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.

On Stuff

Last year, returning from Nicaragua, I thought I owned too much stuff—and valued it too highly. My role models were Daniel and Darling Aragon who had given to their church and school the land they’d purchased to build a home.

This first morning after returning home, I’m looking at the stuff above my office work station.

And remembering.

I purchased the brass owls one by one from my father. After retiring, he rescued brass items from Goodwill stores and garage sales across the country, polished them, and resold them—mostly to his children—after a long ritual bargaining about the price. When he learned I liked owls, he looked especially for them—and tried, unsuccessfully, to raise the price. At 86, he’s stopped collecting brass—and plays computer games instead.

This morning as I view the owls, I remember and I smile.

The book with is my own garage sale find—an ancient book rescued and repurposed, with the Serenity Prayer added on an open page: God grant me the Serenity to accept those things I cannot change, the Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference.

Wise words, this morning and always.

The mauve, embroidered fabric was added just last night. Hotel owner Iliana presented it to me when we left. “A gift,” she said. In our week’s stay, we had become more than customers; we now were friends. Touched, I gave her an autographed copy of On Mended Wings.

This morning, as a backdrop for the owls and the book, it widens my world.

This morning, returning from Nicaragua, I think this stuff lives out its rightful place.

For Five Weeks . . .

This morning, for the first time, I donned a long-sleeved shirt.

For more than a month, I have worn only short-sleeved clothing—selected from a suitcase

Except for my ancient Timex, I have worn no jewelry, not even my wedding ring.

I have awakened to the sound of roosters, dogs, or traffic.

I have stepped outdoors into warm air, bright sun, and cloudless skies.

I have walked under nine-foot poinsettias, bright with blooms.

I have traveled by foot, bus, and taxi, while our van sat motionless in a Miami parking lot.

On the roads along with cars were walkers, bikers, motorcyclists, and horse-drawn carts.

Daily I have eaten beans or rice or fried plantains.

And also pineapple, bananas, and mangoes, fresh from the tree.

I have used hand-sanitizer before each meal.

I have disposed of bathroom tissue in a wastebasket.

I have been a member of a Caucasian minority.

I have spoken Spanish.

This morning I donned long-sleeves and a ski jacket, ordered oatmeal, in English, at McDonald’s, and departed in our mini-van.

West Virginia I-64, flanked hills of evergreens, has only cars and trucks.

Yesterday we drove in snow. This morning, the sky is grey.

Tonight, for the first time in a month, I shall take pajamas from a dresser drawer.

For better and for worse, I shall be home.

McDonald’s, 7 a.m.

In Charleston, West Virginia, our Red Roof Inn charged $20 less than the nearby Super 8, but did not provide breakfast.

So we stop at McDonalds, order oatmeal, yogurt, and orange juice

We’re waiting for our order when a morbidly obese man waddles in. The wind has blown his shirt above his belly, exposing an eight-inch triangle of flesh. as he tugs it back in place, I watch.

Then, remembering how I noticed people notice me on the streets of Chinandega, I look at the floor instead.

He gets in the order line, pauses, and then turns and approaches me.

I gulp.

He did notice! I’ve been outed—my judgmental ego exposed in McDonalds while waiting for oatmeal. I have no choice, though. I raise my eyes to meet his.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says. “Your shoelace is undone—I wouldn’t want you to trip on it.”

Welcomed Home

In the Miami airport, waiting our turn in the line of returning U.S. citizens, I look around. Marlo and I are the only Caucasians among the 200 returning citizens.

And each of us hears the same words from the immigration officer when he checks our passports and lets us in: “Welcome home.”

It is good to be home.

But home looks strange. The houses are huge and far apart and sealed with glass. All dirt is covered by grass, shrubs, mulch or cement.

When we arrive in Raleigh, our granddaughter Elise smiles and grabs our fingers—two brand new skills.

Her mother looks tired. It’s been a tough week for her as her school’s vice principal, she says.

Yesterday a knife with a six-inch blade fell from one student’s backpack. He had told a classmate the day before he planned to stab his teacher. He was suspended.

Last week she evacuated a classroom when a student threw a chair. Before he’d been controlled he had trashed the classroom, hurling lunches, books, and more chairs before he was restrained.

Our daughter-in-law is vice principal for an elementary school.

And the grade level of these two students is (brace yourself):

 Kindergarten.

