty clever.

Above, dropping off "potatoes" at a coffee cooperative. The boy is untying the tarp from the trucks. The sacks on the left are all full loads of freshly cut coffee.

We worked our way very, very slowly up through the mountains of Jinotega, passing beautiful fields of lettuce and beans, trees and rolling hills, and then driving through a garbage dump which had spilled all over the road, people coming home from the fields, machete or saw in hand, hauling firewood, and people digging through the trash looking for bottles and cans, I saw a monkey chained up in front of a house, and children playing with tires, you would think after all this time here I would be used to these scenes, but I think, I often shut myself off to them, too often, I choose not to see or am to overwhelmed to be truly observant. This potato truck adventure had given me a whole new type of freedom.

The truck dropped my off at a fork in the road near a restaurant outside of Matagalpa it was dark, walking wasn’t an option but there was no obvious bus stop (there hardly ever is). I went to the restaurant and made yet another friend, his name was Ernesto, he was 18 years old and his mom had just started renting this restaurant. He took me to where the buses are supposed to stop, and when I asked “is it dangerous here at night” he replied “maybe, a little bit for you, but I am going to wait with you”. What kindness from a complete stranger! And this is what Nicaraguans are like! In the states we think we are doing a good deed if we give someone directions but here they will take you all the way to the place your looking for, or wait with you in the rain for the bus until you get on one safely.

It was dark and raining (in the back of my mind I was thinking, “this adventure might be getting a little sketchy now” but I had Ernesto, so instead, I trusted in all the good of the day. My faith faded a bit as we attempted to wave down 3 different buses, and none stopped. Ernesto said, “that happens at night, the drivers don’t like to stop on the road”. I started getting worried, it was getting dark and we were still 10km from the city, a taxi would have been outrageously expensive and hitch hiking at night in a place you don’t know isn’t my thing. I asked him if he knew anyone on the bus, he said “yes”, he used to work on the buses. Perfect! I lent him my phone, he called his friend, 10 minutes later a bus stops a couple feet ahead, I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, thank him profoundly and I’m off. My adventure completed successfully, soon to reunite with a friend, drink lattes, eat a wonderful dinner of bacon bagel sandwiches, watch a movie, use internet and relax. I send a text to my friend who is waiting “I caught a bus!” and he writes back “good, I was secretly super stressed out because it is so late and dark”. Stressed? Why? What can go wrong when you have a potato truck and Ernesto!? 

"I'm A Stranger Here Myself"

I couldn’t help but think of Bill Bryson’s “I’m a Stranger Here Myself” so many times while I was home last month. Having not lived in the United States most of my life I tend to refer to his book often. I have done a lot of reading on 3^rd culture kids but it never ceases to amaze me that I never feel like less of an American than when I “go back” to “my” country. I flew in to the Denver airport on November 13^th for an unexpected visit home. As usual my system was stunned by all the American odors, noises, and temptations. I had already been back during my service once before in July and so everything was a little less shocking, I had mentally prepared myself for things like the smell of cinnabon in the airport, the multiple TV’s with all English news in the waiting areas, and the bathroom stalls being large and automated. But things still gave me a “homesick” kind of feeling and in a very different way than when I had come back from living in Europe. One major difference being that when I was a kid I knew exactly where I was from… I was from America but I lived in Germany or Holland, I had American parents we lived overseas because of my dad’s job (I had practiced that explanation so many times). This is a big difference I feel now when I am back in the states, people always want to know my reason for not living in “my” country, and suddenly I do not have a practiced response. I have no EXCUSE for not living in my country, this time my parents didn’t make me, I choose to not live here. Sometimes people still take me by surprise with their genuine dumbfounded surprise at my rootlessness; I chose to go to school in Canada instead of the United States, and right after I chose to serve in Peace Corps Nicaragua. WHY would you do something like that?

I would like to make the side note that although ALL these choices I have to make often STRESS me out (they seriously, STRESS ME OUT) all my travels have shown me that many people do not have the luxury of choosing where they live or how they are going to earn their living. The world is my oyster, and it is mostly a gift but it comes with it’s own challenges.

