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.

On Housecleaning

Lake Nicaragua from an island fort

It’s 1 p.m. Friday afternoon, and I am a tad weary. Our two weeks of Spanish class ended an hour ago.

The first week was exciting. The second week, less so.

If I remember correctly, Thomas Merton says that when it comes to prayer, we will be beginners all our lives.

And, a decade ago, my spiritual director expanded Merton’s concept with a comparison. At first in our spiritual housecleaning, he said, we have dim bulbs. We brush away cobwebs and mop a little; then God turns on a few more lights and we see that our home is not clean after all. We clean some more. Then come more lights. And so it goes.

Last week I thought I made good Spanish progress. The pieces of the past year’s study with CDs and Rosetta Stone began to fit together. Then, this week we looked at tenses, reflexives, pronomials, indicatives, conditionals. . . .

And Raoul said he wouldn’t even touch subjunctive; that requires a month.

This week in Spanish class, Raul turned on a bank of a thousand lights. In Spanish, as in holiness, I will be a beginner all my life.

I hope our friends in Chinandega will be forgiving.

In Spanish and in life, I am grateful for grace.

To Be or Not to Be

(Posted with apologies to Lee and Marlene Talma, whom I promised not to bore with tales of Spanish verbs.)

Marlo and I are resting in our room between morning Spanish class and afternoon outing.

I say, “El pobre no esta sobre la acerca hoy. (The poor man is not on the sidewalk today.)”

Then I wonder aloud which “to be” verb I should have used: ser or estar.

Marlo says localization of events requires ser.

I respond that on the other hand, there’s that rhyme:

                “How you feel and where you are,

                Always use the verb estar.”

 Other rules: temporary—use ser. Permanent—use estar.

Is the beggar an event or not? Is he there temporarily or permanently?

Uncertain, we move to a review of verb tenses.

Let’s see—

Ser in imperfect tense—era, eras, era, eramos, eran. . .

Estar in imperfect—fui, fuiste, etc.

No, no—that’s wrong--estar in the imperfect is estaba, estabas. . .

 Fui, fuiste…is ser in the perfect tense.

And estar in perfect is estuvo, estuviste . . .

With the helping verb haber, there are further forms for each.

I become the Sesame Street Count. I want to pound my head on a piano. “I’ll never get it right. Never, never, never. . . ”

Yesterday, Marlo was in search of the third person perfect singular for “to give.” Was it regular or irregular? 

Was it or was it not reflexive?

Fellow North American Matthew—a Spanish major in Granada for more fluency—thought the correct form was “dio” but wasn’t sure.

He disappeared into his room and returned with a fat volume. He found a page and confirmed. Yes, it was dio.

Then he showed Marlo the book title: The Big Red Book of Spanish Verbs.  "For future learning," he said.

Marlo managed a weak laugh. “I should live so long,”

We won’t.

Perhaps in the mystery beyond, there will be time to master Spanish verbs.

I think it’s called eternity.

Speculation

Turtle in patio of Spanish school

Tonight, in a flight of fancy, I speculate: How would I be different if I were Nicaraguan?

First off, if I were Nicaraguan I’d have darker skin and hair.

In Postville, Stephen Bloom remarks how strangely ubiquitous white skin is in that tiny Iowa town. In my town, too. In fact, surrounded by such whiteness, I sometimes catch myself thinking of white skin as “normal” and all other skin colors as “different”—not better or worse, just  “different."

Others, more cosmopolitan than I, tell me my orientation is a subtle form of racisim. Sigh. . . If I had darker skin, would I still see myself as normal—and all others as different? Perhaps.

If I were Nicaraguan, I would be more observant. Or I’d be dead.

At home on flat sidewalks and quiet streets, I can survive as my absent-minded self, thinking more than seeing. Marlo says a mechanical roadrunner lurks near every corner, ready to whiz past, beep-beeping all the way. Amid the uncovered sidewalk manholes, their poles, and changing levels; amid the motorcycles, horses, cars, and trucks inches just inches away, I need constant vigilance.

If I were Nicaraguan, I would be less modest. When temperatures rise, hemlines follow. And necklines fall. Not even the turtles here have turtlenecks.

If I were Nicaraguan, I’d be more relaxed. Heat, humidity, and sun are an all-day massage.

In a land of perpetual summer, I would not suffer winter blues.

I would spend more time with friends.

I would wait well.

I would laugh more.