Taxi Preacher

Miguel

For three years now, Miguel has been our Managua taxi driver. The first year we knew just three words in his language—hola, adios, and baño. We communicated with hand signals and translators.

Last year, he listened to our description of Dallas the day of our takeoff: helado del cielo. He didn’t laugh or even correct us. It was not until the next day Marlo discovered he had described the sleet in Dallas, not as ice (hielo) but as as ice cream (helado) falling from the sky.

On a trip to Chinandega, we all both laughed as he taught us to roll our r’s for words liked carraterra (highway).  The double r’s need much more trilling of the tongue than the single r’s, he told us.

This year, on that same two-hour trip, he took his wife along. She doesn’t often leave Managua, and she could provide him company on the trip back. I showed her photos of our family (including of course our infant granddaughter). We learned that they, too, have three sons and just one granddaughter, age 12. They worship in an evangelical church. “Pentecostal”—they said.

When we bought ice cream bars for all, he chose a bottle of water instead.  “Diabetico (diabetic),” he explained.

Each trip he has been patient, friendly, and genial.

He 8s the same this morning. He tells us that, at 7 a.m., we are his second clients. His cell phone rang at 4 a.m.—some North Americans needed to catch a bus to Honduras and had forgotten to arrange a ride the day before. They are new clients, he says. After this trip, he plans to shower, shave, and get ready for worship.

We tell him about our visit last week to the basilica in El Viejo—the beauty of the cathedral and the flowers for the wedding scheduled for that evening.

“Jesus es el unico sendero al Señor” (Jesus is the only path to God),” he says, as if from a pulpit.

His tone and words befuddle me. Where on God’s good earth did that come from?

And then I guess. “Nunca Maria? (Never Mary?).

“Si!” he says.  He also crosses himself, touching forehead, chests, and shoulders and shaking his head no. He repeats with even more emphasis “Jesus es el unico sendero al Señor.”

Apparently, this genial Managua taxi driver has his hot buttons.

And we have just pushed one of them.

In Search of a Bottle

This morning there was no electricity at the Hernandez residence. It was no big deal. This most often happens before mid-afternoon, Leyda told us. We made do.

Marlo and I had our daily dose of gin—he’s now ahead by 30 games.

Except for a few items, we packed our suitcases for tomorrow’s return flight. Miguel, our taxi driver, wil stop for us at 7 a.m.

Then, we head for the outdoor swing and sway in silence among the trees and breeze and flowers and sky. In this moment,  I want to say with Goethe, “Linger on. You are so fair!”

Pastor John Lee, who coordinated team trips to Nicaragua for several years, once told me that displacement to another culture is prime learning time. Life appears in clear capital letters. Cultural rubs can be transfiguring.

I don’t want to remain longer in this country of transfiguration. I am ready to head home.

However, I do want to take it with me. And I’m afraid it can’t be packed or bottled.

Or can it?

Ignatius advises savoring these moments of consolation. Then, when desolation looms, he suggests recreating them in memory.

So  I linger, savoring the sun and breeze.

As Marlo calls from the Hernandez doorway that electricity—and Internet—are back, I head indoors. But first I place this moment carefully within my heart.

From time to time, I shall return in secret to this garden—and be consoled.

Reaching My Limit

Granada maids annihilate mouse

Nicaraguans have a peaceful relationship with birds. Doves have flown in above us several times during worship services. During one, a dove rested on the altar before departing. Each bird flight was ignored by everyone, except for us.

Here, in the open-to-the outdoors kitchen of the Hernandez guest house, and occasional pigeon perches on the floor, pecks a few crumbs, and then waddles toward the door, without any sudden shooshing by the cook.

Not so with mice. 

When Marlo spotted a mouse on tiled floor of our Granada hotel, the maids were ruthless. Each grabbed a broom, and they attacked. They killed it handily, swept it up, and disposed of it. There were no girlish screams or climbing on chairs, just a few chuckles and an efficient disposal.

Tonight, Josiel Hernandez was on the stairs, phoning in a reservation for us at a Carlos and Luis Mejia Godoy performance, when I saw something flit past him. He glanced up and kept on talking. Reservation complete, Marlo told him something had flown by.  “Oh, that,” he said dismissively, “that was a . . . a. . .” 

He couldn’t think of the English word.

So I supplied it.

“A bat?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

He put his cell phone in his pocket and nonchalantly headed toward his room.

In Nicaraguan taxonomy, this winged rodent is, apparently, a bird.

Hmmm.

