Campesino life...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
El Campo...
A few days ago I watched my friend play baseball with a twleve year old. Normally such a thing wouldn´t be worth mentioning but this wasn´t your average pitching and hitting practice. The twelve year old was slinging curve balls made of cow turds and, rather than donning a leather glove on his free hand, he had a firm grip on his trusty machete. My buddy on the recieving end was equally unconventional in his set-up. Instead of taking his swings with a finely crafted Louisville Slugger, he opted for the large, broad bone of an unidentified animal. And in place of those goofy looking baseball pants, he simply sported his boxers, which were still soaking wet from his shower/swimming session in the nearby river. Their grounds may not have had the crisp, painted lines and perfectly manicured grass you would find at a Wrigely Field or a Fenway Park but for what it lacked in traditional components, it made up for with a beauty that was truly humbling. Their fans were mountaintops and though they never cheered a word, and no score was kept, I found myself completely transfixed by the game unfolding in front of me. The larger explanation of this situation is nestled in the details of my most recent experience in Central America...
I spent roughly the last week living in a part of Nicaragua known as el campo, which essentially means the country. My particular place of residence was a community by the name of Ramon Garcia, just outside the municipo of San Ramon, in the department of Matagalpa, a mountainous region reknowned the world over for its coffee growing. The majority of the population of Nicaragua is concentrated in a few cities along its Western coast while the remainder is dispersed throughout distinctly under-developed areas such as the one I found myself in. Here poverty is endemic, standards of health and life are diminished, and daily routines are a far cry from what the average resident of the U.S. would recognize as typical.
These facts are not meant to disparage the way of life in, or the people inhabiting, the campo. It is simply meant to provide a little context. I cannot enumerate here all of the things I observed in the campo but I can offer a few of my thoughts and reflections. In the absence of technology, consistent interaction with people who speak my language, or even a book to read, obervation and contemplation become my only refuge.
When I first arrived in the campo I was less than enthused and it wasn´t the lack of amenities that had me down. I felt legitimately unwelcomed by certain members of the community, particularly the woman who was supposed to be my ¨host-mom¨for the week. She had next to no patience for my abysmal Spanish skills and seemed genuinely perturbed by our presence in the community. Normally this wouldn´t get to me, everyone is entitled to their opinion afterall, but it was especially peculiar in this case because my ¨mom¨was the coordinator of the program, and thus one would expect her of all people to be accepting of us. I spent a fair chunk of my first night ranting in my journal about how miserable and disappointed I was. I was singled out and laughed at repeatedly, forced to eat away from the family, and generally alientated. I felt stupid, targeted, and embarrassed to be in my own skin.
As the days went by, however, my feelings about the campo became increasingly more complex and my bitterness began to dissipate. It was clear that my initial negative impressions were not the result of some inherent fact about the people that lived in this area, but rather the result of interacting with a woman who was a genuine jerk. My saving grace in the campo arrived in the form of six boys, ranging in age from about eight to twelve. Unlike my intolerant host-mom, these kids were more than accomodating. They could care less about our broken Spanish, politics, or the terrible historical relationship between our countries. They just wanted to play, to goof around, to wrestle, and to share their mountain-sized playground with us. It was a bit uncomfortable to think about the opportunities they would never have simply because of where they were born. More often than not though, it was impossible to think bad thoughts in the presence of their constant laughter and irrepresible ebullience. Through their acceptance we were granted greater access to the community and got to have some fun in the meantime.
Our glimpse of campo-life was brief, only five days, but it left me with some questions that will likely remain unresolved for some time to come. For example, how I can reconcile the fact that I enjoy the comforts of my life in the states with the fact that that very comfort is a direct result of the historic and continued suppression by my country of marginalized populations around the world.
The way of life I observed in the campo was certainly different than what I´m accustomed to. They begin their day at an hour that´s closer to my typical bed time than my typical alarm time. They then spend that day engaged in chores that are literally essential to their survival. Meals are, by and large, the same thing day in and day out, comprised of food grown on the spot and accented with home made coffee. When the work of the day is done families gather together. The one I was with chose to spend their nights playing cards, socializing, and laughing at the occasional wayward gringo crashing at their place.
I respect the austerity and simplicity of this lifestyle, it undoubtedly has a certain romantic allure to it when juxtaposed alongside the superficial ridiculousness that often defines life in the US. At the same time however, I like being able to go to school. I like being able to have time to read and learn. Most of all, I like having the freedom to choose the kind of life I want to live. That was something that seemed noticeably absent in the lives of many of the campesinos I met. We all have limitiations and obstacles that stand between our present selves and the people we want to become, but it seemed to me that in the campo, those walls are nearly insurmountable. It´s not a position I envy.
