A Cross-Cultural Exchange

Monday evening—three days ago--we hosted a party to thank people who had worked for the Gateway to Hope Garden Tour, which funds arts camps for Nicaraguan children.

Our evening activity was hand-thrown ice cream. We placed milk, sugar, and vanilla in a quart Ziploc bag, inserted it into a gallon Ziploc, surrounded the smaller bag with ice and rock salt, and then wrapped it securely with sheets of Styrofoam. After 10 minutes of playing catch with this package in the backyard, guests had made their own ice cream.

It was the eve of our departure for Nicaragua, and my environmental conscience was in hyper-vigilant. Instead of disposables, I provided glass bowls and metal spoons. When guests unwrapped their ice cream, we saved the Styrofoam sheets.

Then, the final test: what to do with the Ziplocs? Was I willing to wash and dry 30 of them? I sighed and  heeded my conscience. “Perhaps it’s silly,” I told Larry, who was helping with the party, “But, thinking of Nicaragua, I simply cannot toss them.”When I carried the Ziplocs into the kitchen, four friends were washing glasses, bowls, and spoons.

I joined them. But when I started to dry the first Ziploc, Sandy sent me for a hanger and clips, telling me there was a better way.

Fast forward to our Nicaraguan guest house, where the windows are forever open to the outdoors, the toothpick holder is a reclaimed salt shaker, and the avocado on my plate is picked from the Hernandez yard.

When I wash my hands in the bathroom sink, I think of the one in my kitchen. Above it hang 30 Ziploc bags, ready for re-use.

And above this bathroom sink in Nicaragua, in respect for North American guests perhaps, something new has replaced the familiar hand towel--a paper towel dispenser.

A cross cultural exchange of sorts.

But not one I expected. 

Beginning

It’s our first day in Nicaragua.

But my baptism into another culture started three days ago-- in Pella Wal-Mart.

Hayley and Skylar, ages 5 and 7, had agreed to help me select appropriate gifts for Naschly, the Nicaraguan Compassion child their age, whom Marlo and I visit next week.

I suggested a backpack filled with something to play with, to wear, and to eat.

We set out. They led. I followed

A backpack came first. Style choices were slim: a white, furry cat face, Tinker Bell, or Minnie Mouse. We went with Minnie Mouse. She was larger than Tinker Bell and would stay clean better than white fur.

For a toy, they recommended a doll named Dora in a pink dress. “Her TV show is show is half-English and half-Spanish,” Hayley told me. Dora’s hair was nearly black, her skin and eyes brown. Culturally appropriate, I thought. A good choice by two blonde and blue-eyed North Americans.

For something to wear, we agreed that it would be hard to pick the right sized clothing. They recommended jewelry and hair pretties, and led me to that aisle. Hayley zoomed in on a rainbow array of hair bows and ties. Skylar debated and waffled, then settled on a delicate necklace and ring with a pink hearts. “I know Naschly likes pink, and the heart is for love,” I told her.

From the candy bin, they recommended Whoppers Malted Milk Balls and Mike & Ike Fruit-Flavored Candies.

Mission completed, I thanked them, and we parted ways. I was pleased with the selection, and how different it was from our last visit with Naschly, when we brought markers, crayons, and coloring books.

Back home I removed Dora from her box—and saw that this was Dora, the Ice Princess, sporting white ice skates. How could I explain those boots with blades to a child who doesn’t know snow, let alone ice rinks? I tugged off the skates. This ice princess will arrive in Chinandega barefoot. Bare feet Naschly will understand.

I packed the candy boxes. Will the chocolate coating survive Chinandega heat? I hope so.

I put in the bows and jewelry, pleased because I had seen Naschly wearing similar items.

I zipped the book bag shut. Minnie waved a be-ringed hand at me. Disney reaches round the globe, I thought. 

Then I saw the decorative sentence that rimmed the bag: “DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND.”

I debated. I waffled.

Can I present this aphorism in a culture of poverty?

Shall I exchange the bag?

Diamonds--a girl’s best friend? Ridiculous.

Not in Nicaragua

For that matter, not anywhere.

But, as I keystroke in the Hernandez guesthouse rocking chair Minnie perches beside me. Minnie was, I concluded, the best choice available.

However, if next week Naschly points to those words and asks, “Que dice en Español?” (What does this say in Spanish?). . .

I have no idea what I shall say.

Checking Out

Marlo loaded his stuff into the van before his 7 a.m. tee time.

The codeine has provided sleep. The prenisone is offering morning energy. I finish emptying our room and slip a note under the tip Marlo has left on the table.

“Gracias por limpiar nuestra habitacion y por las conversaciones en Español” (Thanks for cleaning our room and for the conversations in Spanish).

I close the door, check out at the lobby, and sit poolside in the sun, waiting Marlo’s return.