I know that these winged creatures have their role in God’s great world.

And I’m willing to be cross-culturally sensitive.

But I have limits.

As I sit in our bedroom with the door hermetically sealed against invasion,I hold this truth to be self evident:

It matters not what Nicaraguans think about a bat

It was, is, and forever shall remain . . . a rat.

Bathrooms Around the World

I’m in the Nehemiah Center kiosko (gazebo) chatting with a North American woman who has spent several years on a farm in a jungle. I tell her that my strongest impression of a jungle comes from The Poisonwood Bible.

A fellow book-lover, she lights up. “And my strongest memory of that book is of the African husband who is soooooo glad to leave the U.S. after a few years because he HATES indoor bathrooms. He knows that inside a house is NOT a proper place to do your ‘business.’”

And with that, our conversation becomes a runaway freight train.

I remember the Nigerian who asked Marlo at a European conference if it would be appropriate for him to “make water” among the trees in the adjacent yard. Marlo replied that he didn’t think so.

She tells me that people from countries which have only hole-in-the-floor squat toilets are horrified by the idea of sitting on a toilet previously occupied by someone else.

I remember the British traveler grossed out by  the bathtub and the toilet in our hotel being in the same room. 

And I remember my friend Rose Daining telling me that Nigerians greet others only with one hand (I think the left) because the other hand is used for toilet duties.

We laugh together, but not in judgment.

The laugh is on all of us—What fools we mortals be!

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P.S. Last year’s bathroom blog [ http://nicaraguajourney.blogspot.com/2011/02/to-flush-or-not-to-flush.html] set a Nicaragua Journey blog record for hits. I’ll be curious to see if this year’s blog readers have the same impeccable tastes.

On the Other Hand. . .

Yesterday, I received a wistful email from a North American friend in response to this blog. He wrote that he longed for worship under the stars, was searching for the beautiful questions, and then concluded, “So today I pray for the light air of Nicaragua to reach the stuffy confines of my study here in Iowa.”

Yes, for me, Nicaragua, does provide fresh air. On the other hand. . .

Yesterday at the Nehemiah Center, a North American who coordinates assistance for Nicaraguan Christian schools, schools that need to meet many criteria to qualify for aid. He told me of schoolrooms he helped build that now stand empty, despite his organization’s careful process. The school’s scholarship program from a siter church in Nicaragua died, and so did the enrollment. “Things are not always what they seem,” he said.

Another North American couple is considering moving to Nicaragua after six years in Bolivia where they have been working with rain forest farmers. They had success there—sort of. In those six years, the local farmers prospered, and two years ago, with North American help, a church was built. But as the farms prospered, the farm families moved to the nearest city—two hours away. “You can’t blame them,” the couple said.  “The city has electricity, and running water, and high schools.” So the families live in the city and the farmer fathers join them on weekends. Sundays the church is almost empty.

Mario, a Nicaraguan aristocrat in Chinandega was warm and friendly, but skeptical. “Give money to a beggar—who have you helped? No one.  It will be used for alcohol or drugs.” We nodded. Sometimes helping hurts.*

We told him a bit about the Nehemiah Center philosophy—systemic change on many fronts—in hearts, churches, families, business, government. . .

Mario, who lost 2,500 acres in the Sandinista revolution chuckled. “Good luck!” he said. He told us of foreigners who bought Nicaraguan land and build houses with thick walls, aluminum roofs, and tiny windows. In this hot country, they were uninhabitable ovens.

I once read that there is nothing so obnoxious as a recently converted anything. I remember those over-the-top gringos at TipTop our first day in Chinandega [http://nicaraguajourney.blogspot.com/2012/01/today-rant.html}. With them I may be part of a God’s monumental story, but today I know again that I don’t want to mirror them.

So, for the record and for my wistful friends, here it is: working in Nicaragua, too, has its fair share of stale and stifling air.

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*An excellent book on this subject: When Helping Hurts: How to Alleviate Poverty Without Hurting the Poor. . .and Yourself  http://www.whenhelpinghurts.org/

Chinandega Then and Now

Marlo gets a Chinandega haircut

Nine days ago we arrived in a strange city: Chinandega.

That first day, when we walked the five blocks to Parque Central, heads turned. We wondered if it was our white skin or our unusual height. Probably both.

Some Chinandegans stared; others cast shy glances, then looked away. A few beggars held out their hands, their faces carefully sad, and talked of the need for food or for an insulin injection for a diabetic child. The rest of the people lining the sidewalk—tending their shops or visiting with friends—were politely silent.