I am not Nicaraguan.

But in this week my shell has already softened. My center has already shifted.

Year after year, that shift calls me south.

I know. I know. Saying “yes” to the still small voice provides no guarantees.

But, at times, it does come with fringe benefits.

In Search of Epsom Salts

Rod and Barb return from their afternoon shopping. Like us they are recent retirees, learning Spanish to enhance their volunteer service in Nicaragua.

They arrived at our guest house yesterday, and this morning was their first Spanish lesson. They learned greetings such as Buenos dias (Good morning), Como estas? (how are you) and Como se llama? (What is your name), along with a few basic pronouns and verb endings.

At the end of her session Barb asked her teacher the Spanish word for Epson salts. She had bruised her toes just before leaving the US, and wanted to soak them to reduce the swelling. Her Spanish teacher wrote a combination of words, and Barb and Rod set out in search of Epsom salts.

The trekked from pharmacy to pharmacy with their slip of paper, without success. Each pharmacy directed them to a new location—perhaps it would be there.

They enter the guesthouse, fuming about Nicaraguan pharmacy supplies. “You would think Epson salts would be standard for a pharmacy!” Barb says. “I do not understand it.”

When our hostess Raquel joins us for dinner, Barb shows her the paper with the words “sala de belleza Letty.”

Raquel explains in Spanish. Matthew, another guest, fluent in English and Spanish, translates. It turns out Rod and Barb have been asking Granada pharmacies for a specific beauty parlor (sala de belleza) with an owner named Letty.

Apparently, when Barb told her Spanish teacher in English that she wanted to soak her feet and toes, the teacher (an excellent Spanish teacher, but not fluent in English) concluded she wanted a pedicure and recommended a local beauty salon.

The phrase for Epsom salts, Raquel tells us, is very simple: sal Epson.

Duhh . . .

Tomorrow, armed with a new paper, Barb will go again to a pharmacy.

Meanwhile, we shake our heads and laugh about the pitfalls of communication across languages.

And somewhere in Granada, pharmacists are laughing, shaking their heads, and telling their families over dinner about the tontos Norte Americanos (silly North Americans) who can’t tell a pharmacy from a beauty salon.

Sunday Morning and Evening

Cathedral Interior

Sunday morning we attend mass (misa) at the historic cathedral in downtown Granada. A regal building, with a sky blue-and-yellow interior, with formal worship led a dozen white-robed liturgists, the gentle music echoes among its tall columns and arched ceilings. 

A sense of transcendent peace rises in me as I smell its incense, hear its bells, and feel cool breezes through its soaring windows. We leave quietly and anonymously. As I leave, I say to the little girl who has been smiling at us from the bench ahead. “Dios te bendiga. (God bless you.)”

Evangelical Wedding

Over lunch we ask a host about attending her evangelical worship service later today. Surely, she says, but she warns us it is not as quiet (tranquilo) as the service we attended this morning. We arrive just in time for the 4 p.m. service, but a wedding is still in progress in Iglesia Evangelica Quadrados, a cement block building with a corrugated aluminum. Bride and groom are seated in chairs up front, listening to a marriage message.

No problem. We join the wedding guests on their plastic chairs in the sanctuary. At 4:30, bride and groom rise, exchange rings, kiss, and the wedding ends. The wedding party leaves, and the pastor transitions into worship without missing a beat. 

The music pulsates loudly for the next hour—I turn off my hearing aids use them as ear plugs. The pastor preaches—with more drama than a black Southern Baptist—for a second hour. Just a half hour more of offering and announcements.

During the service people shake our hands several times, and as first-time visitors, we receive bottles of cold water. As we leave, several more shake our hands. “Dios le bendiga (God bless you),” they say.

“Mismo dios, una differencia de estilo (Same God, different styles),” I say to our host Maria Jose as we leave. She smiles and nods.

Different styles? My comment could earn a world competition for understatement. This morning and evening were black and white, day and night. . .

But then, in the beginning when God gave the Grand Blessing, it was evening and it was morning of the first day, and the second, and . . .

Jewelry Foray

It’s Saturday, the day for shop for jewelry at the Masaya Market—jewelry for Friends of Chinandega to sell as part of our fundraising for Nicaraguan projects.

Without our teachers, we have used our beginning Spanish to navigate the bus and taxi rides, convinced that these drivers speak an entirely different language from the clear and careful speech we have been hearing all week.

