La Vida en la Motocicleta

Three times a week I hop on the back of my boss´ motocicleta to climb out of the city and into the mountainous farmlands. As soon as we cross the PanAmericana Highway, we are on the dirt road that passes Cuban- owned tobacco fields and long wooden drying houses. 25 km from Esteli we leave the flat road and begin the ascent through the Miraflor Reserve, Area Protegida Miraflor. Among the 200 square kilometers of the Reserve and the dozens of communities scattered between the low zone (900 m above sea level), the intermediate zone, (1200 m above sea level), and the high zone´s cloud forests (1450 m above sea level), the families have formed 11 distinct cooperatives -- several women powered-- brought together by the Union de Cooperativas Agropecuarias Heroes y Martires de Miraflor, my new employers. For 20 years, the UCA Miraflor has been helping the families of these cooperatives become economically and politically stable while improving their quality of life, through microfinance programs, agritourism programs, organic coffee production, and now a Belgian funded program called, Huertos Familiares, classically my next calling. These northern hills were a Sandanista stronghold during a very bloody war that anyone over the age of 35 could recall with clarity. It is obvious from the character of the families who live here, that they rallied their cooperative (and socialist) spirit to fend off the Contras coming over the hills from Honduras, on their way to overthrow the government in the capital.


Back in January and February, I was working with Grupo Libertad Bluefields on the Caribbean Coast; a drug rehabilitation center set on a one acre farm in barrio San Mateo. Though I was in the midst of finding my way through this new work and enjoying the deep relationships one builds in such an intense setting, I was still aware of certain goals I had set at the onset of this trip to Nicaragua. So, I wrote a friend doing agriculture work through a Fullbright Scholarship in the Northwest. I had an idea that I might like to work with cooperative farmers (of coffee or cacao, most likely), learning more about the intricacies of international trade of organic and fair trade commodities and the advantages of Central American farming cooperatives while putting my own skills to use helping these farming families establish diverse kitchen gardens of fruits and vegetables to feed the land and their families, many of whom statistically live on less than two dollars a day. She pointed me in the direction of a project she had recently visited in the UCA Miraflor doing just that.

Deciding when and how to leave Bluefields became incresingly hard as I was building stronger relationships each day with the guys in the program; the goal of the program being that these guys come daily and continue to come through the months, and sometimes years, of their rehabilitation. I had formed a special relationship with one 16 year old whose mom had left with her lover for Panama the Christmas before, leaving him and his 6 siblings in Bluefields. We would take daily walks to the docks before we set off in opposite directions for home. Another guy my age, whom I worked closely with each day to pass on some projects I had started, had sworn off drugs as of New Years but had hit a terrible hurdle when his older sister was accidently shot in the neck walking through her barrio one night, nearly escaping death. I had deep respect for the methods we enlisted at Georgina´s Finquita as I saw how much the guys depended on this sanctuary during some of their hardest struggles. I also felt especially grateful that in a culture where I was so bothered by the male- female dynamic, I was able to cultivate positive and healthy relationships between the guys and myself; a necessary social education among families of drug addiction in the coast.

Ironically, the house of four women, in which I had been so excited to invest my energy, soon took on a visitor, my friend Randy, who had been working with Grupo Libertad Bluefields for 7 years, first as a youth in need of assistance, and then as a promotor and co- coordinator of the program. Some relationships formed (and others were fractured) within the house that were unexpected, which I was expected to accept at home and cover up at work. The balance we had struck combining work and home had dissolved overnight and my decision to leave was made easier when, on the night of my birthday, my good friend and roommate Berlin had packed her belongings after seven years and we were exchanging tearful goodbyes. A week later I was hopping the waves in a panga headed to the Pacific Coast, having hosted a goodbye dinner, exchanged goodbyes with my family in San Pedro, hand delivered letters to the youth at GLB, and parted ways with my housemates in Santa Rosa. I left behind a bag of belongings that I will return for to help celebrate the first rains in May by dancing the Maypole, a month- long Bluefields tradition. On my last day at GLB, I tried my best to honor these guys who had opened up to me, spoke freely about their struggles in our daily circles, and fought a daily battle of staying put to face their problems rather than run away; Bluefields is no easy place to grow strong and keep faith.

