ancient modern times

Well, here I am in San Cristobal de Las Casas in Chiapas, Mexico. I migrated up here like a stupid bird following cold weather north. The city is beautiful, nestled in the cool, pine-covered mountain Jovel Valley between tropical rainforest to the east and Spaghetti-western landscapes to the west. This is Mayan and Zapatista territory, and the businesses in the city have certainly capitalized on both the culture and subculture. ¨Zapatourism¨ (as one local referred to it) is all over the place. As ubiquitous as Che Guevara images, Zapata silouettes are everywhere. Emiliano Zapata, one of the more important leaders during the Mexican Revolution, used armed force to take back land, especially for poor, indigenous Mexicans. The EZLN (Ejercicio Zapatista Liberacion Nacional / Zapatista National Liberation Army), or the Zapatistas, named themselves after Emiliano Zapata. The Zapatistas demand autonomy from the Mexican government over land and natural resource use, especially in the Mexican state of Chiapas. On Jan.1 1994, the first day of NAFTA, they masked Zapatistas occupied (for several hours) the city of San Cristobal.

I find it very strange that this revolutionary now has baguette sandwiches named after him. The Zapatista revolution seems to be more of a fashion statement, and Zapatata a brand name icon like Calvin Klein. There are many Zapatourists wandering the cobblestone streets of San Cristobal, touting Fidel Castro green, short-brimmed hats and army jackets adorned with iron-on revolutionary emblems. Ironically, the anti-globalization revolution has been neatly packaged and marketed for the global-consumers palette. T-shirt and sandwich makers alike have coopted the revolution.



On the note of cultural cross-pollination/contamination, I took a lovely bike ride this weekend to San Juan Chamula, a Tzotzil Mayan pueblo known for its church which mixes Mayan and Catholic traditions. The church is illuminated with thousands of candles and Tzotzil (the Mayan dialect of this region) chants echo throughout the nave. Local Tzotzil Mayans kneel on the pine-needle covered floor, praying and crying, with candles and Pepsi or Coca-Cola soft drink offerings in front of them. These carbonated beverages are believed to expel evil spirits, in the form of a burp (in which case, I have expelled many an evil spirit in my day).



Here is a link to an excellent, informative article:



http://www.inthesetimes.com/article/2840/



Coca-Cola products can be found about every ten feet, usually accompanied by Sabritas (Frito-Lay products in Mexico). I have no idea how all the little convenience stores stay afloat, what with all the competition. Whatever the case, Coca-Cola and Frito-Lay surely must not be making much of a profit at all these outlets, but they are definitely following an agressive-marketing strategy that does not miss one blank wall or piece of empty real-estate in Mexico and Central America.



So San Cristobal is a very interesting intersection of landscapes, climates and cultures. In the downtown plazas Mayan women wearing sheepfur skirts sell traditionally woven sweaters and scarves next to swanky cafes that sell gelato and chai lattes. The streets themselves testify to the transformation of ancient to modern. The weathered, polished stones on the streets and sidewalks were once the building blocks of Mayan temples around San Cristobal. The city is living history, an embodiment of all the issues found in anthropological, sociological and political science textbooks the world round.

the sincere zone

La zona franca is the name of the ridiculously gigantic sweatshop located on the edge of town. La zona franca could ironically be translated (following the Spanish definition of franca) in several ways:

1. The Liberal Zone
2. The Open-Hearted Zone
3. The Generous Zone
4. The Fair Zone
5. The Disengaged Zone
6. The Priveleged Zone
7. The Exempt Zone

I could be wrong, but I don´t think Atlantic Apparel (the company that owns the sweatshop) intended to express the first 4 meanings. In fact, I know that the seventh translation is the one that fits the best. La zona franca is one of many Export-Free Trade Zones throughout the world. Companies are invited into fledgling economies such as Nicaragua´s with the economic incentive of legal tax evasion. For the first five years in Nicaragua the company does not need to pay any taxes. Additionally, with such a desperate need for employment and lack of government monitoring, these companies can evade federal wage and worker protection laws. It really is an exempt zone, a lawless land, or rather a land where the companies make the laws that the workers must follow.