But each day, as we walked the route and stopped for lunch or bought ice cream, bridges began. The waiter at TipTop—each day the same man, Emilio—asked why we were here and we explained.

The barber who cut Marlo’s hair took his photo in the barber chair (we think that Marlo was his first gringo customer). And then every day we passed his shop, he waved and smiled and said, “Hola, amigos.”  We waved and smiled back.

The women in the Eskimo ice cream shop taught us the names of flavors—and I think we tried them all. Our favorite: rom con pases (rum with raisins).

A man in a doorway stopped us with, “Hello! I speak English.” He told us he lived in Miami 30 years, working as a pilot and recently retired to Nicaragua.  “It is my home,” he said.

He offered to drive us anywhere we needed to go in his pickup. We thanked him, but although we saw him several times thereafter, we never took him up on his offer. (We don’t know the culture well enough to know if his offer was serious. Besides, taxi rides are cheap.)

Along the sidewalk these nine days, we have become familiar figures. The vendors on our daily route now smile and say, “Hola.”

Yesterday, we told Emilio and the ice cream vendors it was our last day. And, for the first time, Marlo put a coin in a beggar’s outstretched hand.

Today, as we leave for the Managua and the Nehemiah Center, Chinandega is no longer strange. We are with friends: chief among them are our hosts at the hotel, Don Mario and Doña Iliana.

So, as we leave, we don’t say “Adios” (Goodbye).

We want to see our Chinandega friends again.

So, instead, we say, “Hasta luego” (Until next time).

----

PS: That ending rang with too much of a conclusion. 

Be forewarned: there are still six days in this year’s Nicaragua journey—six days in Managua at the Nehemiah Center.

Stay tuned!

Breaking Barriers

This morning we worship just three blocks from Don Mario Hotel at Iglesia Santa Ana.  A hymn is in progress when we arrive. The song leader has a trained and resonant voice. Three grade-school children read today’s Scripture with slow dignity. We recite the Apostles’ Creed. Several children are baptized.

And when it is time or the message, the pastor speaks slowly, clearly, and more softly than the rapid-fire, loud-voiced pastors I’ve been hearing daily since I arrived. Today’s message: Jesus taught differently from the prophets. They received God’s messages and told them to the people. They had no authority of their own.  But Jesus was different. He had authority. He was the Son of God. . .

When this pastor preaches, for the first time in Nicaragua, I understand the Spanish message. It is ironic, Calvinist Protestant that I am, that this better understanding happens at a Catholic Mass. I know, I know, Central American Catholicism has its share of shortcomings. But this morning I am grateful to be here.

Last week, when I ranted about two overly-zealous North American Evangelicals, John Schuurman responded with wise words. I am reminded of his words today, that the church is a “finely cut jewel with a million facets -- OK some parts crudely cut and annoying in the extreme -- but part of a big, big thing.” And this service is one part as well.

Of course that “big, big thing” is bigger than the church as well. I think of the loud circus of North American politics I’ve been watching from afar the past three weeks.

I know less of the language of politics than I do of Spanish. In Spanish I’m a todder; in politics an infant.

But I wonder if perhaps we would be wise to read Scripture—again and again--with the slow and careful dignity of those three children in this morning’s mass.

And then to speak more slowly and more softly.

I wonder.
----
P.S. Half an hour later.
We return to our hotel after Mass, and Iliana tells us she normally attends Santa Ana, but with her sister went to Mass at a different church this morning. "The priest speaks very vast and the acoustics are bad," she said in Spanish. "I didn't understand a single word."

Note to self: beware of hasty generalizations.

Sacred Space

Basilica in Viejo

Iliana, who owns our hotel along with her husband Mario, has  told us she is Catholic. She said she attends mass every Sunday and says the rosary every morning. She said that Mario never attends, but that he is a good man.

Iliana and Mario once owned 2,500 acres, but lost them during the revolution. They took refuge in Honduras and Costa Rica for years, until Violetta Chomorro was elected. They returned to Nicaragua penniless, and step-by-step have created Hotel Don Mario.

Iliana told us few days ago about a basilica in Viejo, a village 3 kilometers from here. A basilica, she told us, is more beautiful and more important than a mere cathedral. The basilica in Viejo is one of only three in Central and South America. She offered to show it to us.