With my sister's visit cancelled due to snow, my first stop on the Pacific Coast was the city of heroes, martyrs, and poets; Estelí. I took to the atmosphere of the UCA Miraflor office as soon as I walked in the door for my interview. As well as the way my Belgian coworker, Siska, (who left today) had been pulled into the folds. I am working as assistant to the tecnico brought on to direct the Huertos Familiares project. We are in our second year of the program, embarking on an ambitious goal set at the onset to increase the number of participating families from 70 to 170 (with an overall goal of working with 200 families over three years and insuring 80% retention beyond the program´s completion.) Among the unique and somewhat complex layout of the UCA Miraflor, its communities and cooperatives, we organize ourselves by working directly with 20 promotores among the 11 cooperatives, who, in turn, oversee the successful establishment and implementation of these 170- 200 huertos of the productores. In the midst of the dry season, some families without access to water are unable to plant and so we take this time to construct beds and build up abono, the various methods of fertilizing and composting. As we sign up the 100 new families and 10 new promotors, we will also engage them in the second set of capacitacíones, (I dare you to say that 10 times fast) or workshops. I am writing this on the heels of our first successful capacitacíon, and am most impressed by the strong female spirit among our group of promotores. stay tuned for the manual, Establecimiento del Huertos Familiares.

And so, like my ideal world, we bounce back and forth between the campo of Miraflor and the city of Estelí. In the office, I indulge in, if not at times rip my hair out, at the classic Nica office culture. This involves entering the office at 8, greeting evey person with a handshake and an upbeat exchange, slowly enter offices, turn on lights and computers and wait for the chatty 70 year old assistant, Doña Tina, to make our delicious organic coffee before we attempt to work. During meetings it is common for the facilitator to stop talking to answer his or her cell phone by saying, Diga me, tell me. At the Junta Directiva´s meeting I relished in the bickering, poublic nose picking, and the way each of them constantly cut off the other. The outcomes of these meetings are entirely unrecognizable to the foreigner. After a lunch break long enough to walk home and back, and a lazy afternoon, the joke among foreigners is that at 5 pm, everybody jumps up from their conversations to stay late and do productive work for a final hour.

On my last moto trip to Miraflor, I counted 14 families whose homes we passed by throughout the day, some a twenty minute hike uphill. These trips to Miraflor are a true lesson in rural hospitality, which I recognize as far friendlier and less inhibited than my experiences in the campo outside Bluefields. We pass by the homes of promotors to drop off seeds or an invitation to a workshop that will take place the following week. We are offered a seat at each home, and we sit to chat. Many of our promotors are women and they converse from the kitchen as they prepare our refreshment. Days in the campo are a constant negotiation in being a good guest by accepting the fresca, warm milk, experimental hibiscus wine, coffee, lunch, or whatever happens to be sitting on their clay stovetop at the time, hoping the collected rain water used to make my drink will not make me sick, or that the host will not be offended when I return a half finished glass. It seems mandatory that we sit 20 minutes, regardless of whether we were due at a meeting down the road 5 minutes earlier, that will likely start one hour late. If we arrive at someone´s house at noon, we sit until a steaming hot lunch arrives on our laps. There is no embarassment in this exchange, as it is a complement to the cook whose house we arrive at in time for lunch. Each visit includes a farm walk through their huerto, examining discolored leaves, stunted saplings, harvesting camote or yucca to examine their size and the size of the harvest, and then accept a portion of the harvest to bring back to the city, offering suggestions and complements on their work.

Now that I have learned how to comfortably ride the moto, sitting behind Modesto, and have added the luxury of listening to music on the hour and a half ride to and from Miraflor, I relish these adventures. I am coming to recognize turns in the road and changes of scenery. We drive up out of the dusty, dry lowlands, and into the high zone where the air is cool and fresh and the forests of pine and barbaro del viejo (nickname for a tree that looks like an old man´s beard) drip with the moistness of the cloud forests. We pass vistas, waterfalls, streams, orchid forests, zopilote and quetzales, children hiking to school, young couples walking hand in hand, and groups of college students engaging in service opportunities and bathing in the sun during their spring break. We pass one productors house on our way back down to buy eggs and tomatoes, and always time our return trip to the colorful sunset over the canyons, which keeps a smile on my face even as I begin to lose feeling in my legs. We come down the final hills with the view of our city all lit up.

MODELOS ECONÓMICOS

EXPLICADOS CON VACAS

SOCIALISMO
Tienes 2 vacas. Tienes que regalarle una a tu vecino.

COMUNISMO
Tienes 2 vacas. El estado te las quita y te regala un poco de la leche.

FASCISMO
Tienes 2 vacas. El estado te las quita y te vende un poco de la leche.

NAZISMO
Tienes 2 vacas. El estado te las quita y te fusila.

BUROCRACIA
Tienes 2 vacas. El estado te las quita, mata una, ordeña a la otra y tira toda la leche.

