Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Doña Coco's Kids


The mud began to dry at last. Each day of sun made the roads more passable. This particular road stretches 7 hours to San Pancho, which had served as one of my bases for visits to productors in the campo. Each day I saw more families make the long trek from their home in the campo to the big city of Bluefields. The other day I was shocked to find a FUNCOS productor whosde farm I´d visited in Las Breñas, bathing with her dfaughter by the bridge on my road, having just arrived after an 8 hour hike from her home. Likewise, large trucks from Bluefields began to venture up the road carrying all sorts of provisions for these far flung communities, who normally receive all they need by boats that travel up and down river.

The drying of the road meant that I could finally leave the farm without my rubber boots, though I have to stomp harder as I walk the path to the farm to avoid startling any snakes in the tall grass. Under these conditions we could also welcome Doña Coco's kids, a group of street children that are gathered daily and informally for breakfast, lunch, and a bit of life coaching. Each day they made the four hour round trip hike to the farm in their chinelas, or flip flops. And so began my work with local kids at the farm.

In my past three years working at Groundwork Somerville, I would lead a week long April Vacation camp for elementary aged kids, where we would cook our own meals, prep the soil and sow seeds, visit a nearby rural farm, and explore the environment through "urban adventure hikes." This week brought me back to those vacation camps and my work with students in Somerville who are not so different from these children. However, Doña Coco's kids, endearingly called, have little to no support from parents or other family members. With poor influences at home, drug and alcohol abuse, few show up to school and many work the streets. Ranging in age from 8- 17, they are used to looking out for each other and operate like a group of orphaned brothers. They come by Doña Coco's mess hall each day to receive meals (supported by an American gifting $200/ month) and a little positive influence that hopefully encourages them to continue with their schooling.

They came each day to double dig the rows for the vegetable garden and germination area, that I had long become tired of pick- axing alone. They showed up ready to work, though their attention waned after 45 minutes, much like the Somerville students, and before long, I began to see stones hurled over my head. The first day I saw two kids tumbling and throwing punches out in the field. I waited to see how the supervisors would handle the conflict. When no one stepped in, all forty kids grabbed a stone or a tool and ran out into the field Lord of the Flies style. I realize I have a long way to go in understanding the way adults rear children here. Regardless, after that day, I laid down my own rules of the farm. It was obvious to me that the children were eager to receive a bit of forceful direction and rules, paired with kindness and caring.

On their first day, as their attention began to wane in the field, I tested their innocense by teaching them the famed "worm rap" that I have been teaching kids in Somerville for three years. Many being Creol speakers, I was able to teach them the rap in English with no trouble and for the remainder of the week, from all parts of the farm you could hear kids calling out the verses and swaggering their hips along to the beat. It was this sweet and earnest showing of interest to learn and to behave like the children that they are, that warmed my heart and allowed to me to look beyond their occasional inappropriate actions, the way one eight year old would follow me around talking to me like a sex object because that's what he was used to hearing, or the children who hoarded stones from the farm to throw at dogs on their way home, as well as the boy who lost control and smashed a metal rake over my pointer finger-- there's still a bump.

That Saturday, following a full week of work, I made my way downtown. Immediately I came across one of the children selling fruit on the street. I bought three mandarinas from him and promised he would be back to the farm following New Years. Further down the street I ran into another of the children shining shoes. I offered him a mandarina and sat down to chat for a few minutes. I continued to hear my name or verses of the worm rap called out as I rounded corners of Bluefields Center, each greeting was met by a request to come back to the farm. Just like my experiences with the guys my age I meet at Georgina's Farm, if I encountered them for the first time on the street, I'd likely hear the same hissing or nasty sexual remarks that define my walks through town. However, encountering these youth for the first time on the farm has helped them to understand the gringa and for me to understand them. And in this way Bluefields becomes more of a home to me each day.