The other day I went to visit (although I wasn´t allowed to enter) the sweatshop right outside of Granada. The plant is a good 3 to 4 football field lengths long, and fits 1500 employees per shift. From sewing to ironing to management, the size of a small town is employed under one massive roof. This sweatshop in particular specializes in pants such as Carhartts, Levis and Urban Outfitter.

Visiting the sweatshop was a strangely intriguing excursion. Perhaps because I was able to stand in front of the reality of what was previously an abstract concept. But at the same time, I know several workers and ex-workers in this zona franca. I went with my Spanish teacher Maria, whose husband works there. She told me all about the conditions, which I wasn´t allowed to witness first-hand. To avoid wasting time, workers must stay on the grounds all day long and either bring their own lunch or eat at the company´s restaurant, which gets deducted from their weekly wage (about 20 to 50 dollars a week). Massive fans ventilate the main nave of the building while air-conditioned offices line the sides. Workers work in teams, assembly certain pant parts all day long. One of my teachers used to put the seam in the pant leg. If one worker was inefficent, the whole group suffered because of it. Previously, workers were paid per production.

I asked my language teacher what her feelings are towards la Zona Franca. She said that it did create jobs where there weren´t any before. Now more people are employed and have a little bit more money. She thinks it is good, generally, but then said that she hopes (knocking on wood) that she never, ever has to work there herself.

the spoon incident

Eating beans and cream (or beans and creams as I like to call it) for dinner is not a very satisfying meal for an epicurean vegetarian such as myself. But I'm quick on the problem-solving front, especially in matters of food. Longing for more and better food, I bought myself some peanut butter and crackers and stashed them in my room at my host family's house as an extra snack. In retrospect, this all seems like some sort of clandestine operation when all I really wanted was just something more to eat between meals.

As every peanut butter eater knows, peanut butter is a gooey, messy substance which requires a utensil to get out. Therefore, one hungry night I borrowed a spoon from the kitchen of my host family in order to indulge in secret. Forgetful me forgot to return the spoon the next day and it just got lost in an abyss of books and clothing. Hence, the spoon stayed in my room for a few days until one day, while eating lunch, I eavesdropped on a rather terse conversation between my host sister, Auxilladora, and the maid, Elvira.

First some background information about maids in Nicaragua....
Maids are referred to as empleadas, or employees in Spanish. They can be found in most middle or upper class Nicaraguan homes. Las empleadas in Nicaragua work 8 to 9 hour days, 6 days a week cooking, cleaning and washing clothes in exchange for a very meager income of 1500 cordobas (about 75 dollars) a month and lunch each workday. Let's compare that to the wage of a sweatshop worker (of which there are many in Granada) earning $150 a month, working 40 some hours a week. Not much, huh?

Anyway, back to the story.

While my Spanish has dramatically improved, I am still not up to par for eavesdropping on Nica conversations in other rooms. However, I listened closely and heard the maid, Elvira, declare the following "una cuchara" (a spoon) , "cuesta cinco pesos" (costs 25 cents) and "me voy" (I´m leaving).
At the mention of the cuchara a light bulb went off in my head. The spoon in my room! I still needed to return it to the kitchen! But wait -I thought- Elvira and Auxilladora couldn't possibly be arguing over said spoon. Not sure what was going on and needing to know, I approached Elvira after my host sister left the kitchen and asked,

"Excuse me, were you talking about a spoon?"
"Yes, they think that I stole their spoon but I didn't. Perhaps I accidentally threw it away. I don't know."

¨Oh no,¨ I thought as I realized said spoon was the spoon resting quietly in my room. "I am so sorry. There has been a huge misunderstanding. I have the spoon in my room. I used it to eat peanut butter a few days ago and it completely slipped my mind to return it to the kitchen the next day. I am so, so sorry."

Elvira laughed nervously, shaking her head and sighing in relief.

I promptly returned the spoon and continued apologizing profusely.
I explained the whole situation to my host sister, the only family member in the house at the time, and she laughed about it and told me not to worry. But I still did.

I left the house that day I feeling awful and responsible for the wrong accusation and silly- turned-sour situation. I was the spoon thief, even though it was unintentional. Why did they accuse Elvira of stealing a spoon without speculating over other possibilities first? Who counts their spoons anyways? A spoon is a spoon....or is it different here in Nicaragua where people´s homes aren't overflowing with stuff like any average American home?

