¿Sí o Ya?

"I wrote this on my brain."-Alex Petrov in Foer's Everything is Illuminated

My life and job here in Lagartillo can be summed up into one word: words.  It’s unbelievable that I just discovered that this morning.  I go to Spanish class to understand more how to communicate here.  Then I go to English class to teach the kiddos a thing or two about something that comes natural to me.  All of this to say that everywhere, everyday, people are building blocks towards clearer conversation.  It’s a process and it’s exhausting.  And sometimes by the end of the day my brain stops working in Spanish and hardly even works in any language- the only thing it can do is read “The Lorax”, which someone so wonderfully left in my room here.  It also helps that I am rereading Foer's Everything is Illuminated, which half of it is written from a man learning English as his second language- very encouraging because it includes beautifully mis-translated words

However, is this process ever worth it.  I can’t say much else on that, but I know that even going about understanding another language is a great feat.  Most of you know this.  But I am reminded of this when I hear stories from this community and hear of how far they have come.  I am reminded of this in English class when I ask for a sentence and get answers like, “I have a brain”, or, “My teacher is small.”  Or when Balta and I are in our Spanglish zone and a light comes on for both of us at the same time- we both completely understand each other.  It’s in those moments in which that language barrier erodes a little bit more.  Sure it’s frustrating sometimes when all you want is to be 100% clear in communication.  But there is nothing like the satisfaction of speaking without someone correcting you along the way.  It’s in my living here that I’ve realized how lucky I feel to speak one language, let alone two.  I don’t mind if I am slower or faster than any others that have learned another language- I’m at the point where I can be patient with myself and be thankful for what I do know.

Speaking of words.  Over the past few weeks Ricardo has loved saying “callate!”: a phrase meaning “shut up.”  It’s rather rude for a 2 year old, and we’ve tried telling him not to use it.  He knows he can’t say it directly to a person, so instead he just says, “callate mono!” (meaning shut up, monkey).  Apparently everyone in the house seems to be ok with that.  I certainly am.  It’s the best when he whispers it when he thinks no one is listening.

If the following wasn’t on my “things to do before I die” list before, it sure is now.  And consider it done.  I witnessed the swift killing of two chickens and helped (somewhat) in the preparation.  I definitely helped in the consumption during lunch and dinner that day.  Best chicken I’ve ever eaten.  Now, some may not believe this because I usually claim to be a vegetarian.  However, my reasons circle around how meat is prepared in the States: it’s quite a terrible process for both the animal and employee (I suggest reading Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals, if you care to).  Regardless, for those who have asked me the hypothetical question: “ah, so if you were to help and watch the killing of an animal, you’d eat it??”  Yes.  Cleary. J And was it ever fantastic.  I am surprised how much I enjoyed it- yeah it was gross at times, but I appreciated the atmosphere of it all.  These chickens lived good, healthy lives.  I promise there is a surplus of chickens here (I am reminded of this every morning around 5 when the rooster crows literally right outside my window), and we used every part, so nothing was wasted.  Maribel was telling me that she had been preparing chickens like this since she was 10.  I responded with, “Ah… when I was 10 I knew how to make cookies.”  What a difference, right?  It was a great day for me- lots of new things.  Believe it or not- I ate a chicken brain!  “It’s delicious,” Balta told me.  I would have agreed if I’d eaten it without knowing it was a chicken brain- it’s that concept that clearly weirded me out.  Also it reminded me of that Indiana Jones movie- the one with the monkey brains and the people that live underground… you know what I’m talking about.

I have come to absolutely love the buses here- they take me from Lagartillo to either Achuapa or Esteli.  I wish I could bring each of you on a ride with me.  However, since I cannot, let me at least describe it to you.  I’ve pinpointed it to a combination of the old video game “The Oregon Trail,” and the children’s book (and T.V.) series, “The Magic School Bus.”  It’s like the former in that we always have to ford rivers, people trade cookies for other goods, one encounters the majesty of the land, and the pace can change from slow to grueling- depending on the driver and road conditions.  It is not like The Oregon trail (thankfully), in that there is no hunting allowed and the driver doesn’t wear typical American farmer’s clothing but a shirt that says “It Takes Two to Two Step” on the back (not to mention a screen-printed Texan couple under the words).  Also I am certain no one has died of dysentery or snake poison while on the trail. I mean, road.  Now, “The Magic School Bus”: the bus literally is a school bus.  Also it has lots of streamers, colors, and loud music inside which reminds me a bit of what Ms. Frizzle would decorate her bus with.  And if Ms. Frizzle liked to listen to “Funkytown” and a seemingly repetitious playing of “Red Red Wine,” then I am even more accurate in my comparison.  Although this bus cannot fly, it might as well considering how fast it goes downhill.  And there are no iguanas on the bus (wasn’t there always an iguana on the bus in the books?), but I can assure you there are many right outside near the road.  Also I learn things each time, like how to find the most comfortable seat and that the radio sometimes plays songs not in Spanish or English, but also in a language that I cannot even identify.  However, it is not like the Magic School Bus in which everyone seems thrilled to be there, the driver isn’t female and cheery but a large, grumpy man.  Also, I am rather certain this bus can’t shrink and fit inside of a human body.  Let’s at least hope not.