I feel so lonely and out of place when I get back to the states. It feels like everyone has their people, their groups their comfortably designed lives. I do not have a life here, and I never have. I feel most comfortable being “The American” (but you can’t be specialy labeled that when you are already IN America) As a foreigner, I am automatically interesting (especially in Nicaragua, EVERYONE wants to know who I am and what I am about) When I landed in Denver, though, suddenly NOBODY CARED why I was here, no one stared at me, called me gringa or chelita, no one chose to start conversations with me, cause I just look like everyone else (and probably  because no one cares, in an American airport, who you are and why you are there, they see travelers everyday. I never thought of the possibility that I may miss being stared and gawked at all the time. I guess I always took it as normal and I became so accustomed to that way of socially interacting for the first time that I never learned the regular way to start a conversation, the way that normal people do. In the past people would look at me-know I wasn’t from the same place they were, either because of my shoes or my American accent (even in Canada both those things were telling) and they would ask “where are you from?” and BAM I led the conversation, people were always interested for at least 2 minutes and then I could usually hold my own asking them questions when the geography of it all confused them. I am used to being the dancing monkey at social events, and pretty comfortable in that role.  In grade school it was “this is my granddaughter Alicia she lives in Europe and speaks German”. In college it was…this is Alicia she lives in Holland, “pot is legal there!” Now I live in a small Nicaraguan country town and I am SO CLEARLY a foreigner they shout “guuudbye” as I walk down the street (instead of the traditional greeting of “adios” perhaps to make me feel ‘more at home’ or just to let me know that they know, I am not from there. Whatever, the tactic people ALWAYS recognize me as different they come up to me and ask me why I am here and what I am doing. The thing is, that this is not something new for me, since I was 18 I have never been at a social gathering and not had people approach me. Until I come back to the states…perhaps I act proud, but really it is that I am very unpracticed at initiating conversations because I am always the one answering the questions…

What do you do in an airport when no one knows why; it is exciting that you can order a turkey cranberry sandwhich with a chocolate chip cookie, and why you can’t tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel??? Do you explain yourself to people? You can’t even call your best friend on the phone to sympathize because you don’t have a cell phone that works in this country…Tell me, what American does not have a cell phone and can’t tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel??

During my Peace Corps service, I have had some awkward non-american moments among all my American volunteer colleagues. When topics like “tail-gating”, “beer pong” or some specific hot sauce that EVERYONE knows about and miss and I awkwardly laugh along not quite understanding the context. Or when sports seasons roll around and I don’t know that the super-bowl is not the same thing as march madness, let alone the names or locations of the sports teams. The thing that frustrates me is that it is not for lack of interest that I don’t know these things, but because I HAVE NEVER LIVED HERE. There is certain knowledge that is very much assumed when people meet me, a white girl with an American accent serving in the Peace Corps. If I only knew what this information was I could research it, just like I would do when I travel, to be well informed about a country and it’s culture before I visit it, but NO ONE TELLS YOU these things, there is no magic list called “things you would know if you had grown up in the U.S.” (Although you can bet I have mentally compiled one) Never again will I call Staples, Paperclips or think when college age boys say they went “tail-gating” they were closely following behind someone’s car…but all these things are learned through embarassing mishaps where my big mouth does not help the situation but my ability to laugh at myself (learned from being a foreigner all my life) has served me well.

The assumed knowledge people think I have (which I do not) and other assumption people make when they look at me, which make me uncomfortable have also been an important reminder my whole life that you should not assume you know anything about a person just by looking at them. People are full of surprises. The world is becoming a smaller place. To serve in Peace Corps you have to have American Citizenship, I think we often assume we have all these cultural aspects in-common just because we all have American Citizenship and joined the Peace Corps, diversity in Peace Corps and the greater world, is not just skin color, religion, or sexuality, we all bring different knowledge (and lack-thereof) to the table. I may have not grown up in the United States but not every American nor Peace Corps volunteer did, and even if they did, people have different family traditions, languages they speak at home, practices they considered acceptable. So next time you are having a discussion with a Peace Corps volunteer don’t assume they know the magic list of things you think “any american would know” because we are all American and we are all different and that is what makes us so special.

Moving

Hi Friend's and Family I wrote this when I had just moved into my house. It has now been a month and I am loving it! We installed electricity and I am very comfortable. I also just received funding to start my improved stove project and have already built two in my town! It is looking like this will be a busy month! Much love!
 