We have made a few purchases—earrings, necklaces, and bracelets that feature seeds and polished granite from multi-purpose shops. Then we stop at the table of Javier Hernandez. His table has only jewelry which he himself has crafted. We admire its designs with bronze, copper, nickel, silver, and polished stones.

When we ask his prices, we are disappointed—his pieces are too expensive for us to add a retail mark-up. But it takes a lot of time, he says, to make each metal necklace by hand. Each one is unique: there are no duplicates.

We agree, and we explain our purpose and our goals—reselling in the United States as part of our partnership with Chinandega churches. Oh, he says, that’s different. He offers us a substantial discount.

We make our choices. He writes us a description of each piece, and provides his email address if we sell out and need to order. We take his picture.

We say we think he will now be busy making replacement pieces for his table. He smiles and nods.

We hope our customers in Iowa will like his work as well as we—and that we will need to reorder more pieces from this courteous and soft-spoken craftsman.

For me this transaction has one down side.

I like these pieces too much. It will be hard for me to part with them.

Some Positive Observations about Nicaragua

by Guest Blogger Marlo Van Klompenburg

When being interviewed last year about her Nicaragua experience, I remember Kathy Groenenboom saying that people just seem to be more happy and content in Nicaragua. I agree with her observation. I wonder if their close relationship to nature explains some of their happiness. The year-round warm climate allows the building architecture to be integrated with nature. In most homes and work areas windows are open, ambient breezes touch our bodies, natural daylight enters the spaces, and the sounds of nature impact our ears. As we traveled to Masaya today in a bus, the windows were open and we experienced the same sensations.

Transportation in Nicaragua can be very low cost. We made the 25-kilometer trip to Masaya today for $1.00. (That's $.50 per person). Admittedly it was on a vintage school-bus that had seen its best days. As we waited 20 minutes to leave the terminal, many local vendors carried their food on-board and sold their products much like concessionaires at a ball game. Shortly after departure, we needed to stop while water was added to the radiator from a large plastic Pepsi bottle. 

Besides the driver there is always a driver's helper who stands at the front of the bus. One of his jobs is to collect the fares while the bus is in transit. Also, he helps passengers quickly board the bus at the frequent stops it makes and announces our destination. The announcements are always done in a sing-song manner. I grew up on a farm and pigs were called by yelling "Sooo-eeee, Sooo-eeee, Sooo-eeee." In a similar manner the driver's helper calls out "Granada, Granada, Granada." It really was a rather entertaining experience.

Another thing I have noticed is the musical energy in this country. As we rode the bus today the radio was loud. As we walked to the Granada’s Central Park this morning we heard music exploding from several businesses and homes. We heard a four-person combo in the park energetically producing the heart-beat of Nicaraguan music. Always the music makes me want to walk just a little faster, tap my toe just a little harder, or smile just a little easier.

Seeing the Light

Laguna de Apollo from above

Today, Spanish class has moved to the rocky beach at Laguna de Apollo. Yesterday we saw its grand vista from above. Today, we see it at lagoon level.

Through a rain forest with butterflies, monkeys, bougainvillea—along with beehives and termite nests, we have hiked on a smooth road of pavers, recently created by Daniel Ortega’s government, prior to the general election.

Laguna de Apollo at lake level

We are seated in a ranchon (thatch-roofed open-air shelter). A couple cuddles in a hammock to our left. Four men, their red lipstick and rouge visible from a distance, splash together in the water. Two families lounge on the beach to our right.

Ranchon light fixture

We pull out our sack lunches. As I fork tuna on my saltine, I see the light above—a light bulb suspended on wires in the top half a 3-liter bottle, similar to the bottle of Coke we have ordered with lunch.

I munch my crackers, drink Coke, and consider: How many ways is it possible to see this Nicaraguan light?

• Middle-class: How sad—they can’t afford a real light fixture!
• OSHA: That would never pass code!
• Queen of Clean: You can hardly see through it for the fly specks!
• Aesthetic: That is the ugliest light fixture I have ever seen!
• Environmentalist: What good way to recycle!
• Admiring: What a creative idea!
• Functional: It does protect the bulb from breakage.

Which shall I choose?

[Note to readers: Please pause here a moment. Before reading further, you might want to choose a response, or perhaps create your own. And I’d love it if you add to my list! How might you respond to this photo?]