Then, as I’m making a second trip to the lobby to drop off a second room key I have discovered  in my purse, I meet her one last time.

She has found the note. “Gracias” (Thanks), she says, and gives me a warm Latino hug.

"Tal vez nos vamos a ver una a otra el año proximo" (Perhaps we’ll see each other again next year), I say.

As she disappears through the resort doorway, I regret that I do not know her name.

Perhaps, next year. . .

Trusting Remedies

This afternoon Marlo had recovered from his flu enough to golf. I was still languishing in our resort room. The maid knocked and entered.

“Ya estoy enferma, pero tu puedes limpiar la habitacion, (I’m still sick, but you can clean the room)” I said.

I rested.

She cleaned.

We chatted.

She told me her abuelita (grandmother) is an herbalist, and she offered me some remedies. She pointed to the bougainvillea outside the window and said that if I mixed three flower petals with boiling water and drank it, the brew would be good for my cough. A poultice of—if I understood her correctly—baking soda and tomato juice would draw the inflammation from my throat. And alcohol in my naval would draw out my fever.

I listened and nodded politely.

Would the abuelita’s recipes work? I did no online research.

Instead, tonight, I visited an urgent care center and received a diagnosis: Influenza A and bladder infection.

I’m sitting in my room with my own culture’s remedies—codeine expectorant, cipro, prednisone, and tamiflu.

For better—and perhaps for worse—when wounded, I retreat to the comforts of a familiar cave.

Trusting Remedies

This afternoon Marlo had recovered from his flu enough to golf. I was still languishing in our resort room. The maid knocked and entered.

“Ya estoy enferma, pero tu puedes limpiar la habitacion, (I’m still sick, but you can clean the room)” I said.

I rested.

She cleaned.

We chatted.

She told me her abuelita (grandmother) is an herbalist, and she offered me some remedies. She pointed to the bougainvillea outside the window and said that if I mixed three flower petals with boiling water and drank it, the brew would be good for my cough. A poultice of—if I understood her correctly—baking soda and tomato juice would draw the inflammation from my throat. And alcohol in my naval would draw out my fever.

I listened and nodded politely.

Would the abuelita’s recipes work? I did no online research.

Instead, tonight, I visited an urgent care center and received a diagnosis: Influenza A and bladder infection.

I’m sitting in my room with my own culture’s remedies—codeine expectorant, cipro, prednisone, and tamiflu.

For better—and perhaps for worse—when wounded, I retreat to the comforts of a familiar cave.

Spanish—and Judgment—at a Phoenix Resort

Our first day of an Arizona getaway, at noon, we were sick abed with flu. A maid knocked. Marlo staggered to the door. I listened from the bed.

“Habla Ingles? (Do you speak English?)” he asked the maid.

“Solo Español, (Only Spanish)” she answered.

He croaked out a few Spanish sentences.

“Estamos enfermos. (We are sick)”

“No necessita limpiar el cuarto. (You don’t need to clean the room.)”

“Pero queremos toallas limpias,” (But we do want clean towels.”

The next morning, I manage to stagger to breakfast with our fellow vacationers. Between coughing spells I narrate yesterday’s incident.

One tablemate says she doesn’t understand why, in a position like that “they” don’t master some basic English.

I take exception,too fast and too dogmatically, I’m afraid.

“After struggling through learning Spanish as an adult, I have more sympathy for that,” I say. “Learning a language is slogging hard work—and not everyone has that capacity. . .”

Nicaragua is still teaching me to sidestep cross-cultural snap judgment.

 God grant me the grace to offer the same to people from my own culture.

That’s taking me much longer.

The Checklist and the Hammock

Since arriving home, I’ve been oh-so-effective-and-efficient:

• Unpack van. Check.
• Listen to phone messages. Respond. Check.
• Start laundry. Check.
• Assess food supplies. Start a pot of soup. Check.
• Buy groceries. Check.
• Sort an 18-inch stack of mail. Check. . .

It’s mid-afternoon Satuday. The suitcases are stowed, the groceries shelved, the laundry hung. Each room is in order, except my office. It is cluttered with trip memorabilia, receipts, sorted mail, and 10 book manuscripts asking for evaluation.

Poised above the clutter sits the shelf I blogged about yesterday with its owls, serenity prayer, and Nicaragua fabric.

I enter, prepared to attack.

I pause.

I remember.

And instead, I turn my back. . . 

Notebook in hand, I’m lounging in a hammock in our backyard gazebo. The winter sun has warmed it to a cozy 70 degrees.

And when I put down this pen, I shall pick up a book from the dropleaf table next to me, and I shall read. Perhaps I’ll fall asleep.

Born a North American Calvinist, I have long known the value of a list.

A recently adopted Nicaraguan, I am still learning the value of a hammock.

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PS while uploading: I didn’t fall asleep. But when I stopped reading,  the burr oak branches and blue winter sky rained down peace.