The Sweetest Gift

Now that mango season is dying down, everyone in Nica is raving about jacotes (ha-ko-tay). The kids in our Cedro classes stuff them in their pockets, pulling down their pants. People on the street push them through our windows, trying to tempt us to buy them. Trouble is, we know better: jacotes just aren't any good. They're super sour and the salt Nicas douse them in just serves to pucker your mouth more. I honestly don't understand the allure, but chalk it up to loving something because you grow up with it, kinda like Americans and peanut butter or Brits and Marmite.

That is, that's what I thought until two weeks ago. Natan Castro Romero is a sweet six year old boy with nystagmus, which causes him to rely on his peripheral vision, twisting his head to the left whenever he's excited. I spent two mornings with him and his mother driving from Chureca to Mascota, one of Managua's children's hospitals. There we waited in lines, got lost in corridors and argued with parking attendants only to walk away with an appointment with an ophthalmologist... in June. You see, in Nicaragua you wait in line just to get an appointment, where you get to wait in line again. By the end of the second day, I was exhausted, frustrated and disappointed, apologizing to Natan's mom because we weren't able to see a doctor. Instead of complaining or commiserating, she thanked me.

Later, when I stopped for gas, she ran to a street vendor. After a few minutes, she came back with her arms full of jacotes, one bag for each of us. It's the first time anyone in Chureca has given me anything. As we rode back to Chureca, I listened to Natan jabbering about the colors of the buses and buildings around us and sucked on my salty jacotes. And I gotta tell you, they tasted pretty good.

Holding Babies and Making Wishes

I keep postdating my blogs, trying to trick you that I've been writing bimonthly, but I'm going to stop that right now. You're all smart people and you deserve to know the truth: I'm a lousy blogger.

Ok, moving on...

I joke that I've become an expert in babies since coming to Nica. I've become quite good at judging whether to ask how many years or how many months the baby has (there is no direct Spanish translation for "how old are you?"). I can coo in Spanish and in English. I know that the little rock bracelets are to ward off the evil eye and that if a baby has the hiccups, all you need is a piece of red thread to put on their little foreheads. It may not all make sense, but it's life here and I love it.

Two babies in particular have stolen my heart for their own precious reasons. The first is brand-new. As I write, Tamara Murillo "has" 15 days and is the newest addition to one of the largest families in Cedro Galan, our rural community. Her grandmother has twelve children and Xiomara, Tamara's mom, is her youngest. Mama Murillo can't tell you how many grandchildren she has but I'm guessing she's rapidly approaching thirty (if she hasn't passed it already). Tessa and I visited all three generations of Murillo women on Friday, first to see how the new mom was faring (she's tired, but glowing), but also to introduce ourselves to our new teeny friend. Her feet are the size of my finger and she swam in the white dress her mom insisted on her wearing. We had our own little photo shoot in her family's dirt-floored house as these are the first pictures anyone has taken of the baby. She has so much promise... I can't wait to visit in the years ahead to see her running around dressed in her school uniform, her hair in pigtails.

The second baby is Manuel Antonio, one of our children in Chureca's child sponsorship program. He doesn't talk to gringos yet, but he has such dark, deep eyes that I know a lot of thoughts are churning in that little head. When he entered the program last August, he couldn't sit up on his own even though he was a year and a half old (he recently turned two). Now, with our program's help, he's gained enough strength not only to sit, but also to walk. However, last week his mom (who's younger than me) told me that because the people in Chureca are on strike (see my most recent post on the child sponsorship blog), she's been having a hard time finding the money to feed him and his little brother Ignacio. I'm scared that if the strike continues, the (literal) baby steps we've made with him will not be enough.

Right now I'm reading a great book called Cold Tangerines. The author believes that Jesus came to earth as a baby because "babies make us believe in the possibility and power of the future." Now, after just celebrating what that baby did as a grown man, I'd like to believe that, too, although sometimes it's hard to see through all the dirt and the smoke.

Love Notes to Nica Part 2: Surfing back into Nica

As many of you read the subject line, I suppose you expected to hear of gnarly waves I've caught or the sweet scar I got from a stingray. Those stories do exist, but they are of other MPI-Nica members. No, my friends, when I surf, it's down volcanoes.

The most active volcano in Central America, to be exact.