As I pack away my tuna tin, I consider my options. Then caffeine lights my brain. Why do I have to choose? Why do I need to  judge? I don’t.

It simply is, and in this moment that can be bastante (enough).

I am left, though, with one unanswered question.

How many Nicaraguans does it take to change a light bulb?

Two Mantras

I have clung to two sentences this week:

·         That is south.

·         This is normal.

My sense of direction, normally healthy, dies in Nicaragua. Without a vista, North, South, East, and West blur together.

South of Granada, visible only from street corners, is Mount Mombacho. It is a tourist compass. Want to get your bearings? Look for Mombacho. That is south.

Each morning when we exit our front door for the seven-block walk to Spanish class, I  think of the mountain behind me and say, “That is south.” We walk east, north, east, north, then finally east—and with each turn I tell myself, “That is south—and then point toward the other three compass points and name them.

Silently, of course. I don’t want Marlo to think I’m lost—or losing it.

Riding the bus to San Juan de Oriente--“That is south.”

Walking home from the bus stop--“That is south.”

Why does my internal gyroscope falter in Nicaragua? I think to it needs the vistas to which it is accustomed, not the narrow corridors and tree-lined roads of Granada.

…

Sweating on a January afternoon, I tell myself, “Here, this weather is normal.”

When seven-year-old Horacio explains Spanish vocabulary to me and helps correct my grammar, I reassure myself that I’m not stupid (tonta).  ”For him, Spanish is normal.”

He’s been learning it longer than I have—and with a younger brain.

Each morning and afternoon, the same ancient man is sitting on the same sidewalk, two doors from our house.

I ask Horacio if the man lives in that house. “No,” Horacio answers. “Es pobre. No tiene una casa. (He’s poor. He has no house.)”

I detach from my momentary pain with my new mantra. “This is normal,” I tell myself.

Reflecting tonight, I wonder.

Normal? Yes.

And also broken.

If I feel too much pain—I shall break along with him.

But with too much mantra--I shall go numb.

God grant me the grace to accept the things I cannot change, the power to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And, in seeking direction for my journey, may my emotional gyroscope always be oriented toward grace.

...

PS: No photo today. Marlo and I discussed whether or not it would be respectful to take a photo of the homeless man. 

In the end, I didn't need to make a decision. When I was ready to take a photo, he was no longer on the sidewalk.

Different Strokes

It’s conversation time during my Tuesday morning Spanish lesson.

I talk about our gardens—my flowers, Marlo’s vegetables. I learn Spanish names for some vegetables we grow: lechuga (lettuce), rebollo (cabbage), frijoles de vaina (green beans), and verenjena (eggplant).

“You have a big yard (patio)?” she asks?

“Si,” I say.

Then, not wanting to appear too wealthy, I explain that I live in a small town in the countryside. We don’t have as many people, and we have more space between our houses.

We talk about yesterday’s walk with the houses abutted against each other.

“No me gusta (I don’t like that),” I say.

She tells me that in the rural area where she lives, the houses do have space between. The crowding is just in the cities. But the crowding does not bother her.

We talk about weather. She explains Nicaragua’s two seasons: summer and winter. Now (November through April) is summer—the dry season. Temperatures will peak in March and April. The other half year, the winter, is the rainy season. 

But there are no vast temperature changes. This balmy January day with temperatures ranging from 75 to 85 is about as cool as it gets in Nicaragua.

She asks about Iowa winters. I talk about snow, coats, and mittens. I describe walking outdoors in January with a scarf (bufanda) covering my mouth and nose.

She shivers and grimaces.

“No me gusta,” she says.

Ah, yes: different strokes . . .

----

PS: In the afternoon we climb a church tower for an overview of Granada. It is much more beautiful from above. Hmm. . . .

Bell tower in a neighborhood church

View of Granada cathedral from neighborhood church.

Granada—Outdoors and In

Our guest house street

I sit on the bed in our Granada room, computer on my lap. An oscillating fan moves moist air across my face each time it rotates my way. 

Marlo sits at an adjacent table doing today’s homework (tarea) from our morning language class: a composition about our afternoon walk through downtown Granada with teacher (maestra) Reina. (Our first two weeks in Nicaragua we are studying Spanish in Granada.)

Along narrow streets, we have followed her single file on even narrower walks past bright buildings jammed nonstop against each other. Except for the central park (Parque Central ), we have seen neither trees nor plants. Only a long slot of sky signals we are out of doors.