CAPITALISMO TRADICIONAL
Tienes 2 vacas. Vendes una y con el dinero compras un toro. Tu rebaño se multiplica y la economía crece. Entonces inviertes en Wall Street comprando bonos "Absolute Return Security"... Al poco tiempo pierdes todo. tu esposa te pide el divorcio y el banco se queda con tu casa, el auto y hasta con tus pantuflas.

CORPORACIÓN AMERICANA
Tienes 2 vacas. Vendes una y obligas a la otra a producir la leche de 4 vacas.
Después contratas un consultor para analizar por qué la vaca cayó muerta.

CORPORACIÓN FRANCESA.
Tienes 2 vacas. Vas al paro, organizas disturbios y cortas las carreteras y todo el transporte para exigirle al estado 3 vacas.

CORPORACIÓN JAPONESA.
Tienes 2 vacas. Las rediseñas para que tengan una décima parte de su tamaño natural, y para que produzcan veinte veces más leche que una vaca normal.
Luego lanzas una campaña de mercadeo mundial con un dibujo animado que se llama el 'VacaMón'.

CORPORACIÓN ALEMANA
Tienes 2 vacas. Mediante un proceso de re-ingeniería las haces vivir 100 años, comer una vez al mes y ordeñarse solas.

CORPORACIÓN ITALIANA
Tienes 2 vacas. No sabes dónde están.
Decides ir a almorzar.

CORPORACIÓN CHINA
Tienes 2 vacas. Tienes 300 personas ordeñándolas.
Afirmas tener pleno-empleo y alta productividad bovina.
Arrestas al reportero que publica la verdadera situación.

CORPORACIÓN INDIA
Tienes 2 vacas...a las que adoras!

CORPORACIÓN BRITÁNICA
Tienes 2 vacas. Las 2 están locas.

CORPORACIÓN RUSA
Tienes 2 vacas. Las cuentas y tienes 5.
Las cuentas de nuevo y te da 4. Las vuelves a contar y tienes 2.
Dejas de contar vacas y te tomas otra botella de vodka.

CORPORACIÓN IRAQUÍ
No tienes vacas pero los gringos dicen que si.
Nadie te cree así que te bombardean e invaden.
Igual sigues sin tener ni una vaca, pero por lo menos ahora eres parte de una 'Democracia'.

CORPORACIÓN AUSTRALIANA
Tienes 2 vacas.
Como el negocio va bastante bien cierras la oficina y vas por unas cervezas para celebrar.


CORPORACIÖN SUIZA
Tienes 5000 vacas. Ninguna te pertenece pero le cobras a los dueños por guardarlas, haces polvo todo lo que producen y lo pones a la venta en latas en todo el mundo y lo peor es que en todo el mundo te lo compran.

the month of the blue moon

I arrived in Nicaragua with shirts in shades of charcoal gray, navy blue, and brown. While the sun fades the color of my shirts, it darkens the color of my skin. My arms and legs look like a topographical map, mountain ranges of insect bites and plant irritations are the norm. Though my blood runs sweet for the local zancudos, my immune system can now tolerate well water from the farm and ice from the street, sold by the cordoba from neighbor's front porches. Many Nica's, at first glance, curiously think I hail from Spain. Lately I have been impressed that I can make it through a conversation in a store and still get asked if I am Spanish! My 27th birthday on Thursday will mark four months that I've been in Nicaragua. Its hard to believe that all the experiences I have had here thus far are cosolidated into such a short period of time. Time passes in surges of change, uprooting and rerooting, followed by simple days of farm work, rice and beans, the company of my housemates, and and my trusty novel before bed.

January has proven to be a month of changes, as I returned from Ometepe to a grueling week of work and hurried preparations at the FUNCOS farm in unseasonably cool rains in anticipation of the SHI board of directors meetings. This was followed by my grand finale week with FUNCOS/ SHI accompanying the staff of Sustainable Harvest International from four Central American Countries and the U.S. on a weeklong jornada, or conference. Now I am residing with three lovely women of very varied backgrounds (we are Swiss, American, Creol, and Mistizo) in beautiful barrio Santa Rosa, by day working with them side by side at the finquita in San Mateo, home to Grupo Libertad Bluefields, a project that in so many ways feels like putting on an old pair of slippers; familiar, cozy, always a perfect fit. In this post, I would like to offer more detail about the type of agricultural projects I have been involved in, realizing as I look back through my posts, that most of my entries offer more about the culture and scenery of my current home, than the type of work I wake up to each day.