Moving:

I have moved a lot in my life. I have moved houses in different countries, cities and rural areas, with my family and pets, with friends, with other people’s family’s and pets, and by myself. As a child my mom did most of the work, then as a college student I would usually come up with some “creative” way of moving like; leaving the majority of my stuff on a blanket outside of one of my sketchy run down living situations, where an even sketchier person would pick it all up and- hopefully re-purpose it. I moved every year in college between apartments in Toronto near the University, and once to New Zealand. I moved a lot. It was always different- I was never organized, but there was always a looming deadline, and a limit on what I could take with me; like airplane baggage limits or apartment space.

In all my experiences the hardest part about moving was logistics. So after a year in site when I decided to move down the street to a different house (the equivalent of half a block) you would think it would not be “algo del otro mundo” for yours truly with oh so much varied moving experience.

Not so, it was by the far the most stressful move I have ever made. But thank goodness for my adoptive Nica family.

In no other move have I have never had to be so diplomatic, or make so many amends to “landlords”, try to manage with so much gossip, hurt feelings, and politics. For perspective’s sake; the year before I left for University; my parents separated, we owned our house in The Netherlands (which we had to find renters for) we had to separate and pack-up all of Dad’s stuff so he could move to the Ukraine, and all of my stuff to go to University in Toronto. My mom flew to Colorado with our dog and cat, and my brother and I flew to Washington (not before we missed our plane and my dad had to turn around his packed up car to come “rescue us” from spending the night in the Amsterdam airport). I never thought I would have a harder move than that, but I did.

The actual logistics were super easy, I just had to load up my stuff and put it into sacos, and halar it down the street. I loved my little casita, it was perfect for me, but for months I had not felt “tranquila” there, and had been thinking about moving. After my electricity had been cut off multiple times by my neighbors, and someone had defecated on my front step when I had not paid my rent in time, I decided to move, I figured out all the logistics and told me neighbor (also my land lord) my intention of moving. He was angry. He wanted to know what my “motives” were for moving and for me to sign a paper saying that had taken good care of me, and fulfilled their obligations. He told me that this was going to give them all “verguenza”. I explained he had done everything right and I was very grateful, but that I was moving just because I wanted a bigger place. The next evening, after I told them I would be moving, his daughter came over crying saying “Que larrrrrgooo esta ahora, para mi es un gran tristeza que se va ( mind you; I moved like 5 houses down) In the morning his wife came out and asked if I will still “sell” them my “refri” when I leave, and what would I do with my bed?? And my stove???…Suddenly, my neighbors didn’t seem to care whether I was present, but more if “mis cosas” would still be readily available to them when I left the country.

The flip side to all this difficulty is the family whose house I live in now, lovingly helped me halar my things to the house “a caballo y a tuto” they helped me clean the house to get it ready, put nails in the walls so I could hang everything I own, to avoid those “ratones bandidos”. They moved my incredibly heavy lavendero twice, to make sure it was where I wanted it, and offered to spend the night on the floor so I wouldn’t be scared. Sometimes our real host family is not the one we are assigned, but I feel so lucky I found one that loves and cares for me so much.

The next morning I went over to my old house to ask how they had ‘woken up’, talk about baking together and the stove we are going to build in September, and everything went so smoothly I could not believe it. After I swung by my adoptive family’s house and they said they had 3 surprises for me! 1. They had repaired my rubber boots for me! 2. They had framed the picture I had given them of us, and 3. They had bought the electricity cable to install in my new house, so I won’t have to feel “tan triste y sola”. (the only disadvantage to my new house, is there was no electricity).

I have lived in my new house all of 4 days. I have visited my old neighbors every day, I have had lots of visitors too, who never would visit me at the old casita because they didn’t like my neighbors, my new landlord is the best Nica dad a girl could ask for, and today he came over after working in the field all day to build me a “caja” for my vegetable garden and avoid chickens as much as one can in the Nicaraguan campo.

So as usual my worrying did not pay off. I made the mistake of assuming this move would be like any other. Really! When is any process as simple in Nicaragua as it is in the United States? Why would I think that moving houses could be done in one day, if it took me 3 days just to buy my gas stove. But the preparation paid off, I’m glad I did not spread chisme about my neighbors, and instead found an alternative and told them. It took me over 3 months to arrange my move, from one completely functioning house to another. And it never would have been possible if it weren’t for my adoptive Nica family!

Dear friends and Family.

 As I am home visiting my mom I wanted to give you an update on Georgina's studies. She is doing very well in school and studying very hard. She goes to class on Saturdays but almost everyday I come over she is busy studying! I know it seems strange to only have class once a week but she is in school from 7:30am to 3:30pm all day with a 30min lunch break. The school system works very differently in Nicaragua, but it works better for her because she continues to work at home during the week supporting her family and doing house work. Her first semester's grades were published right before I left. Below is a link of the official grades. Here i have translated the results.