And now for a shocking truth.  Those of you who have spent enough time with me will know how unexpected this is: I absolutely love eating oranges here.  Most of my life I have been disgusted with oranges- the smell, taste, the process; it all seemed so sticky, smelly, and not worth it to me.  I’d never eat orange anything- candy, juice, mandarin- in fact, it would sometimes make me sick.  However, here something has changed.  Maybe their oranges have some sort of addicting substance in them.  If that’s true, I am totally okay with it for now.  The other day the whole community went out to one of their community spaces to collect all the oranges from the trees.  What an amazing thing it was: an act as simple as collecting fruit from a tree.  Everyone was helping, whether it was people with their machetes clearing the weeds to make space for new growth, or others climbing the trees and passing the oranges down to those below.  Children and adults were eating and catching at the same time.  By the time we were finished the ground looked as though it was bubbling up oranges.  The trees not only had oranges but water on each leaf from the afternoon’s downpour.  With every orange came a small shower of rainwater and a little dirt.  By the end everyone was a bit dirty, definitely damp, and damn happy.  Each family carried home at least 60 oranges while the children were quickly packing them in their pockets before the next rain came along.  As I stood in my rain boots, in between branches eight feet above the ground, I realized how incredible this process was: somehow a branch produces a bud which produces fruit which feeds people which brings them together and in turn creates community.  It’s truly extraordinary.  Perhaps that’s why I like oranges now.

When I first got to Lagartillo I took the bus from Esteli and about halfway through the ride a young boy got on and started selling cookies to people out of a bucket.  Didn’t think much of it until I started eating about one of those cookies every day here- they’re called rosquilla and everyone eats them.  I can’t exactly think of a comparison, but it’s just normal food here: breakfast with coffee, a snack, something with afternoon coffee.  People pay around 2-4 cordobas for one (about 10 cents), so I never imagined they’d be that difficult to make.  And was I ever wrong.

Welcome to the kitchen of Erminia (Balta’s mother).  She makes rosquilla, tortilla, and perhaps other things that end in illa.  I’ve started helping her in the kitchen… well really, I began spending time with her because she has a kick-ass wood-burning oven and I can make my bread there.  But now it’s becoming more of an everyday thing- I make bread while she makes rosquilla.  We work in the evening and she bakes by candlelight, which is just too beautiful to describe.  She speaks really fast so mostly I listen as I knead: one of my favorite moments occurred when I finished grinding the corn and said “ya,” which sort of means “ok.” Then I accidentally said “Si,” which is obviously “yes.”  She looked at me and said, “Si o ya?”  Then we both started laughing because it’s truly funny, trying to always figure out communication.  While waiting for my bread to rise, I help her with these cookies.  Now, the reason why they’re so common here is because they’re made of things that are plentiful in the land: corn, cuajada (homemade cheese that’s really soft), and cream.  Healthy, eh?  First, you grind the dried corn kernels in a molenar, which is basically a crank that makes kernels smaller. Then you mix that with the cuajada, then grind that.  Then you form them and put a little dulce (hardened, condensed sugar) in the middle just before baking. 

I mention all of this because women do this every day here.  It is a long and exhausting process and is nothing like any bakery I know of.  Grinding corn- if you’ve ever tried it-is hard.  I felt like a complete waste of space when I broke a sweat next to a woman in her 60’s who does it every day, no complaints.  Not to mention the form: there are a few different kinds, but a very common shape is somewhat like a flower:

The “petals” are formed by the thumbs of these hard-working women: over and over and over.  Each rosquilla is unique and unsymmetrical- they all have 7 petals.  Seven petals!  Not only unsymmetrical, but a prime number.  Perhaps I can’t quite explain why this is so fascinating to me.  There are as many rosquilla’s as there are pebbles on the road.  They are as common as beans and rice, but so much work and form goes into them.  My sculpture professor in college told me that every item we see is a piece of artwork, because someone designed it.  Whether that be a chair, a spoon, or a simple cookie; it’s art.  Rosquilla’s here remind me of how important it is to notice the details- each cookie has a mark by its’ maker, and each maker has created them over and over.  Rosquilla is an art form, and it takes a certain eye to see it.  They have used what they have and have created tradition, art, and the perfect companion to a cup of coffee.  I feel honored to be a fraction of the process.  I stand under the candlelight, cornmeal in my hair and dough scattered about me, carefully pressing my thumb into each piece.  My art has followed me here.  Even if it’s found in the repetitive form of rosquilla, I can claim it as my art, and so can every other woman here.

