Monday, December 21, 2009

Feliz Navidad

Happy End of 2009 and Beginning of 2010.

I am not sure how it got to be late December without a blog entry. I’ll blame it on kittens. Two kittens, Leo and Luna, whom I adopted on Nov. 1st and who have more or less distracted me from all non-essential activities for the past seven weeks. (‘Essential activities’ being organizing the uniform distribution for 135 Sprout kids, coordinating a week of free clinics put on by VOSH, a team of visiting optometrists, helping several local friends by translating, teaching English classes, working on an article about Ometepe Island for an e-zine…)

I returned from Scotland on Oct. 30, while Pat stayed on doing a bathroom remodel for his sister until Dec. 9. As I mentioned above, however, Leo & Luna kept me company, as well as two other ex-pat women whose husbands were in the north working (to keep us in the manner to which we are accustomed—ha!). November marks the end of the academic year here, and I was invited to several graduation ceremonies, for kids from 4 to 18. I made it to two, and two that couldn’t have been more different. The first was for Milagro, Edwin & Reyna’s youngest, as she proceeds from preschool to kindergarten. As I had to run all over south-central Nicaragua in pursuit of uniform components, Reyna asked me to keep an eye open for a traditional Nicaraguan folkdance outfit in green or yellow for Milagro’s big day. Well I asked everywhere, and was shown wee outfits in white, blue, red… and had about given up when a friend suggested a shop right here in Rivas. Sure enough, they had one tiny green outfit left for $7.50.

The next morning I showed up at the school at the posted time of 9am and promptly waited an hour and a half until the students, parents, teachers, and photographer also appeared. (I will NEVER adapt to Nica Time, not really.) There were a dozen little girls, every one of which was wearing a white outfit. But rather than being embarrassed at her deviation from the pack, Milagro relished the fact she stood out, and was thrilled to be posed in the middle for all the pictures. It was a scene of mildly controlled chaos and the little flowers ran about the classroom, mothers in hot pursuit to fix a ribbon, or apply a fresh smear of lip gloss. Finally the diplomas were handed out, some folksy music was blasted from a boom box, and the children swirled about in a wildly uncoordinated blur for the next ten minutes. Just before everyone dashed outside for the piñata bashing, the photographer assembled them for the formal portrait. Such angels! Then their true natures blossomed once more as they fought for the stick and took turns beating the hell out of Strawberry Shortcake. She survived about 7 minutes. I fled as the tiny white vultures descended upon the fallen sweets in a frenzy.

The second graduation was for Danny Michael, the high school boy I’ve been privately tutoring since last spring. He comes from a comparatively wealthy family, although his dad is a bit of the black sheep and always struggling to earn a living. Danny’s a great kid, though, bright, obsessed with soccer, and ready to head off to university in Managua in March. He was graduating from Our Lady of Fatima, Rivas’ premier private school. I saw more pale skin and suits and ties than I’ve seen since arriving in Nicaragua, with the women dressed for this 4pm ceremony as though headed off to the Oscars. (I felt like the poor relation in a simple skirt and blouse, lamenting a missed opportunity to wear an actual dress.) The first hour took place in the “chapel”, which was larger than most neighborhood churches, and was 95% Catholic mass, 5% graduation. This was followed by a 30 minute break as the masses (there were only 43 kids graduating, but over 500 attendees) moved to the auditorium, also huge. The ceremony differed from the typical US graduation in that the parents played a much bigger role. While the guests all took their seats inside, the parents lined up outside with their kids. Way down in front, the emcee announced each family, and the parent or parents walked their kid down the aisle, wedding-like. I liked that, as it showed that the student hadn’t gotten to that point on his or her own, but through the support, love, and assistance of the parents.

Once everyone was seated, it progressed like a typical graduation, endless speeches from droning politicians and professors, etc. until finally the three valedictorians, all young women, gave their much briefer, much more inspiring versions. The one by one the names were read, and again, the parents escorted their kids up onto the stage, staying with them as they received their diplomas, shook assorted hands, posed for pictures, and hugged the director. Then, at the top of the stairs, the parents descended while the kids took a seat to the right of the stage. It all finally ended with the kids standing and singing a song of their choosing, accompanied by one boy on a guitar. Very moving, really.