Since 1850, Cerro Negro ["black hill"] has had over 100 eruptions, the most recent in 1999. With a landscape consisting of dried lava, sand and rock, it takes about 2 hours to go up [taking into account my midgety legs and the 75 mph winds] and all of 10 minutes to go down. Through a mixture of running and sliding, you have one of the most unique sensations possible: surfing without water, board optional.

Once again, I've seen how snapshots of my life mirror the realities. The first six months, while truly incredible were also difficult and at times downright exhausting. Between learning how to be a teacher, gaining the trust of families in Chureca, and balancing living and working with the same people [not to mention my epic battle with Carl, the parasite], it often felt like an uphill climb. Now we are on top of the mountain, about to dive into the second half of our adventure which, as all things do, will end all too quickly. My prayer for myself and the rest of my Nica family is that we'll remember to look up while enjoying the ride.


Surf's up


Don't believe me? Check it out: http://www.vianica.com/go/specials/9-nicaragua-volcanoes.html

Turkey Day Nica Style

A week before the big day we sat in our program meeting and assessed what we knew about Thanksgiving 2007:

- We could have anywhere from 20-40 people at our house.
- We only have 7 plastic chairs and 3 of them are broken.
- We may or may not have enough serving dishes.
- Matt only eats dessert twice a year... which means we need to make A LOT.
- You can't find pumpkin pie mix in this country.
- Our oven only has one rack. The temperature settings are 1, 2, 3, and 4. We don't really have any idea what that means.

One Week till T-Day: All I remember was a flurry of market shopping, pie making, email sending, favor asking and house cleaning in preparation. We as Manna members were honestly a bit stressed, but happy and excited to be hosting not only my own family [yay Duncans!], but also a team from Vanderbilt, four of Manna's founders with their respective entourages, and just about all the single gringos we know.

12 Hours till T-Day: MPI had a casserole baking party while my family played a rousing game of spades [did I mention the Manna house has no TV?]. We kept giggling, making the chefs run away from their responsibilities to see what was funny.

Morning of T-Day: Vandy leaves for a surfing trip so we could clean and cook without stepping on people. Playing Geoff's Motown mix, my parents found aprons and took command of the tiny kitchen, directing Tessa and me to wash and chop until we could wash and chop no more. By the time we served the meal, Tessa had officially become part of our family.

The spread was incredible. Friends brought homemade rolls, yams, salads [who brings salad to Thanksgiving?!] and desserts. Our house produced a beautiful turkey with gravy [thanks, Mom!], sauteed vegetables, green bean casserole, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, pumpkin soup, homemade dressing and four [count em, 4!] pumpkin pies. For the rest of my life, dinner parties will be a breeze compared to what we accomplished that day.

In a lot of respects, this was my favorite Thanksgiving. No one got snowed in-- although several chairs got thrown into the pool. No one got stuck cooking by themselves-- to pull it off, it truly had to be a group endeavor. Most importantly, no one forgot the reason for the day-- to celebrate friends, family and those friends who have become family. Seeing what we see everyday, we would be naive not to be thankful for such a privilege.

After all, Thanksgiving is so much more than just Pilgrims and Indians. It's not about our past, but rather being grateful for what we've be given today.

Speaking Goat at 3AM

While I was busy trying to permanently kick out Carl [that's right, I named my parasite. He was male, of course], our director presented us with the possibility of living in Cedro Galan [our rural community] for a week. Admittedly I wasn't super pumped about being away from the Manna house while Carl and I were having our dispute, but hey, when in Nicaragua, live like the Nicaraguans do!

To my glee, "Lalo" agreed to host me in their little red house. "Lalo" is the combination of Laura and Oscar who have an amazingly sassy and smart 7 year old named Laurita. Laurita and I, already friends from hanging out at her mom's English class, looked forward to being sisters for the week, playing hours of "ochos locos," drawing pictures for her parents and giggling over telenovelas [Spanish soap operas]. Laura, ever the concerned mother, specially made me food-- boiled carrots and potatoes-- because my stomach couldn't take anything fried [stupid Carl]. While I greatly appreciated her care, I started looking for other food outlets after my second breakfast of carrots.

My host family lived very simply, but happily. Smaller than my parents' bathroom, their home had dirt floors and two walls that divided the space into two bedrooms and a kitchen/living/dining area. We watched TV, prepared meals, and chatted in their four red plastic chairs, the only places to sit. The shower was a spicket with black tarp around it, which, due to the papaya and banana trees around the house, lent the feeling of bathing in the jungle. The mosquitoes swarming around me added to that feeling.