The next day I was relieved to see Elvira still working in the house after declaring her departure the day before. Elvira was glad to see me as well. In secret she whispered to me that she was leaving, that the family had apologized to her, but she had had enough. She said she didn´t know how long she would go without working, if she would be able to find another job easily, but she was still going to leave.

Oh, how I wished that day that I could just take this honest and hardworking woman and her children and grandchildren with me back to the States where she could work and probably live more comfortably. Where (even in spite of the down-spiraling economy and all the complaining) there are so many more employment opportunities.
Nothing seemed fair that day and disparities seemed enormous and a spoon seemed to mean a whole lot more than I ever would have imagined.

trash talk

Learning a language not only involves learning vocabulary and grammar, but also includes learning how languages shape perception. Learning a language requires a serious reevaluation of how you think.

Searching for a word in a dictionary and finding it doesn´t exist or can only be explained with many words, or learning a new word and finding it has no exact translation to your native language is foder enough for a linguistics dissertation. I´m not currently pursuing a Ph.D, so I´ll save that for another time. However, I would like to point out one word that I just can´t concisely convey in Spanish, and what that does and does not mean in this Spanish-speaking culture.

Litter
–noun
1.objects strewn or scattered about; scattered rubbish.
2.a condition of disorder or untidiness: We were appalled at the litter of the room.
3.a number of young brought forth by a multiparous animal at one birth: a litter of six kittens.

–verb (used with object)
4.to strew (a place) with scattered objects, rubbish, etc.: to be fined for littering the sidewalk.
5.to scatter (objects) in disorder: They littered their toys from one end of the playroom to the other.


Please ignore the third definition of litter as a noun....what I´m getting at here is the verb.

My first week here I rode the bus and watched the woman next to me nonchalantly throw her garbage out the window. Woah, I thought. This is a serious no-no. Everyone - even kindergarten students - know that littering makes you a litterbug, and nobody wants to be that.

I wrote about litter for my Spanish class and realized that this verb just does not exist in such a concise format. Instead, the verb to litter translates to "to throw trash on the ground." My Spanish teacher understood what I meant, of course, but also noted that she only recently has started to make an effort to throw away trash ¨in its place¨and then asked me what do we do with our trash in the U.S.?


But who am I to criticize the ways of waste in Nicaragua? While I might not litter (throw bottles out of windows and drop wrappers on the ground) I sure do use a lot more than the average Nicaraguan, and let´s not forget all that invisible waste that spews out of car tailpipes in the form of carbon dioxide. Yup. The results are in. I may not be wasteful, but I sure do waste a lot... even though it might not be so obvious on a macroscopic level when I do it.

There are plenty of valid reasons (which I won´t get into here) to throw away trash and reuse and recycle when you can. In the U.S., recycling tends to have more to do with environmental awareness than economic thrift. In Nicaragua, reusing comes far ahead of recycling...down to a drop of water (many families collect rain water to use to wash clothes and probably for to bathe with as well). Small children collect tin cans to turn in for the deposit. With such an absence of recycling facilities and discourse on environmentalism, why then are the Nicas winning the reduce , reuse and recycle race?

The answer is simple: for economic, not environmental concerns.

Although the resting grounds of unwanted goods (a.k.a landfills) exist in U.S and Nicarauga, there is a huge difference between those in the U.S. and those in Nicaragua.

In Managua, there is a landfill called La Chureca

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LW6a9Zp3Agc&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtN4FgIKT2c&feature=related

It´s not only a landfill, but also a home to 1500 people (more than 600 of which are children, 130 families) who make their living - or survive - on what everyone else throws away.

This desperation made me arrive at the question...why? What is the difference between homeless people begging in the street and those that choose to go live in La Chureca? How can whole families - adults and children- live and work there?

Perhaps it is a matter of dignity.

It is certainly due in part to the complexities of the economy, disorganization of the government and absence of social services for the people.

So life goes on and even the unemployed find some way to work. Age is irrelevant. Walking through the streets of Granada you can find street children selling gum, breakdancing for tourists, making roses out of sweet grass- each of these activities has become a common sight for me. A sight so common that it becomes strangely normal in such a short period of time.