************************************************************************************
I am writing now from Granada as I make my way back to Bluefields following a week and a half on beautiful Isla Ometepe, a figure eight island, a volcano in each bubble, that sits in the middle of Lago Nicaragua. I passed my time in the provincial island towns of Balgue, El Madronal, and Merida for the holidays with a terrific mix of locals and travelers from all over the world, who so easily and naturally become good friends when sharing such natural beauty and tranquility. I enjoyed a respite from classic Nica music in favor of guitar sessions and a break from beans and rice in favor of brick oven sourdough bread, honey, jams and tahini that we made on site at the permaculture farm where I stayed. I most enjoyed the way any Nica would strike up a conversation with me if we were walking in the same direction down the road.

The highlight of my trip was encountering an older Ometepeian on the road who, upon hearing that I was from Philly, informed me that he has been living and working at the Showboat Casino in Atlantic City for the past 23 years. We were both headed in the direction of the Fiesta Patronales, an excuse for people to participate in the biggest drunken disaster of a rodeo I've ever seen. He let me ride his horse down the road, treating me to a beer before entering the ring.

Here in Nicaragua, we fell asleep at midnight on Christmas eve to firecrackers going off and parades through town, rather than warm milk and cookies, and woke on Christmas morning to firecrackers going off at 5am, rather than gifts under a tree. A holiday doesn't pass through this country without a loud chorus of firecrackers, some Flor de Cana rum or the local aguardiente, and a couple pinatas.

I am looking forward to returning to the lush Caribbean to continue my work at the Demo Farm and Georgina's farm, possibly splitting my living arrangements between the wonderful family of five living off the grid at the farm, and the peaceful home of Georgina, the Swiss expat, and Berlin, a 26 year old Nicaraguan, who live with two lovely dogs by the bay in barrio Santa Rosa.

Hoping everyone's holidays were overflowing with snowflakes, mulled cider, musical festivities and love.

for excerpts of this blog and another article titled, A Hunger for Compassion, link to SHI´s website:

http://sustainableharvest.org/news-articles/articles/newsletter-articles/a-hunger-for-compassion

for more photos of Doña Coco´s kids at the farm, link to SHIs flickr page:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sustainableharvest/sets/72157621960064797/

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Monday, November 30, 2009

sweet buns and the Caribbean melting pot




The other night I met a wonderful girl my age from Rama Cay, the ancestral home of the Rama poeple. My first night out in 6 weeks-- we spent the night dancing on the docks of Bluefields over a full moon. Upon waking Sunday morning, we purchased supplies in the market and headed to her sisters house for a lesson in cooking the typical foods of the Carribean Coast and the Rama people. We made coconut bread and gallo pinto with coconut (also called coco beans.)

Of course, as I always discover, a cooking lesson at her sisters house really meant a day of sharing, laughing, and cooking with a group of about 8 women and girls and another 10 or so men and children looking on teasing and joking. In between cooking, we feasted on coco beans, freshly caught fish, and platanos, all drenched in sweet coconut milk. The day also included letting the girls comb my hair out and braid it into cornrows, a walk to the pier to see the panga that will take me two hours across the bay to visit the family of 12 in Rama Cay when I return from the campo. I also had a view into one of the poorest barrios in Bluefields; I hid my surprise upon learning that the entire barrio, housing 6- 10 people in each one room house, shares two latrinas, one of which was built at the end of the dock over the bay. We shared language. I learn that in their creole tongue, the Rama people pronounce wood, ewd, and boil, bile and a bellybutton is called a neighbor. I couldn´t understand everything they said but always new when they were poking fun at the gringa.
Gina and Becky are number 6 and 8 of 12 children and their father is the Moravian preacher for the Rama Cay community of 1,000 . The Rama people are an indigenous group who have inhabited the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua for generations. They live along the coast, primarily making a living through fishing and harvesting oysters. Becky works for the Rama government office here in Bluefields, one of many governing bodies that comprises the Autonomous Region or the RAAS. She travels to Rama communitites up and down the coast, educating them about their rights and the state of the governing body.