English: 85%
Elective: Pass
Communication: 80%
Mathematics: 67%


https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=gmail&attid=0.1&thid=13886744c8cad8e4&mt=application/pdf&url=https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui%3D2%26ik%3Dd66b0f740f%26view%3Datt%26th%3D13886744c8cad8e4%26attid%3D0.1%26disp%3Dsafe%26realattid%3Df_h4my5v1f0%26zw&sig=AHIEtbQZwzKEhuv90Mfz_TMX6NYmT1GjTg&pli=1

She sent you all a big flowery thank you, "to all the people she does not personally know, but who are so kind and loving to send her money to study and improve her life" she is sooooo grateful to all of you, as am I. Thank you for all your continued support and please let me know if you have any questions.

Love,

Alicia

May Pole- Just a panga ride away

 

May pole is a big celebration on the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua. May is also when the rainy season starts here. I experienced both and it was wonderful!

According to my trusty volunteer sources, May Pole came to the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua with the English and they turned it into their own…I have to say I like their version a lot more!

First you should all know that the Atlantic Coast is the Caribbean side of Nicaragua, and even though the country itself is about the size of New York state, it is very different depending on where you are. On the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua, they speak Spanish, and Creole (which is a crazy mixture of English Creole and Spanish words mixed in) I cant understand it, AT ALL!, but it is probably the sexiest language I have ever heard!

There are fewer volunteers on the Atlantic coast because it has even less infrastructure and some parts are very dangerous. In general the Atlantic Coast is much less developed, the main city Bluefields being the exception. There is also a lot of racism within Nicaragua, and the rest of the country does not have a good grasp of what the Caribbean side has to offer. The volunteers who do live there have worked very hard to try and spread cultural awareness between different parts of Nicaragua through national pen pal programs and educational videos. They organized a fund raiser trip for May Pole which I ended up going to and it was quiet an adventure!

Even though the country is not that big, transportation here takes a lot longer, especially to Bluefields which only has one access road. There are only two ways to get to Bluefields; pay $100.00 for an airplane or pay $25.00 and take a 9 hour bus ride overnight, wait in a terminal for 2 hours, and then you are just a 2 hour panga ride away from your destination. Guess which one I did? That’s right! I am still takin’ the long way round!

Above are panga's and their passengers lined up waiting to leave at 5am

The bus was not so bad because a lot of volunteers went (about 20 of us) so I felt safe traveling in numbers and I actually fell asleep. The way back was way worse! Apparently there is an even longer way to get back if you take a chicken bus (transformed from an old American school bus) the whole way…and during the day…which means so much sun and people selling stuff, and sweaty men sitting next to you lifting their shirts up to expose their giant round bellies, and cool themselves off while dripping all over you. Incase you have forgotten American school buses are not made for fat adult men, and even for kids they have a limit of persons..well not here! As many as can squish in-go.

Anyway, it was still a wonderful trip. Aftering waiting in a boat terminal for the first “panga” or river boat to arrive, and fighting with a large woman from the coast at 3am for trying to charge me double for the bathroom, we slipped and slidded down the wet docks and got on our two hour river boat ride…it is an understatement to say I was grumpy, from two hours of sleep and an argument I never had a fighting chance at winning. But I got some coconut bread and gallo pinto in my system, took a cold shower and rested for a bit in the stifling heat that is Bluefields. The nights were much more pleasant and we were supposed to go out for drinks and dancing but the electricity went out so we all ended up just sitting around in the dark, but I think we all are used to that, and it is a lot nicer to sit in the dark with company then alone!

 My friend Molly and I, waiting for the Panga boat at 5am

I was only there for 4 days so I really had to make the most out of it! The following day I took another panga to “El Bluff” which was just a beautiful island off of Bluefields, completely undeveloped. When we got off the boat we could not figure out where to go, and so one of the passengers offered to show us (this is what I love about being a Peace Corps volunteer, even when you are not in your community you are recognized as part of a network, most Nicaraguans know someone from Peace Corps, and you are automatically accepted as a non-tourist). There was not a soul on the beach and we just walked up and down, after which the black flies chased us into the ocean so we swam for awhile and then got back on another panga to go back.

 The beach at el bluff.