Today our morning is free, we accept her offer, and she flags a taxi. When the taxi driver quotes a price to Viejo, she says it is too much and he accepts a lower fare of 50 cordobas ($2.00).

From the outside, Basilica Senora de Concepcion looks even older than its 450 years— its white walls turning black with age. But its interior is a wonder. See for yourself [more text follows the 3 photos]:

The altar is bedecked with roses and greenery, in preparation for the wedding of an important Chinandega family. “Muy, muy rico” (very very rich), she says. She tells us that later today, flowers will also line the aisles and flow forth from the church.  The fiesta (party) is being catered by an exclusive Managua restaurant.

Yes, she knows this family. She knows all the families of Chinandega. She grew up here.

Iliana points to the altar below the flowers. “Real de plata (real silver),” she says. And the gold, pearls, emeralds, and rubies in the virgin Mary’s halo are real as well.  This basilica is important to all of Nicaragua, and people come here from every part of the country.

Her voice grows hushed and reverent. She talks of the basilica’s patron saints, shows us the baptismal font, the holy water. She dips her fingers in the water, crosses herself with it, then dips her fingers again and sprinkles droplets on us. “Agua de benediciones” (water of blessing), she says.

And, as the droplets cool my skin, I join her awe for one rare and shining moment—a thin place in which I sense the great beyond.

I do not revere saints and relics in the same way as Iliana. So I don’t know exactly why, but before I leave, I dip my fingers in the water of blessing on my own.

This much I do know:  in this land of heat and noise and dust and poverty, Basilica Senora de Concepcion is indeed a holy place.

Streets and Taxis

Chinandega Taxi (Know the make of car? Tell me!)

Taxis abound in Chinandega. We’ve taken taxis several times a day and never waited more than four minutes for one. 

They have no meters—for distance or for time. A taxi ride anywhere in this city of 60,000 people costs the same—10 cordobas per person (40 cents) by day, and 15 cordobas (60 cents) at night.

The taxis are some tiny brand of car that I don’t recognize—and cram in extra riders as they go. The rule is first in—first out. So, we have taken trips to the south end of town before heading to our northern destination.

The drivers are friendly, but they don’t speak Spanish—at least not the same slow carefully articulated Spanish that our Granada teachers did.  It’s more like Spanish at 100 words per second with a mouthful of marbles. It’s a fair trade, I guess. They don’t seem to understand our Spanish either.

But when we show them the printed name of our destination—and the directions how to get there, they know where to go. Most of the time.

Sometimes one shakes his head, doesn’t know that destination and drives on.

The reason? In Chinandega the streets have no names. The buildings have no numbers. Destinations are described by distances from landmarks, for example, “100 meters  up and 200 meters north of Santa Ana church.” If the driver doesn’t know the landmark, he shrugs his shoulders and drives on.

The streets, as far as we can tell, are all one-way—without a single one-way sign. As far as we can tell, you read the flow of the never-ending traffic in place of signs.

Building owners construct, maintain, and clean their own sidewalks—some cement, some tile—of varying heights and in varying states of repair.

By my novice assessment, this city has a shortage of infrastructure—and in place of governmental systems has evolved a down-home system that limps along from day-day.

A few days ago, I read John Suk’s case for paying taxes (http://faithisntwhatyouthink.blogspot.com/). Sitting outside our Chinandega hotel tonight, I am surprised at how much I agree with it.

Tonight I comprehend John's blog. 

I doubt, however, that I will ever understand a driver of a Chinandega taxi.

On Cocoa Krispies and Water Drops

Naschly (left), Brisia (right), and the Choco Krispis (center)

Today is the day we see Naschly, a Chinandega six-year-old we sponsor through Compassion International. A Compassion van with a driver and host/translator takes us from our hotel to the host church, Iglesia de Dios Central.

As the program director shows us the church she tells us that 120 children are in the program that started just last year. After school, three days each week, they receive a meal and additional education. We are the first sponsors to visit. We learn that only about 10 percent of sponsors are able to make in-person visits. The children are not here—it is a Nicaraguan vacation day.

We go to Naschly’s home where she lives with her mother Angela, an older sister Brisia, grandparents, and an aunt. We learn en route that she asked to wear the sandals and dress she bought with her birthday present from us. We knock and Naschly appears shyly behind the bars—wearing an immaculate white dress, blue sandals and matching blue hairbands. 