The Atlantic Coast was populated entirely by indigenous communities until the 1990´s when Mistiso´s from the other side starting migrating here. The Sandanista´s communist tendencies to reform the area led to a good deal of distrust, much land displacement, and, ultimately many Miskitos joined ranks with the Contras or fled to Honduras. Presently the indigenous groups have self rule over natural resources ç, health, education, but the flexibility of the statute defining the RAAS has led to feuding over land and resources between the 7 or 8 indigenous groups. For example, right now the Garifuna community in Monkey Point, who arrived on Rama soil generations ago accidentally by fault of a shipwreck, are now trying to grab up more land to the north of them. This has led to a feud between the Rama and Garifuna people, who plan to settle the dispute away from court and without government intervention.

The Garifuna people recently celebrated an annual holiday in their ancestral home of Pearl Laguna and Orinoco, just north of Bluefields. They celebrate with traditional sugar cane drink and dancing. The punta and soka dancing of the Caribbean coast has traveled to Bluefields, helping to make the city one of the most musically diverse cities in Central America.

Bluefields likes to bump and grind to their music on full volume, blasting from taxi, porch, storefront, or panga parked on the docks. A deep creole voice serves up reggae, roots, soka, pubnta, Palo de Mayo, and dance hall music on one of Bluefields 9 radio stations. The screaming voice of the Spanish speaking dj is sure to play the country songs of Mexico and the U.S., religious Mariachi choruses, latino love songs, and, of course, salsa.

There isn´t a young creole girl in town who can´t shake her hips as fast as a hummingbird flaps its wings and these girls pour into the streets in costume, accompanied by drum and marimba, on holidays and for the entire month of may to celebrate Palo de Mayo.

Speaking of holidays, for Christmas, I have received several invitations, each followed by a description of the food that is customarily served up in their neck of the woods. The most tempting offer so far is to join the farm manager hçand her family who live in the creole barrio, Beholden in Bluefields. For Christmas, each family cooks a creole version of coconut chili and then walks from house to house in their neighborhood to sample each others tasty soup and visit with friends and family. Reminds me of the Poultney Chili Cookoff, which I recounted with fondness to Carla.

Among Rama families that same tradition is observed but with Coconut Sweet buns. Enjoy the recipe that follows and let me know if you give it a try! In the meantime, my mouth waters when I imagine the potato pancakes I´ll be cooking up for my family to celebrate Hanukah, upon my return to Bluefields in a week.


Coconut Sweet Buns

Chop the husk off of two coconuts, using machete. Drink the milk and then break the shell into large pieces to grate over a large coconut grater. Once finished, was the coconut meat three times byt adding water and then straining. The third time, add three bowls (about 5 cups) of water and then set aside.

Next, in a large bowl add 5 pounds flour, 2 packs of instant yeast, a spoonful of cinnamonm, freshly grated nutmeg, and one cup of raisins. Add one stick butter and blend with hands while adding 1 and a 1/2 pounds sugar to the mix.

Strain the coconut mix, saving the water for use. Slowly add the coconut milk to the flour mix while kneading. Save a 1/2 cup of the milk for glazing. Once added continue kneading the dough. Place dough on a large wooden table and knead, separating the dough into two loaves. Cut about 20 or 25 slices into the two loaves. Take the first piece and pull, knead, and stretch the dough into a long strand of dough. Place one end of the strand down and gently wrap the remainder around and around forming a coil. This activity is best done with friends and family.

Once finished, allow the buns to rise for about one hour (in warm weather!) Then set a giant pot over hot coals on the fire. Place a piece of metal over the top and build a fire. Once the fire is hot and the buns have doubled in size, lift the metal cover with the fire and place buns along the bottom of the pot. Replace the fire over top the pot and allow to bake for about 5 minutes or until the buns are a slightly browned on the outside.

Once cool, glaze each bun with a mixture of coconut milk and sugar. Serve fresh off the fire to everyone you know.

Friday, November 27, 2009

La Gringa se fue a La Capia

Inspired by my brothers´ recent blog entry about his ventures into the Mosques of Mali, I have decided to recount my experiences visiting Evangelical Church with my host family in the heart of the campo.

