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.