The day I arrived home from Ometepe, I found the FUNCOS tecnicos at the farm. We spent the week rushing to prepare the farm and office/ conference space for the arrival of the SHI board of directors and tecnicos from Belize, Honduras, and Panama. On our part, we worked to plant fruit trees in the reforestation area; citrus, cacao, coco, mango, papaya, and several trees that provide wood for harvest and construction. We planted the trees in the shade of other trees, that grow naturally in the damp jungle of the farm. We minimally disrupted the landscape, by using a sharpened stick to move aside the thick grass on the forest floor, then a smaller version of a metal hoe to dig out a circle of earth where we would plant each tree. A machete is used to clean the ground beforehand so that snakes pose minimal threat to us as we trample through.

In the gardens, where I had spent most of my time working, we finished our final double dug raised beds and began the work of clearing the second parcel of land, using two hoes to smooth every bump and ridge; very taxing work. I was frustrated that the vegetable seeds planted in the first beds never came up. I was sure they wouldnt emerge from the clay soil, with added sand, totally lacking in organic material. Though the farmer had prioritized the huerto over the compost, we had been maintaining our lombrihumus, or wormbin (fed only cow manure) for a longtime. I am not sure where the incredibly rich fertilizer ended up, but certainly not in the beds. Without greenhouses, it seems farmers here don't practice the art of seed starting in light, airy soil, like I am used to. My frustration mainly came from my inability to impress my doubts on the farmer, whose mild case of machismo did not allow for my input in such matters. I was appeased this week as tecnicos and regional directors approached me in hushed voices to ask my opinion about our work in the huerto, often noting that by this time, the start of the dry season, our beds should be budding with seedlings.We worked from dawn to dusk each day and on Monday morning welcomed the guests. Monday and Tuesday we divided into work groups. The Belizeans taught us to construct a water catchment tank of cement. This tank would feed water into the water filtration system, a project led by the Panameans, in which layers of seasoned sand would filter water fed through pipes and tubes by gravity; the natural bacteria in the top layer of sand removing impurities from the water. The Hondurans set to work demonstrating how to set up a drip irrigation system, also carrying water from the tank. This system is most commonly used by organic farmers in the U.S. but proved new and exciting-- though expensive-- to the tecnicos of Nicaragua. I had the opportunity to translate for a board member from New Hampshire, who led a workshop on how to set up a small solar panel, that we would install later in the FUNCOS office in San Pancho that is currently without electricity. The panels will power a laptop, recharge batteries and cell phones, and power the radio and lights. I wonder how this will shape the experience of the tecnicos in the office, which I remember as sharing the space of one room, passing the time when not working sitting in plastic chairs talking or staring off. At night we hunkered down on mats on the floor, listening to a battery powered radio by candlelight, usually falling asleep by 9pm. At the conclusion of one of our trips to the campo, we were invited by the tecnicos of a Spanish- funded organization doing similar work to our own, to a party of the tecnicos (ours and theirs) at their office, equipped with internet and electricity. The excitement of having electricity for the first time in a month led us to get sloshed on Flor de Cana Rum playing Catalonian drinking games and dancing till the wee hours of night, completely forgetting that we would be waking at 4:30am to meet pangas of saplings on the riverbank.
The office in San Pancho had been the perfect transition to carry us from the city into the campo where living was very basic. There tecnicos spend two or three weeks in a row visiting productors from a home base. I learned that the tecnicos of the other three countries can travel to productors by bus and foot, or by dirt bike, where the Nica tecnicos travel by mule and foot over rough, muddy terrain, at times unpassable. The tecnicos visit each productor once every month or every other month, each time introducing a specific, predetermined topic, depending on the time of year. The demo farm has instituted many of the techniques that tecnicos have been teaching and demonstrating for years in the campo. To name a few: diez pulagadas or square foot gardening with double dug rows, compost piles, lombrihumus or worm bins fed with cow manure, shade growing fruit trees, composting latrinas. The greatest challenges of the productors are the poor, clay soils, heavy rainfall 9 months out of the year (these families grow for themselves only, as transporting products to market is impossible), access to affordable seeds, insects preying on fruit trees, and disease prevension, which often plague cacao trees. When asked, one tecnico mentioned that there aren't enough research programs in universities in the greater Central American region offering advice on pest prevention. Hopefully, with a new agroecology program at the national university on Managua, this will change.
After saying goodbye to the U.S. Board of Directors Tuesday night, we set out early the next morning to Rama, where the tecnicos would participate in a weeklong training. Staff took turns presenting on microfinance, environmental education, evaluation and goals, integrated pest management. The educational highlight of the trip was a day long training in the production and management of cacao. We visited a farm where we had the opportunity to practice grafting trees, a difficult process of F1 reproduction of the tree, followed by a visit to a cacao cooperative where we saw a bit of the processing of cacao. I learned that Taza Chocolate, a small Somerville chocolate company, is set to begin buying cacao from SHI Belize producers this season.In between all this exciting exchange of knowledge and lively discussion, we took nightly forays to the local discos around Rama, the Belizeans always leading the crew. At the discos, the ladies weren't given a minute's rest as we were pulled to our feet again and again by the older male coworkers, who were ecstatic to be in the company of such beatiful young women. On my part, I was delighted to dance among friends and coworkers, rather than be submitted to the usual Bluefields crowd. Though Rama is not the most enticing city to visit, it proved to be a great place for dancing; a city where East meets West, and the cowboys of the campo meet the urban village. Salsa, Merengue, Bachata, Reggaeton, Ranchero Mexicano, and the favorite reggae tunes of Bluefields (an incessant five song rotation.) We would return to our hotel rooms, our feet exhausted, in time to nap a bit before another packed day of workshops began.
For me, these two weeks represented the first time I had felt fully alive and free in Bluefields. On the farm, the nine year old would correct me if I washed the rice four times instead of three and the mother would always find my rubber boots and wash them inside and out before I had the chance. At my new home, my housemates often look over my shoulder while I make fried plantains. In a city that is so diverse, variety is not always welcome. Often I feel like I am bouncing between two worlds here, as the experience of living with a traditional family in the campo is very different than living and working with the Creol Community; both equally set in their ways, however. For Mistizo families, you either belong to the Catholic Church or the Evangelical Church and for Creol families, you might belong to the Moravian or Baptist church. In Bluefields, you either make gallo pinto with coconut or without and platanos verde are cut and fried one way, while platanos maduro are cut and fried another way. Stifling for someone who loves to experiment in the kitchen! The week that we welcomed the SHI board and staff to the farm, I believe many of my coworkers and host families saw me in a new light as I floated between them, the Creol/English speaking Belizeans, and the board members, with whom I could speak animatedly about my work here as well as the work I'd left behind in Boston, the program coordinator/ community organizer in me coming back for the first time since I'd arrived here.