Everyday for three weeks I awoke at 5am to the deep baritone singing of the elder brothers and the choir boy altos of the younger brothers belting evangelical hymns in harmony as they milked the cows, swept the chicken coop, drew water from the well, and fed the pigs. At first I thoroughly enjoyed the beauty in this routine. Naturally, however, I came to miss my music that speaks to complexities and ironies, recounts stories and events. While we worked together in the field, I began to call upon a dozen or so songs that I would hum to myself as the brothers, 6 of them ranging in age from 12 to 26, sang of their undying love for God, their glorious savior.

As is typical in the U.S., there are more fervent Christians living in rural areas. Here, the most obvious way in which I encountered the religious fervor of the campo, was the age in which girls married and bore children. I´ve never felt so old as I did living with the 40 year old mother of 7, grandmother of two. Her daughter, 19 was mother to a 4 and 1 year old. They had quite the work crew to maintain the farm as the father and I traveled each day to the surrounding neighbors, productors of Cosecha Sostenible, to model techniques and assist them in their work. It was common that we would visit productors, age 25 whose eldest child was 12, quickly approaching the age of marriage. Here, the division of labor was more deliberate than I´d encountered with my family in Bluefields, and so children were brought up learning the work of a mother or the work of a father. Naturally, by 14 they were prepared, in practicality, for motherhood and fatherhood and maintained adequate maturity, though many could not read or write. I found irony in marrying so young when I learned that many women in the campo live till 120 years, often riding a mule till their very last years!

Beyond the hymns and the marital customs, I´d come to understand Evangelical Christianity one other way. The mother of my family, Marta, was a strong force to reckon with. She reared 7 children, left her first child with her grandmother to fight as a guerilla in the northern hills with the Sandanistas during the revolution, she woke each day at 5am and barked orders from dawn till dusk, and when she spoke about her God, she spoke with an intensity that made me weary. I appreciated that Marta was not like other women of the campo who slinked in corners, and spoke in whispers.

Marta had explained once that only those who were honest Evangelicals, who swore off alcohol, dancing, adultery, premarital sex, etc were allowed into their church in the presence of the lord. However, most nights from 6- 8pm we pumped the generator and 12 of us piled onto the floor in front of the family´s one luxury: the television. After some time, I actually began to look forward to the Mexican telenovela we watched from 6-7pm that was straught with two- timing women and strutting, drunk cowboys. The one hour of Luche Libre, or World Wrestling, that followed was so tragically bad but so loved in the house. I often wondered, during this time, whether a beer and a good dance was any worse than cheering for "the Undertaker" to beat the shit out of "Jericho."

One night we were having one of our typical English lessons, where the brothers inch closer to me as they ask me the meaning of this or that random phrase or point to words in the dictionary, names of their favorite WWF wrestlers, phrases on their shirt (my two favorites: "if you can read this, pull me out of the snow" written upside down, and "my boyfriend is cuter when I´m intoxicated.") That night the brothers wanted to know how many names we had in the States. In the campo, each person has two first names and two last names. I learned that Ismael´s middle name was Darwin, which seemed appropriate since he´d acquired the nickname monkeyboy, for his fearlessness in leaping from the tree overhanging the river. I explained the connection between Darwin and the adaptation of man. Just then, the second eldest son and most fervent believer, interrupted and asked, "You don´t believe that man adapted from monkey, do you?" Suddenly the mom was standing over me and all 6 brothers looking at me questioningly. I said I do believe in science though I can make space for the story of creation, too. Jader tells me that the science is not true. "God made man..." I try to explain how many believers have found peace with both truths. Albaro, my favorite son, who travels by mule to attend school on the weekends instead of church, turns to me quietly and tells me that he´s read in his science book about the adaptation of man. I smile and nod as the mother begins her preaching, her voice escalating. I drown her out, singing in my head, "Give me that old time religion, give me that old time religion, give me that old time religion, if it´s good enough for Jesus than it´s good enough for me."