The aftermath was the usual flurry of hugs, tears, photo ops, and handshaking. I actually knew two graduates, and saw a number of other locals I’ve met over the years. It was strange and interesting being amongst them, like being in a parallel Nicaragua from the one I’ve inhabited, with its dirt floors and needy kids. Danny’s father, Danilo, told me the majority of parents had spent the revolution years in the US, returning in the early 90’s after things had cooled down. While many of them detested the Somoza government and supported the Sandinista overthrow, being teens and young adults themselves at the time, their own parents wanted them far from harms’ way and sent them packing. Now, they represent the small but powerful minority of businessmen, large-scale farmers, real estate magnates, bankers and politicians trying to keep the Danielistas (Ortega's brand of Sandinismo) from dragging the country back into the dark ages. At this point, it’s impossible to say if they will succeed, as Daniel is hard at work overturning the country’s term laws in order to stay in office another five years…

A few days later I showed up for Danny’s lesson just as they were securing the trailer, complete with pregnant cow, to the back of their Landcruiser. “Oh no! We forgot about class! We’re headed to the other farm to deliver this cow—jump in; you and Danny can practice English on the drive. We’ll be back by lunchtime.” was how I ended up spending the next seven hours with Danny, his younger brother Jose, their dad, and Molina, their friend and Danilo’s right hand man. The drive itself, to Escalante, took nearly two hours, in part because Danilo, always a slow driver, was especially cautious with his bovine cargo in tow, and because the last 15 miles were over roads more rutted and washed out than in tact. We finally pulled off to the side at a gate, left the jeep, and walked, with the cow, another half mile up to the caretaker’s spread. The cow was led off by a cowboy, and Danilo disappeared to test ride a new horse. The boys and I wandered abo0ut for a while, played games on the cell phones, practiced English, chatted with the two teenage boys who lived there, and waited. And waited. After an hour and a half, I said something about a friend expecting me, and too bad there was no cell phone signal or I’d call to let her know what had happened. One of the local boys said, “Oh, you need to make a call? We can walk to the cyber, the Nica term for an internet café. “Here?” Danny, Jose, and I all said. “We’re miles from anywhere!” “It’s about half a mile, up hill, but it works,” said the kid. And off we went. It was a beautiful climb, following a cow trail up and over several hills, across a small stream, around several huge trees. As we got higher, we could see Mombacho, a volcano to the NE, and further up, a hint of the Pacific Ocean to the west. When we got to the top of a rise, the kid said, “Try it now.”, and we all (because Danny and Jose were desperate to text their respective girlfriends; thoroughly modern boys, going through withdrawal.) Sure enough, as we turned and tilted, one by one we got a signal. I called Carolyn, with the wind blowing 40 and all but drowning me out, adding credence to my story. Then the boys climbed a tree, trying to get a better view of the ocean, and then we wound our way back. Danilo returned soon thereafter, and after a yummy snack of twice-fried plantain rounds, we began the slow drive back to Rivas.

A week or so prior, Shelley, one of the other single wives, invited me to go to watch the sea turtles laying their eggs along the southern Pacific beaches. A bunch of us piled into her pickup and we headed west in the late afternoon. Flash photography is prohibited as it stuns and confuses the creatures, so it’s best to arrive just as the sun is setting. We made good time in spite of more atrocious roads, and hit the beach just as the first turtles were coming ashore. On our way down, we encountered a few young men carrying baskets of baby turtles. They explained that they had collected them, recently hatched, and would keep them safe until after dark when they would place them in the water, thus protecting them during the long shuffle from birds, foxes, and other would-be hunters of these tender young morsels.

We watched the mothers make the trek inland, where they would slowly but steadily dig deep holes in the sand with their back flippers, deposit 30-50 eggs, cover them up, and trudge back to sea. The eggs are vulnerable to just about everything, with man being the worst offender. This time of year it is easy to find turtle eggs for sale in the streets and local restaurants, all very hush-hush. Marena, Nicaragua’s answer to Fish and Wildlife, is attempting to protect the turtles, but they are helpless beyond putting a few armed guards on the more populated beaches. The kid with the basket said maybe 1 in 2000 baby turtles actually makes it to adulthood, and still, they manage to survive.

And now it’s nearly Christmas, the parks are all lit up, and we are awoken every morning at 3:45 by the church bells tolling, calling everyone to the park to celebrate the days leading to up the birth of the baby Jesus. The priest intones, the music, a sort of bastardized version of Jingle Bells blares, and the people celebrate with mortars until around 5am, when it all quiets down again. May you all enjoy an equally festive, if somewhat quieter holiday season, and all the best in 2010.