I had been nervous about returning from Ometepe to Bluefields and had not been looking forward to my birthday. Leaving Boston where my life and job represented my passions and professional goals to come here had made me feel young in many ways, as I communicated like a 12 year old, 9 year olds tell me how to wash my clothes, 20 year olds try to pick me up on the street, and most people my age have more than one child (80% of babies are born to women under the age of 17.) Farmers tell me how to plant tomatoes, not stopping to ask how I would do it. And I am humbled again and again by coworkers and housemates. I am forever grateful to the family I lived with my first three months; for the experience of living and learning from them and their culture. In fact, I am headed there today, as two weeks is too long to stay away! However, homestays are not meant to last forever and I was more than ready to have a bit more control over my daily routine, my work schedule and inhabit a room with a door I can close that does not serve as a tool closet/ toxic waste storage. How timely these transitions have been; moving in with four wonderful women, ranging in age from 20 to 60. Berlin is three days my elder (we celebrated her birthday last night.) Nights are filled with interesting conversation rather than chess tournaments (my Spanish is improving in leaps and bounds.) At the finquita, I participate in the staff meetings, our small staff of four now perfectly complements each other. Randy enjoys the bigger construction projects on the farm and is eager to work with the humanure and cow manure/ worm bin operation while I am ecstatic to have responsibility over planning and planting our gardens, fields of beans, orchards of fruits trees, overhauling the compost; pairing my previous knowledge with the techniques and tools appropriately used by farmers here. In just a few weeks we´ve filled all the beds with veggies and sprouting seedlings and will have greens to eat in a mere three weeks-- a VERY new concept to people here! It seems, I can look forward to my birthday, afterall (an opportunity to cook a delicious meal for friends with total reign over the kitchen!)

Stay tuned for more on my work with Grupo Libertad Bluefields and my recent travels up the Caribbean Cost to the small fishing villages of the Miskitu, Garifuna, Rama, and Creol communities. Change will continue into February as I begin to wrap up my life on the Caribbean Coast and head Northwest to the lush green mountains and farming communities, a revoultionary stronghold and cooperative capital.

Now that I am writing to an audience that is deep in the throws of winter, I look forward to more correspondences and stories from Philly, Vermont, Boston and beyond!

postscript: You may not realize, but you can click on the pictures in these posts to get the full screen view. Makes the picture of cacao blossoming from the tree trunk look dazzling.

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.











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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/

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.