We woke the next morning, Sunday, and prepared for our two our trek to church. Though a bit nervous after the discussion from the night before, I felt a trip to church with the family would be a fun adventure and an interesting eye into the life of families in the campo. The boys took turns polishing cowboy boots. We saddled the mules, enough so that each young child could ride accompanied by an adult. The rest of us put our skirts and shoes in a bag and pulled on our rubber boots and jeans for the two hour hike to church, also called culto, or worship, in Spanish. As we hiked over log bridges, through knee deep mud, up steep clay inclines, and through jungle brush, we encountered neighbors along the way; the families of the productors whose farms I´d visited the week before. I came to understand just how central their weekly trek to church was in the social scene of the campo. We arrived and washed mu from our arms and legs with water from the river and then piled into a wooden changing room where women and children changed, combed hair and sprayed parfume (the women don´t believe they should where makeup, however.)

I sat on a wooden bench surrounded by the women and children I had come to know well over the past few weeks. The mariachi band began playing as we stood to sing the songs I had come to memorize. The people sang along, clapping to show they were believers. Women and men sat separately but women led the service. Men, women, and children took turns coming up the front to lead us in a song and the mariachi band accompanied. The songs I´d come to detest had taken on a new beauty backed up by guitarron and accordian or belted by earnest five year olds who voluntarily came to stage. The service was simple and direct. Each person who came to the stage called out a little chant that began, "Who is our savior?" and everyone responded "Jesus." "and Where does he live..."

The pastor stood and shouted his hour long sermon through a microphone that was powered by a generator. This seemed unnecessary, I thought, as my head began to pound. Though the pastor was a small man, his voice was loud enough for our modest group in the small wooden room. The sermon began with ¨there is only one answer..." a simple message, I thought. There was an element of a town meeting that followed, as the church community was trying to raise funds to higher a school teacher and build a schoolhouse for the children of Las Breñas. The service ended with an eruption of prayer in the form of chanting, calling, yelling, clapping, and arms thrown up into the air. We then kissed and hugged our neighbors and filed out of the stuffy room into the bright midday sun where women pedaled fried sweet yucca, enchaladas, corn cookies, and ice cream (bumble gum favored water frozen in a plastic sandwich bag) to make some much needed cash.

I had come to understand that church fulfilled all the elements of life in the campo, socializing, vending (one single mother saddled clothes she purchased in the nearest city to her mule each week and was solely responsible for clothing the entire community of Las Breñas), music and dance, fundraising and organizing, education and spiritual belief.

We trekked back towards our homes, one big pack of mules and rubber boots, and borrowed instruments, chatting as we speed walked back over bridge, through river, up cañon, past jungle brush... I hugged families goodbye as they peeled off, promising to send photos and possibly return before my departure.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Alé con los lombrices en la Finca de Georgina.
Mujeres estan lavando sus ropas en el caño.
La Puente en barrio Santa Rosa.
Chicas en uniforme.
Calle San Pedro.
Povo por Thanksgiving.
Randy esta agradando la mierda de la vaca a ll lombrizhumus.

el construcción de la casa en la Finca Demostrativa.
reflecciónes.
construccíon en la calle San Pedro.
ropas se secan en la alambre


una tienda tipica
loteria
uno de los productores del FUNCOS en su finca

una vaca se atascada en al lodo
panga y botas al lado del Kukra River.
Don Ramon con uno de los productores en San Pancho.
viajamos debajo del Kukra River con plantas por los productores.
Maritza con helado tipico.
Finca La Perla en communidad Las Breñas. Vive acqui por tres semanas con una familia de doce.
Carlita antes de nuetros leccion de nadar.
Isaac esta prcesando arroz.

Un Domingo tranquilo alrededor la Finca Demostrativa.
Samuel y Juan Gabriel se aprende a jugar alhedrez.
Lucy esta comiendo una tortilla.
La muñeca del Maritza esta secando en el sol.
Encontri Lawrence del Green Mountain College en la calle en Granada.
Juxtaposición en Granada.
La Iglesia Alteva en Granada.
Granada a la seis de la mañana.
Mi guia en Granada. El parque de las peomas.
Bañando en La Laguna.

Kiara Y Julio al lado del Lago Nicaragua.
La Calle San Pedro. Viajamos en el lodo para el centro.
Cerdo para vender.