Although I knew it going in, the most difficult part of my experience was the toilet, a latrine [which we shared with four other families] about 30 yards from the house. This meant that if I needed the restroom during the night, I had to find my flashlight and toilet paper, unbolt the lock, tip-toe through two yards and pray that I didn't wake the dogs. Needless to say, the entire area knew when I went to the bathroom. If they didn't hear my entrance for some reason, I quickly remedied the situation by yelping every time I opened the latrine door. Seems that there was a goat who found it amusing to bleat at the gringa trying to juggle flashlight, toilet paper and the lock to the door.

At the end of the week, Laura told me that she and Oscar are saving money from his construction work and her small business selling children's clothes [she's a member of Manna's first microlending program] to install a toilet that flushes inside their home. I told her that I would bake a cake to celebrate the day.

My new realization: indoor plumbing is a marvelous thing.

Welcome to La Chureca, you have a parasite

That is a direct translation of what the La Chureca nurse told me on Wednesday while shaking my hand. I kid you not.

So, to all of you placing bets as to how long my tummy could go before it gave up the fight, the answer is a little under four months. But have no fear-- I'm kicking the moocher out as we speak with some lovely round yellow pills. Take that!!

I just realized that I haven't given y'all an account on La Chureca, where I spend two to three mornings a week. It is the home to the 46 precious kids in our child sponsorship program who are at risk or have been diagnosed as malnourished. One other detail about Chureca-- it's Managua's municipal dump.

Most of you have already heard (or experienced) this, but the emotions I feel when I go into Chureca are hard to put into words. Before we drive in, we roll up the windows to keep the smell from getting into the microbus, as it tends to linger days after our trips. In so doing, we make a barrier between us and the entrance, where truck drivers blaze past pedestrians and solicit young girls for sex and glue sniffers stare at us blankly, their noses covered with baby food jars. Yes, this is a part of the reality of Chureca, but it is not the Chureca that I have come to know.


The Chureca I know consists of Erick, an eight month old baby boy who has his mother's huge brown eyes. It consists of Zayda, who refuses to do anything you ask her, but whose little body throws itself into seizures if she doesn't take her meds. It consists of Josue Daniel Chavez Ortega, who just might have the craziest Communist name ever but is just so cute that you forgive him. These are the faces and the stories that keep me coming in, despite the smell and the parasites. Bring it on... I'm Erin and we've got mouths to feed.
My love to all of y'all,

The Fable of Mabel

This is the story of Mabel Claire, our microbus. Although she is only two years old, her life, like most in Nicaragua, has been difficult. Try as we might (yes "we"-- my friends, I am now driving a stick-shift, much to Daddy D's dismay), Mabel's bald tires can, in the words of a Nica friend, "get stuck in nothing." Here's a short list:

-- AT THE BEACH-- this is where we met the prophetic friend in the previous comment. He came out with his two grandsons in their tighty whities which said "amiguito" (little friend). We gave them cookies as thanks.

-- IN A DRY RIVER BED-- which also doubles as the entrance to the community. I was on the "push team" for this one, along with four teenage girls and an old man with a shovel.

-- AT A HOUSE-- ok, so this one is legendary. We tried to turn in a space that was as wide as Mabel is long... no go. This HUGE dude named "Grande" (not kidding) comes out of his house and breaks bricks with a metal rod to put under the spinning wheels. We thanked him by buying some juice at his venta. It was super sugary, but that's another story.

-- ON A HILL-- not understanding the power of rain in this country, we trapped ourselves in a water run-off early into the trip. Three of our English students helped us, along with a guy in a pick-up. He had on a Vandy "Five-for-Five" tshirt so Dane, Matt and I figured it must be fate.

Yes, Mabel's adventures may not be enviable, but they take place all over Nicaragua and inevitably make friends along the way. The old man at the beach lets us park in front of his house now (it's gravel and saves him the work of getting us out), the girls in the riverbed have told me they're interested in our exercise classes, and knowing Grande has given us some substantial street cred....

I keep thinking that this reads like a Dr. Seuss story, I just don't have the energy to make it rhyme. Oh the places you'll go...

Blessings,