Same in Any Language

“It’s the same in any language

A brother is a brother if there’s one thing I know

It’s the same in any language

Wherever you go.”- I'Nine

Lately, it’s been the little things. Thus, the following are short stories for that reason (also for those who get easily distracted or bored).


Corn or Corn?The other night I was in the kitchen with Erminia as she was teaching me the hundreds of things one can make with soybeans. Who knew? Good ole’ Monsanto has been sneaking it into foods across the country (besides the obvious soy milk), when the reality is that from soybeans one can make something good, nutritious, and not wrapped in plastic. I feel the same way about corn here: first I thought how crazy it was that there was so much corn here. Every day it’s tortillas, it’s rosquillas, it’s an actual beverage made of cornmeal. But wait, I finally thought months later, I’ve most likely been consuming the same amount of corn back in the States. Almost any sweet food that comes in plastic or a wax cardboard box contains corn. Corn works great in rosquillas, but also in any hostess cookie. In fact, I do, on occasion, drink an actual beverage made of corn- it’s called pop (or soda for those who are can’t understand mid-west lingo). Why did it take so long to dawn on me that the abundance of corn is just as evident in the States? Is it perhaps because ConAgra, Nestle, Monsanto and the like have been sneaking it in processed food like ? I am not certain why I never noticed it until now, but I’d much rather prefer to consume corm in this fashion- because I can see the entire lifespan of the corn, from plant to plate. Whereas ‘high fructose corn syrup?’ Will someone please tell me how that’s made?

Real Life Mario Brothers (minus the catchy music)As a few other students from the language school here and I walked to catch the bus, we realized how uncomfortable we’d soon be-everyone and their grandma was headed into town this Saturday morning. As the bus approached, Funkytown blaring out of its’ speakers, the five of us made a decision: we’re going on top.


Best decision ever. The top of the bus is an elite status kind of place: sure there are piles of wood, barrels of milk and luggage, but the people that travel arriba (up) are a special breed. It’s almost always men, they are always helping load junk (I really cannot think of a better word for this because it literally is junk: I once saw a few men throw giant sacks of rusty, clunky metal above. I am convinced that the bus doubles as a dumpster), and they have to be quick on their feet. When I climbed the ladder up, I realized why: low branches. You have to pay attention and duck at the right times, you have to have some sort of balance/seating to brace the hills, and if you have long hair, make sure it’s tied back. I learned all of this within the first 2 ½ minutes of finding a seat wedged in between crates of more junk, chickens, and the metal bar that holds everything in.


When I was little, I used to shake my hands and arms like a pathetic baby bird when the excitement was just too much to bear. My eyes would get big, I’d clench my fists, and shake away. I don’t do that so much anymore, but I was damn close to doing it again that morning. Ever since coming here I’d want to sit on top- it was like a full on Disney World ride, complete with actual obstacles and actual risk. With my head forward I knew what branches were to come (and always waited ‘til the last minute to duck), but if I ever snuck a look anywhere else, I was risking my face. No worries, two hours later, not even a scratch! Not only was it incredibly entertaining for me, but it was absolutely beautiful. The morning sun brought out every shade of green on the mountains, the electric blue sky complemented the brilliant remnants of oranges on the eastern horizon. With the wind in my face, with Nicaragua all around me, and with the knowledge that everyone else down below was cramped, hot, and crowded, I could have shaken with excitement right there on the spot, like the child in me. Lucky for everyone there, it didn’t come to that.  (sorry no pictures-I forgot my camera!)

Boys Will Be BoysAt this point I do have the confidence to say that most boys are the same, wherever you go… I can at least say that about Nicaraguan’s and American’s. Their hobbies and interests almost match up completely, especially when they’re bored. Erminia and I were working on her tortillas when her grandson’s Engel and Eduardo were hanging out with a neighbor kid Fernando. The three of them were sitting on the porch, and I was lucky enough to overhear their conversation: farts. Obviously, talking about it isn’t sufficient, clearly the action was involved. Ppppfffffftttttt, then, hahahahahaha!!! Again; buuuaaaaarrrrrtttt, bahahahahaha!!! It only got better when Fernando found a lighter in his pocket. Yes, you know where this story is going.


Soon came Oscar, their uncle, to see what they were up to. Sure enough, he was coaching them on the art of lighting farts. “No no no,” he{d say, “you have to lift your legs up higher and don’t hold the lighter so close to your pants- you’re going to light them on fire!” This whole time I both wanted to join in on the fun and stay as far away as possible. I was also wondering what Erminia was thinking about all of this, seeing it as mostly a kid sport. When I looked over to her, she was right next to me forming the next tortilla…with a small smile upon her face. And as we made eye contact we both burst out in the most beautiful laughter anyone had ever heard. She couldn’t stop laughing and neither could I. I can tell you with certainty that that was one of the best moments of my time here. All because of lighting farts.


Ba-WaWe have a puppy in the house. Which is fantastic, but also dangerous because it makes me want to go out and get myself a puppy right when I get home. The parents, I think, are already a little nervous about my new theory: If I just get a dog when I come back, then I’ll have to find a place to live that’s more permanent. They patiently reminded me that the proper logic is the other way around: first find a place to live, then a dog. Oops.


Either way, we have a puppy here and I love it. His name is Ba-Wa, and I’ve included pictures to explain the rest.

 The Friendly Beasts
“Jesus our brother, strong and good
Was humbly born in a stable wood
And the friendly beasts around him stood
Jesus our brother, strong and good.¨
 My usual routine this time of year is to bring out all the wonderful Songs for Christmas by Sufjan Stevens the day after Thanksgiving, in order to commence the advent season. This year the climate and language has changed, but the routine has not. Advent is one of my favorite things to celebrate, because it’s all about hope. Hope is this weird thing that all of us believe in whether we like it or not, because we’ve all hoped for something in our lives. In Spanish, esperanza, means to both hope and wait. These days and weeks are times of longing and waiting for the birth, for the good news. I realized how important this time was last year when I celebrated it with my church in Ashland. They all taught me to hope, and we did so together. Not many people here celebrate advent, but I think about it here every day. I think of that song, “The Friendly Beasts,” and how all of those animals were surrounding Jesus during his birth. All of those animals are they ones that are here every day- cows, sheep, donkeys. They are just as significant here as they were for the birth of Jesus. I don’t need any flashy nativity scenes of blonde hair, blue-eyes baby Jesus complete with European shepherds. I’ve got half of a nativity scene right here in Lagartillo- the friendly beasts and I, waiting and hoping… knowing that those two things are one in the same.