After introductions we chat—seeing pictures she has drawn, showing her photos of our family, talking about favorite colors, learning numbers and letters, and she gradually warms. Her mother gently coaches her with appropriate questions and polite answers.

She looks into the gift bag we brought, and takes out the crayons, pencils, coloring books. . . When we tell her that the two bracelets are so she can share one with her sister, she immediately passes one on.

We go to TipTop for lunch with all family members except the grandparents, who decline. Grandpa is on duty as a taxi driver, and Grandma feels more comfortable at home. We laugh about antics with Ani-Lapiceros (animal-topped pens that come with the children’s meals).

Marlo asks our Compassion host about other options. We cannot give money, she says, but some sponsors take the family grocery shopping and pay for the groceries.  An appropriate amount? She suggests $25.  Pali, a local grocery chain is just a block away.  Hand-in-hand we walk past a park that Naschly says she plays in sometimes. Naschly's mother and the Compassion director ask to have their picture taken with Marlo because they want to see what they look like next to him--they're two heads short than he is.

At the grocery store, Angela buys staples such as rice, sugar, flour—and one splurge: the Cocoa Krispies Naschly requests. From her perch in the cart with her sister driving it, Naschly hugs the cereal box, and grins when I take a photo.

Angela is careful not to overspend. When the cashier rings it up, it totals only $20. We take them home, take photos all around, and hug goodbye.

I confess: when I have looked at Naschly’s picture on our refrigerator, I have at times felt noble.

But not today.

Today as we drive away  I feel . . .I don’t know . . . numb, I guess.

We do so little. Naschly’s grandparents took her family into their home when her parents separated. Her grandfather drives taxi 6 a.m. to 8 p.m.  Every day Angela does laundry and ironing for others, to earn some money. The teachers in the Compassion program volunteer their time three days each week.

But, tiny though we be, we have our place.

In a Facebook message to Kathie Evenhouse today, feeling blue, I called it a drop in the bucket. She reminded me that lots of little drops add up.

And that reminds me—there are 10 children still unsponsored at Iglesia de Dios Central.

And when we return home, we plan to ask for their names and look for sponsors.

Want to know more? Send me a note.

Tale of Two Churches

Church in the Dark (photo light provided by my flash)

At dusk, our taxi driver stops three times asking directions to our destination: Ministerio Cristiano Manantial de Cristo. On the third stop a young man in dress shirt and white pants approaches. “I am going there. You can walk with me,” he says.

We pay the driver the normal fee of 20 cordobas (80 cents) for the ride across town and walk with Alejandro behind a curb-side building toward a barbed wire fence.

“Where is the church?” I ask.

“Here,” he answers.

The building is an aluminum roof suspended above a dirt floor on six poles with 20 plastic chairs and a pulpit. Its pastor Sergio welcomes us warmly. He says there is a neighborhood problem with electricity, so there is no light tonight.

As the sky darkens, the congregation alternates unaccompanied singing with fervent prayer—punctuating both with a ritual response sequence of “Gloria, Cristo, Gloria” that ends in a rousing cheer.

Far above and all around, the stars appear.

We are asked to bring greetings, but in the darkness we cannot read our Spanish cheat-sheets. We stumble around a bit, and Alejandro rescues us. He says gently from his seat, “It’s OK. Speak in English and I will translate.”

Pastor Sergio begins reading the Bible passage by the light of his cell phone. Then someone hands him a tiny flashlight.

We leave early to walk to another service for service three blocks away. As Alejandro guides us there, he reassures us. “Do not worry about after the service,” he says. “The neighborhood is safe, and there will be taxis.”

Indoors at Asemblea de Dios

We join worship in progress at Asemblea de Dios—with its hung ceiling, painted walls, flowers, maroon curtains, and a shining, new tile floor that the pastor says was finished with help from the Nehemiah Center. Lit by bright lights, we read our scripted Spanish greetings. We sing to a keyboard accompaniment.

As we hail a taxi for our return trip, Marlo says, “This second church felt a bit more like ours back home--

“—but I did miss the stars.”

Dropping Dinero

Chinandega Vendor

Again tonight, there will be laughter over dinner in Nicaraguan homes.*

After visiting two colonial cathedrals, Marlo and I wind through the open-air Chinandega market, jammed with produce vendors.

We have seen no other gringos all day.  We catch curious glances from the vendors. I wonder for a moment, if people of color experience this on Pella streets.

Then I tell Marlo I’d like some video of this market. A few minutes later, impatient, I offer to take the video, but he says, no, he will.