And now a list of Reasons Why This Place Feels Like Home(s)*

1. Balta sneezes just like Paula (from the Rogue Valley) does- five to seven times very fast.  I am not sure why I pay so much attention to people’s sneezes.  But when I heard it for the first time I missed Paula because she would always keep talking while sneezing. Not many people can do that.

2. One of the students in the Seventh Grade calls me Justin Bieber. I think it’s fantastic and reminds me of my times washing dishes and shamelessly jamming out to Justin Bieber with all of my fellow sea kayakers.

3.  The few times I have hiked around el campo, I have obscurely smelled beach grass.  It’s quite interesting and takes me right back to the shores of Lake Michigan- back to the sun, fresh water, and brilliant sand.  The Michiganders know exactly what kind of smell I am talking about.

4.  When I hear the word “estretchos” I think of my sister Stephy.  Not quite sure why, but I think it has something to do with Nacho Libre.  Also I miss her.

5.  When I hear anyone say “hermano” I miss my brother-in-law.  “Now we just gotta find this hermano guy…”

6.  My Dad and I have this strange ritual whenever we’re on a walk.  The idea is you cannot turn around until you complete the first half of your journey by touching something.  I believe it started with our family taking so many walks on beaches surrounding the Great Lakes.  Therefore, every time I run down the road, I touch the same rock- Dad would be proud.

7.  Everyone here gives me food almost all the time: from coffee to rosquilla’s to candy to tortillas. It’s their hospitality language.  My mom does the same thing for anyone that walks into her kitchen- she is absolutely incredible, as many of you know.

8.  We tried watching a movie the other night that was given to us by someone in the community.  It was a Mexican movie from the 80’s about a traveling band.  The clothing (sequins, shoulder pads and unnecessary headbands) and music would make many people hit the floor laughing. I thought instantly of my five closest girl friends from college, because I was certain each one of them would have laughed as well. 

9. Many people have asked me what religion is like in the United States.  I shake my head and try to formulate the words to describe Christianity in the States, let alone any other religion.  It always boils down to this: “It’s very complicated and there are churches that maybe aren’t what they should be.  But what I do know is that I found a church that has compassion and fights for justice and wholeheartedly seeks God.  And that’s my church in Ashland.”  Sometimes, while I’m walking around Lagartillo on a Sunday morning, I would love to be in that church, even just for a few minutes- with a cup of coffee, my 28 sets of grandparents and parents, and the kiddos pulling on my shirt tail.

10.  When I lived in Ashland I used to work for somewhat of a group home for teen girls.  Hard work but I absolutely loved it.  I would often work the graveyard shift (11pm-9am checking on the girls every half hour) and they would listen to the radio all night to help them sleep.  I would walk the halls and hear the hip-hop and pop seeping out of their rooms, while the whole time each girl slept soundly.  Here in Lagartillo, the radio station often plays music from the States.  Last night a Riyana song came on, which immediately brought me back to those hallways and to those girls who are working their way through life as best as they can.

*I say homes because over the past two years I’ve had a few: Holland, Michigan, then British Columbia for a summer, then Ashland, Oregon, then back to B.C. Also my family in Midland/Brutus.  As you have seen its mostly just people I am referencing.  Sometimes home is as simple as where people love you.

I’m a fan of lists right now. So here is another.

Moments in which God’s presence just leaks:

1.  Myself along with three other women hiked out to el campo for a tour.  We sat under a lemon tree (sweet lemons that are fantastic) and ate fruit after fruit.  It was straight out of a dream or The Sound of Music.

2.  Seeing Maribel love her two boys so so well.  That family is a whole lot of something spectacular.

3.  Hearing Jose Angel’s guitar almost every night, and getting an email from my friend Lucy that said, “I too, know the sound of God from Jose Angel’s guitar.”

4.  When I run at the end of the day: The sun sets and the ground changes colors from blood orange to grapefruit to Barbie pink to crimson.  All in a five-minute span.  It’s absolutely incredible.

5.  Many nights Ricardo sings a song with the words he knows- mostly names of people (mama, Chango [nickname for Jose]) and things like “flashlight,” and “food.”  The other night I made a special appearance for the first time.  And once you make it into one of Ricardo’s songs, you’re in.

6.  Eating popcorn with Jose, Claudio, Ricardo and Maribel.  Throwing those pieces in the air, catching and not catching them in our mouths.  It’s amazing how much joy can come from one simple thing.

7. Watching everyone harvesting those oranges and cleaning up the community space was something I’ve never experienced before- it was beautiful and anything that can convince me to try something I once severely disliked is some kind of work of God, if you ask me.

All in all, I’m in a constant process of learning: everyday learning more Spanish (currently reading “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in Spanish), trying to learn guitar with Jose, learning how to teach Spanish to a bunch of wild, fun kids, and how to cook some solid Nicaraguan food. Not to mention anything else that’s fallen in the cracks.  It’s taught me a lot about community and I am certain that those thoughts are still formulating.  For now, I’m simply grateful to be here.