¨What would this city look like if it were cleaner and better maintained?¨ I asked myself as I walked my daily walk through downtown Granada.
What would the world look like without waste, without overconsumption, with equal distribution of resources?

Adventures with Peter Pan

A while back I wrote about the night watchmen (a.k.a vigilantes) that ride around on bikes, blowing whistles in certain neighborhoods to keep guard. Well, the other night I was walking down the street with a friend and we took note that there was a new whistleblower in the neighboorhood. ¨What´s this?¨ we asked ourselves and decided to investigate by interviewing the vigilante we knew. But first we had to ask his name and the conversation went a little something like this;

Como se llama Ud? (What is your name?)
Me llamo Pedro, pero me llaman Peter Pan (I call myself Pedro, but they call me Peter Pan)

Surely we were destined for magic.

We talked with Peter Pan for awhile. He gave us a brief history of nearly every building on the street (mind you, Granada, Nicaragua is the oldest city in the New World and, once upon a time, a very wealthy one). The conversation was nothing less than informative until he started talking about La Casona, la casa embrujada (the haunted house).

Here is the story according to Peter Pan and others:

A long time ago a wealthy family lived in this two story colonial mansion called La Casona. The daughter was in love with a poor man, but her family did not approve and would not allow her to marry him. Instead, they arranged a marriage with a wealthier man she did not love. On the day of her wedding, she hung herself off the balcony inside of the house. Now, every night at one in the morning you can hear the sound of church music playing from the house, although no one lives there and there is nothing inside of the house. Peter Pan claimed that he once saw the ghost with long white hair peering out the window.

Spooky!

The detail that really caught our attention is that you can hear the music every night at one a.m.
My friend and I decided we would go check it out with Peter Pan.

So, this mansion called La Casona does have owners and caretakers. The owners are Colombian and only come but once a year and the rest of the time a nightwatchmen sits outside the house and only employees can enter to clean.

We arrived at La Casona a little before 1 and waited for the music. And waited a little more. And just at the point that I started doubting my gullability radar, the music began. It was, I think, organ music. The song lasted for about 30 seconds and was quite chaotic and fast, not to mention creepy!

The nightwatchmen for La Casona seemed unphased. He said that he hears it every night. Peter Pan was very happy that he proved his assertion.

Ten minutes later the music began again. The same song was playing, only softer and farther in the distant but still coming from the house.

At first I thought this must be a really bizarre grandfather´s clock, but how do you explain the frequency and change of volume? Intent on solving this puzzle, I decided I needed to check out the inside of the house (in the daytime, of course).

Two days later, after telling my Spanish teacher about the haunting event, we were walking down the street next to the house and he noticed that there was a watchmen up on the balcony. I shouted up to him asking if there were any instruments or furniture inside the house. He said no. Then the mailman came and the maid came outside. My teacher, who knew the lady from his neighborhood, convinced her that I am just a poor American girl that wants to go into the house. No photos, we promised.

Without much haggling, my wish was granted. I went inside and sure enough, there was virtually nothing. No organ, no piano and only a few pieces of furniture and a cd player (which the maid said she brings with her when she cleans...suspicious?). The maid said she had never heard the music before, but the watchman had and had seen a ghost moving through the house in the daytime. Supposedly, a group of Costa Rican documentarians came to make a film about all things paranormal, which featured the house. Also, the Colombian owners have never heard the music when they sleep in the house and don´t believe in the ghost music.

With all my powers of induction, I am going to get to the bottom of this before I go. Looks like I might need some ghostbusters to help. If interested, please contact me.

long time, no blog...

Well to play catch up I´ll just relay a bit of my day in the Nica way.
Two weeks ago I started volunteering with a non-profit organization called La Esperanza
www.la-esperanza-granada.org/

I work in the afternoons at a rural public school called La Inmaculada. It is in a barrio called La Prusia (I don´t know if this has any relation to the Kingdom of Prussia). To get there I walk 15 minutes (or shall I say swim) in 100 degree heat-index humidity to the cementery and then proceed to, literally and figuratively, catch the bus. This is yet another clever Nica transportation trick. So much gas is wasted in stalling engines, so to avoid that extraneous use of diesel the buses slow to a rolling non-stop. A man hanging out the side herds people onto the slowly moving bus while repeatedly and hurriedly shouting the destination ¨Masaya, Masaya, Masaya, Masaya!!!!¨
Then, once you pass this test of speed and skill you must push your way through the center aisle of the bus and grab onto a bar overhead. I like to think of the center aisle as the birth canal because in order to get off the bus you must push very hard and determinedly.