He pulls the flip video from his shorts pocket and starts recording when there is a sudden ruckus in the street behind us. Startled we look back and 3-4 people are beckoning us, pointing to cordobas on the street behind us. When Marlo pulled out the flip video, Nicaraguan bills followed behind.

An elderly couple helps us retrieve them. We laugh, shake our heads, thank them profusely, and continue.

For the next half block, broad smiles replace those curious glances.  We know, we know--we are foolish gringos who don’t know how to take care of money.

A block down the street, where we are again anonymous, we purchase bananas and cookies. When we are ready to head back, I wish I were one of the magi.

I want to return by another way.

*For an earlier incident of Nicaraguan laughter, see blog entry for January 16: “In Search of Epsom Salts.”

Chinandega Sights and Sounds

This morning, while Marlo got a haircut, I sat outside the barbershop and took short video clips of the street sights and sounds. Enjoy!

Feliz Cumpleaños

Birthday Guys

Sunday morning Bible study at Chinandega’s Church of the Nazarene began at 9 a.m. with greetings and singing—a few hymns and lots of syncopated rhythms that Marlo tells me are montuno-- repeated pattern of notes or chords with syncopated moving inner voices and a differently syncopating bass line. (Don’t be impressed. I don’t understand Marlo’s explanation either.)

After the singing, children depart for their own classes, and 50 or so adults remain in the sanctuary. Assistants distribute a two-page handout, and Pastor Paulino teaches today’s topic: addictions of all kinds.

He uses a blackboard and teaches inductively—class members read aloud from the Bible and the handout—and answer questions readily. I am surprised by their boldness in a group so large.

Around 10:45 the children rejoin us, and two men—both senior citizens*—are called to the front. The woman who is facilitating today’s class says a few words I don’t understand, and the first man, stout and leaning on a cane,  pulls cordobas from his shirt pocket, first bills, then coins. The congregation counts the money aloud: cinquenta, setenta, setenta y uno, setenta y dos. . . until they get to 76.

This gentleman is donating a cordoba for each year of his life.

To my surprise, the count for the second man—crew-cut and lean—the count goes higher—to 79.

Each takes the microphone and speaks to the group—one briefly, the other lengthily from handwritten notes.

And when the entire group sings “Feliz Cumpleaños,” the tune is unmistakably “Happy Birthday.”

What fun!

*Spanish apparently has its own political correctness in using terms for age. Our Spanish teacher told us we should use the word “los mayores” for senior citizens, not “los viejos.” “ Los viejos”  is insulting.

Laundry Lesson

On Saturday, ten minutes after we arrived at the Don Mario Hotel in Chinandega, I concluded that our hostess Iliana was a bit distant, abrupt, and dour.

On Sunday,  I sit in a wooden rocker trying to remove spots from Marlo’s white shirt. When it was laundered in Granada, it came back with a freckled collar. 

While Don Mario cooks our supper, Iliana stops to see what I am doing.

“Tengo algo para eso (I have something for that),” she says.

“Sopa?”  I ask.

She looks puzzled. I laugh and quickly correct myself.

“No, no sopa—jabon. (No, not soup—soap).”

She beckons me to the laundry room and with a brush and soap, deftly rubs out the spots. I ask if she thinks they are from insects. She says she thinks they came from an iron.

She rinses the collar, buttons it carefully over a hanger, and we return to the dining area.

Don Mario has dinner ready. She looks at me, shakes her head, and chuckles, “Sopa,” she says.

As I laugh with her, she squeezes my shoulder in a gentle hug.

And I relearn a lesson from kindergarten.

For safely crossing cultures—as well streets—

It is crucial to stop, look, and listen.

Often.

In fact, always.

Today, a Rant

Marlo and I arrived in Chinandega 2:30 Saturday afternoon, settled in at Hotel Don Mario, and headed for a late lunch at Tip Top, a fast-food chicken place a few blocks down the street.

We order, sit at a table, and notice two heavy-set, retirement-age gringos at a nearby booth. Within seconds one walks over and asks what brought us to Chinandega.

“To learn about five churches with whom our congregation is building a relationship,” we say.

We ask the same question. He takes a deep breath, asks if he can join us, and tells us non-stop:

•  He has made a few trips here and loved it.  “The people here are so hungry for the gospel. You can hand out 1000 tracts in an hour. They take one and go and get their friends.”
• He recently retired from his plumbing business, bought property 40 minutes from here, and has founded a retreat camp there. Recently, he also bought a building in Chinandega—for a bargain price—and is starting a youth ministry.