Downtown, the walks grow more congested, with block after block of vendors hawking watches, trinkets, vegetables, and fruits. Assorted people, cars, trucks, bikes, and dogs maneuver from spot to spot. Beggars, both very old and very young, approach us hands outstretched, their faces downcast in careful sadness. When we decline one youngster’s request, he falls backward on the walk in a practiced faint.

After two hours on the streets, I am claustrophobic.

Our guest house courtyard

Marlo unlocks the door to our guest house, and we enter our guest house. A living room and bedrooms line its perimeter. Open to the sky, a hallway, dining area, and courtyard with potted plants and grass fill its center.  At the rear its kitchen and laundry area, too, are open-air.

In Iowa, I escape my house to the outdoor pleasures—gardening or walking in Big Rock Park.  I am, after all, a small-town Midwesterner, at home with open space and a vast bowl of sky.

In this spacious old home I experience a reversal. In Granada, mi afuera es adentro (my outdoors is inside). Today, I escape indoors.

And now, laptop warming my thighs, it is time to write about our walk—in Spanish.

No les preocupan ustedes.  Estoy segura, no voy a exito. (Don’t worry. I shall surely fail.)

Ahead of Schedule

We are not expecting this moment quite yet.

We have joked about it as we shivered out of our garage at dawn Tuesday.

“It’s inevitable,” Marlo said.

 I agreed. “Most likely in Chinandega in about three weeks.”

Behind us in our minivan were two suitcases and two carry-ons for each of us, stuffed with meager wardrobes and 137 copies of On Mended Wings.

Maxed-out luggage and “mule” service are familiar territory for us because Nicaragua postal service is not reliable. (On a 2008 trip, our church’s service-and-learning team transported $16,000 in audio visual equipment in our allotted luggage.)

Wednesday, Marlo and I made our first hotel stop in Lexington, Kentucky. Our hotel heater was under-powered. We shivered through a game of gin, robbed the adjacent bed of its blankets, and finally warmed up at 2 a.m.

The next day, West Virginia was 20 degrees and windy. We asked a visitor-center hostess “Is this weather typical for a West Virginia January?”

She grimaced and nodded.

During our Raleigh visit, our son called a repairman. His heat pump was running non-stop, and not keeping up.

We sighed as we read Iowans’ Facebook posts about wearing shorts and hanging laundry in stocking feet.

This morning we are skirting the Atlantic Coast south toward Miami on US 95.

We stop at a Wendy’s near Jacksonville for soup and salad.  I gather plastic ware, straws, and napkins and then choose a sunny south window. Marlo follows with the food tray.

He chows chili, I munch salad—and then it happens.

His upper lip starts to sweat, then his forehead.

He looks at me and—way ahead of scheduled—utters the inevitable sentence.

“You know,” he says.  “I am really too hot.”

Postscript to Previous Post

Yup.

Effortlessly.

With HALF a pinky.

Getting Eager

Classic Nicaraguan Pottery

We sit surrounded by gorgeous Nicaraguan handicrafts—and we have not yet left the United States.

Marlo and I have stopped at a huge colonial house Williamsburg, Virginia, where we are selecting Nicaraguan ceramics and jewelry to sell at Pella’s Tulip Time and other Midwest festivals this summer. This mansion is the warehouse for Chaka Market Bridge, a five-person, fair-trade importer with a goal of providing incomes for Nicaraguan artisans.

Its finance manager Geoffrey Geiling shows us vases, candleholders, bowls, necklaces, and rings that his company imports. Attached to each piece of hand-signed pottery—some classic, some funky—is a card with a photo of its creator and a short biography.

Funky Candleholders

We tell Geoff about the goals and plans of Friends of Chinandega, for these products—not only to provide income for Nicaraguans by our purchases, but to use our retail profit margin to further develop our organization’s relationship with our Christian friends in Chinandega.

When we confess we are totally new at this, Geoff gives us tips for arranging an attractive booth, setting up charge-card services, and repacking merchandise.

We make our product selections, write a check, and drive off. Geoff will pack our merchandise, and we’ll stop for it en route back to Pella in February.

We’re not yet in Nicaragua, and our eagerness is up a notch.

We’ll need to suppress it, though, during our next stop—a visit to our infant granddaughter in Raleigh.

I suspect she’ll have the charisma to manage that suppression.

Effortlessly.

With one pinky.