After a fifteen minute ride I dismount the moving bus as quickly as I hopped on and then walk another fifteen minutes on a horse trail to get to the school. This footpath is currently under threat of being closed down by its supposed owner, an Australian developer who is trying to build a luxury home subdivision amidst poverty and squalor. One ramification of such an action would include (but is not limited to) blocking access to a public school which already has a very low attendance rate due to the fact that most of the children work on their parents farms during the day and have to make quite a trek just to get to school.

So, some of the teachers have gone to the city government to complain.

Once I get to school, I work as areading, writing and math tutor and art teacher with first grade students (ages 6 to 9). As already mentioned, public schools are only in session for half days yet year round. However, the total absence of structure and organization means that one some days these ninos only get a lump sum of half an hour of school. The four and half hour day is interrupted by a luxurious 45 minute recess, physical education and art classes that volunteers teach and the usual ¨Uh oh, let´s give up and go home two hours early because it looks like it might rain¨ afternoon off.

Not to mention this school has a shortage of everything including water some days. I bring extra with me and give it to the kids.

The kids are the custodians at their school so on some days they come to school and clean. Needless to say, it´s not a very clean school and I am still of the persuassion that child labor is a bad idea.

Because of the lack of resources, I feel of extra value volunteering at this school. I have already met some of my lofty goals that I originally wrote about when applying for this scholarship. My first week I worked with a student named Sergio and he read his first book with me. This was a really warm and fuzzy moment, especially when I let him sign his name in his first book and walked him back to class and he begged me to let him borrow the book so he could proudly read it to his parents. So cute.

Due to the absence of formal class time, some volunteers and I decided to start up a reading club during recess. Today was the first day and it looks like it is going to be a success. Fortunately La Esperanza has a decent collection of books in Spanish, but could always use more. Books are a much needed commodity here. Strangely, Librerias (Spanish for bookstore) don´t actually have books to read. They carry school supplies like notebooks and pencils instead. I asked my Spanish instructor where I can get my hands on a book in this town and he couldn´t really give me an answer. In fact, that question prompted a conversation about how strange foreigners seem when they are spotted reading a book for leisure in this country. He asked me why I read books and I asked him why he watches movies. He now tells me he wants to join the reading club.

I did go to the public library here, but it was yet another disappointment. For a city with some 150,000 people, there is about a one book to 100 people ratio.

Fortunately the newspaper is alive and well-read and has been the source of much thought and discussion in my Spanish classes here. More on that later.

On the topic of books, this blog entry is turning into a bit of a novel, so I think I will publish this post and call it a night.

editor´s note

This blog is an attempt to right the wrongs of past blogs. I have thought of a few things that need either correction or clarification.

Number one

The water and electrical outages in this country.

At first I thought, because I heard, that it was all Daniel Ortega´s fault. Not so. Apparently the problem is one of privitazation. Nicaragua´s former president, Bolanos, sold the country´s power to a Spanish company which, in order to cut losses, cuts the lights periodically instead. Different parts of the country have outages at different times, which explains the no water phenomenoa.

If there is electricity but no water it is because the elecricity has been cut off in another part of the country and the water can´t be pumped to Granada.


Number Two

The uncovered manholes in the streets.

Desperate people do desperate things. In other words, people steal the metal covers and sell them to smelteries to make a little extra cash.

Which reminds me of when we were painting the mural on the side of the school. We had an old plastic tarp to catch paint that dropped on the ground, and a man from the community was begging me to give it to him when he was done so he could use it as a wall or roof for his house. Every material is of value here; both plastic and glass bottles are picked up by beverage companies and reused (not recycled), most soft drinks come in plastic bags (perhaps to cut down on waste) and food waste is unheard of. Needless to say, Nicaraguans are very resourceful.

So, forget recycling....start reusing!