I paste on a smile and an attentive face as he continues:

• No, he is not connected with any organization in the states or in Nicaragua. He is moving ahead in faith, and the success has been amazing. He just bought this second building on faith, a $1,000 down payment—and now, out of the blue, a US congregation has pledged $500 per month to his ministry.
• No, he hasn’t studied Spanish, but has learned to speak a bit of it through living here.

His companion, his duplicate except for a corded hat and wire rims, joins him. They carry on for another 15 minutes nonstop about fantastic blessing and success—and stumbling across English-speaking Nicaraguans who have joined their ministry.

When they ask the waiter for their bill (la cuenta) and hit the streets for more victorious living, we have not said more than those first two sentences.

In his understated style, Marlo says, “I didn’t pick up totally positive vibes.”

Me? I want to throw my evangelical Christianity through the restaurant doors behind them into the Chinandega streets.

I  breathe deep—in, counting slowly for a count of four, holding for a count of 7, exhaling for a count of 8. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

When I’m finally more centered and forgiving, I am paralyzed by a new thought:

As they sat across the table from me, is it possible that I was gazing in a mirror?

Cars in the Dining Room

Our first night in Granada, one hour into our stay, there was a flurry of activity outside the door. Homeowner Raquel opened the large door, and a car pulled up alongside the dining room table. A second pulled in behind.

I kept my face politely composed, chuckling only privately. Cars in the dining room!

When the cars pulled out in the morning, a coffee table and four rocking chairs moved into that space.

I thought of our first Pella house.

It didn’t meet building codes—it didn’t have an eight-inch drop between our living quarters and garage. I sometimes worried about exhaust fumes creeping under the door to the garage and invading the basement. Our guest house arrangement falls much further short of code.

Now, on this morning of our departure as I wait for our taxi ride to Chinandega, I sit in the dining room and re-think.

In Iowa winters, people warm car engines a few minutes before putting them in gear. In this land of perpetual summer, that never happens.

In Iowa, our homes are hermetically sealed against the winter cold and summer heat. Here in the tiled dining room, I sit adjacent an open courtyard, cooled by a morning breeze.

And in this crowded city, double use of space makes perfect sense. My smile two weeks ago was totally misplaced.

Now I’m wondering about Nicaraguan’s daily sweeping of dirt yards and about busses with passengers astride back bumpers.

Are my smiles—and gasps—at these misplaced as well?

Odds and Ends

Entry to our Granada gueshouse

On the day before we leave Granada, I am surprised that . . .

·         I now see the family we live with as middle class. They have a car, a thriving business, and they send their children to a private school.

·         When there was no tap water this afternoon, it was OK.

·         A mere slice of sky above the route to school feels normal.

·         I don’t have to look for Mount Mombacho at every street corner to keep my bearings.

·         In Spanish, we could negotiate discounts for the ceramics and jewelry that Friends of Chinandega plan to sell at Pella’s Tulip Time and elsewhere.

·         I consistently remembered not to flush the toilet paper.

·         I am not tired of rice and beans.

·         I still feel hot and sticky every afternoon.

·         I still miss access to the Internet 24/7.

·         Marlo and I have not had a major fight.

·         I have won only 3 games of Gin to Marlo’s 11.

Granada Driveway

On the day before we head to Chinandega*, I wonder . . .

·         When the pair of 6-year-old—sons of our guesthouse host—ordered only single dip cones when we treated them at the local ice cream store, was it because that’s what they always get or because their mothers warned them not to be greedy guests?

·         Why in Granada the manholes are on the sidewalk instead of in the streets?

·         Why, in a country where it never snows, are the driveways built with one-inch ridges?

·         Would it would be appropriate to give the beggar on our street some food before we leave?

·         Why in Spanish does the same word (esperar) mean both “wait” and “hope?”

·         Why the Spanish does word for righteousness (justicia) also connote “justice?”

·         Why in Spanish, is the word for worship is similar to the word for culture (culto)?

I don’t have answers.

Last year, Nicaraguan missionary Carl Most told me, “Asking beautiful questions is more important than having answers.”

I think, perhaps, Carl would call those last three questions beautiful.

*Tomorrow we travel to Chinandega, where we will spend a week getting acquainted with five congregations with whom our Pella congregation is building a long-term relationship.