It´s hard to say exactly what I learned from this fascinating place. It´s going to take some time for everything to sink in. I simultaneously feel like I know infinitely more and less about what ¨the good life¨is supposed to look like. I don´t know. I have no elegant way to conclude this rambling. I guess I´m still learning...
I spent roughly the last week living in a part of Nicaragua known as el campo, which essentially means the country. My particular place of residence was a community by the name of Ramon Garcia, just outside the municipo of San Ramon, in the department of Matagalpa, a mountainous region reknowned the world over for its coffee growing. The majority of the population of Nicaragua is concentrated in a few cities along its Western coast while the remainder is dispersed throughout distinctly under-developed areas such as the one I found myself in. Here poverty is endemic, standards of health and life are diminished, and daily routines are a far cry from what the average resident of the U.S. would recognize as typical.
These facts are not meant to disparage the way of life in, or the people inhabiting, the campo. It is simply meant to provide a little context. I cannot enumerate here all of the things I observed in the campo but I can offer a few of my thoughts and reflections. In the absence of technology, consistent interaction with people who speak my language, or even a book to read, obervation and contemplation become my only refuge.
When I first arrived in the campo I was less than enthused and it wasn´t the lack of amenities that had me down. I felt legitimately unwelcomed by certain members of the community, particularly the woman who was supposed to be my ¨host-mom¨for the week. She had next to no patience for my abysmal Spanish skills and seemed genuinely perturbed by our presence in the community. Normally this wouldn´t get to me, everyone is entitled to their opinion afterall, but it was especially peculiar in this case because my ¨mom¨was the coordinator of the program, and thus one would expect her of all people to be accepting of us. I spent a fair chunk of my first night ranting in my journal about how miserable and disappointed I was. I was singled out and laughed at repeatedly, forced to eat away from the family, and generally alientated. I felt stupid, targeted, and embarrassed to be in my own skin.
As the days went by, however, my feelings about the campo became increasingly more complex and my bitterness began to dissipate. It was clear that my initial negative impressions were not the result of some inherent fact about the people that lived in this area, but rather the result of interacting with a woman who was a genuine jerk. My saving grace in the campo arrived in the form of six boys, ranging in age from about eight to twelve. Unlike my intolerant host-mom, these kids were more than accomodating. They could care less about our broken Spanish, politics, or the terrible historical relationship between our countries. They just wanted to play, to goof around, to wrestle, and to share their mountain-sized playground with us. It was a bit uncomfortable to think about the opportunities they would never have simply because of where they were born. More often than not though, it was impossible to think bad thoughts in the presence of their constant laughter and irrepresible ebullience. Through their acceptance we were granted greater access to the community and got to have some fun in the meantime.
Our glimpse of campo-life was brief, only five days, but it left me with some questions that will likely remain unresolved for some time to come. For example, how I can reconcile the fact that I enjoy the comforts of my life in the states with the fact that that very comfort is a direct result of the historic and continued suppression by my country of marginalized populations around the world.
The way of life I observed in the campo was certainly different than what I´m accustomed to. They begin their day at an hour that´s closer to my typical bed time than my typical alarm time. They then spend that day engaged in chores that are literally essential to their survival. Meals are, by and large, the same thing day in and day out, comprised of food grown on the spot and accented with home made coffee. When the work of the day is done families gather together. The one I was with chose to spend their nights playing cards, socializing, and laughing at the occasional wayward gringo crashing at their place.
I respect the austerity and simplicity of this lifestyle, it undoubtedly has a certain romantic allure to it when juxtaposed alongside the superficial ridiculousness that often defines life in the US. At the same time however, I like being able to go to school. I like being able to have time to read and learn. Most of all, I like having the freedom to choose the kind of life I want to live. That was something that seemed noticeably absent in the lives of many of the campesinos I met. We all have limitiations and obstacles that stand between our present selves and the people we want to become, but it seemed to me that in the campo, those walls are nearly insurmountable. It´s not a position I envy.
It´s hard to say exactly what I learned from this fascinating place. It´s going to take some time for everything to sink in. I simultaneously feel like I know infinitely more and less about what ¨the good life¨is supposed to look like. I don´t know. I have no elegant way to conclude this rambling. I guess I´m still learning...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A day in Granada...
About a week ago we made a trip to the historic city of Granada. Lo and behold, we found a marketplace straight out of Aladin...
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