When we got back in the afternoon the May Pole parade had started each “barrio” or neighborhood had a different costume and a different look. They were all dancing in the streets playing the drums, and it was by far the best parade I have ever seen here (probably because there were no scarry looking ‘saints’ dolls being carries around) We sat on the corner, watching the parade, eating a local dish called “Run Down” which is anything cooked in coconut milk, but traditionally cooked with turtle meat, so ofcourse I had to try it!…it was a bit chewy, but good and creamy. However, later I found out that turtle meat is not exactly a sustainable fishing practice with turtle meat, and that it is a bad practice, so if you go! Best have your “Run Down” with fish or shrimp instead…but I am still glad I tried it. J As the parade neared an end we just joined the party and started dancing with them. Men had spray paint cans and lighters….it was like a super dangerous firework show…people were dancing super intensely…grinding on each other, breaking it down, it was mesmerizing. That night we had a big party and stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. It poured down rain, but that did not stop us, we just kept dancing, soaking wet and barefoot.

 Above: My friend Molly eating Turtle Run Down. Example of some of the costumes in the parade.

Dancing in the rain after the parade. My friends Molly, Michaela, Elise, and I.

The next day I woke up feeling completely fine, which greatly surprised me, since I had been drinking the local rum all night… but perhaps dancing in the rain washed everything away??? Anyway we got up early to go to the next adventure in Pearl Lagoon…just another panga ride away! It was about a 2 hour ride in boat that kind of  looks like a long tail, we rode through the mangroves and it was quiet lovely until it started to pour down rain, then out comes this big plastic tarp and the people start putting it over our heads…and so we sat all 15 passengers squished in this river boat, bent under a plastic tarp, listening to the clashing of the wind and the tarp and feeling the big rain drops pound down on our heads….It was such a nice way to make the transition from the big drum party the night before to our next island adventure.

Above: Me soaking wet, after one to many morning panga rides... Bellow: Friends in a kayak in Pearl Lagoon.

Now mind you, a stormy rainy day is not the best weather to go explore lots of tiny little islands in a Panga, but we went any way. Once we got to Pearl Lagoon, we met with the volunteer who lives there, filled up on some trusty gallo pinto cooked in coconut oil with eggs and a hot roll, and we went to go find out about hiring a boat out to the islands. We headed into the restaurant area where the boats leave from (it was about 9am) and there are just a bunch of guys drinking beer. They start asking lots of questions about Obama, and why some states have legalized gay marriage, and what religion we are..these men were wasting no time… but neither were we. Neing the weathered volunteers we are and functioning on two hours of sleep, we through out all the perefect phrases to avoid any confrontational conversation! Biding our time, trying to steer the conversation in a safe direction, we wait to take off on our island adventure.

We are no longer in the safety of mangrove forests but in the open seas on a rainy day.…Big waves start appearing and it was two hours of me wishing I was in better shape so all my fatty parts would stop bouncing around uncontrollably and using all of my bus riding and snowboarding skills together to try and ride the waves through the hard surface of the Panga…people were getting thrown off their seats and most of them ended up just sitting on the flooded boat floor…I held on so tight my arm was soar the next day. But paradise was just a panga ride away!

 Kate and I pulling away from our little island paradise back on the Panga.

The island of the pearl keys are a hidden gem, which I am sure will soon be discovered, but right now the difficult transport makes them slightly inaccessible, and they are still pristine beaches,, with nothing but palm trees. For lunch we ate fresh fish and shrimp cooked in coconut oil under yet another black plastic tarp, eating out of big plastic bowls and huddled around the fire, soaking wet in our bathing suits, trying to explain to the panga driver Jimmy, , that contrary to popular Nicaraguan belief it would not harm us to be wet and be nearby the fire. That night we saw the local night life, of mostly crusty old men (the same ones who had been there in the morning) nursing beers and trying to talk politics. We fell asleep to the familiar buzzing sound of mosquitoes and woke up to the familiar itching body after yet another two hours of sleep. However, this time there was no panga ride in store…it turns out the panga is the best way to go because we left on what would turn out to be a 12+ hr journey back to Managua, full of people shouting their good for sales through every possible air vent and waiting for inexplicable amounts of time to pull out of bus stations, all the while being dripped on by your sweaty neighbors belly.

Would I do it again???? I am not sure… but I am happy I went, and it was the first real adventure I have had outside of my site, and you all know: I am all about those character building adventures!