The Cleanliness of White

If it ain't white, it ain't clean. In the States, we scrub the bathroom sink and toilet bowl until we can see our reflections in the white porcelain. If there is a rim of mildew or a few cracked tiles with dirt caked in the grout, a shower is too gross for us to bathe.

In rural regions of Central America, where there is no running water, the bathroom toilet is a latrine: a deep hole covered with a concrete seat (like the photo to the left). To shower, you use a bucket and a bowl.

After years of living among the white, sanitized, squeeky -clean nature of the U.S., it is a little shocking to be presented with such down to earth systems of relieving and cleaning. Yet I don't feel any less clean or sanitary. The latrines are cleaned daily, much more often than a toilet in a home in the States. I emerge from a bucket shower here (almost) as clean as I would after ten minutes under hot water with a loofah.

This same white versus earthy comparison can be said of hospitals. In Granada, we visited the public hospital to get Amanda's intermittent fever checked out. (Note: she is now fine and it was just a virus.) The rooms of the emergency ward wrap around an open courtyard. The "waiting room" is outside. People sit on the benches or chairs that snake around the garden of palm trees and flowering shrubs. The building is painted a warm cream color, the structural posts are green, the doors and roof red in color. The consultario office (where we first talked to a doctor about Amanda's symptoms) is small, with one desk, one chair and one cot. We walked across to the other side of the courtyard to enter the laboratorio for a blood sample. Amanda whispered to me as she sat down, "The needles are clean right?" I looked about the dimly lit room. One lady was taking samples, one was looking through a microscope, and another was putting medical tools into the sanitizer. Yes, I told her confidently - but really just to reassure us both.

As we waited outside on a concrete bench for the results, I looked around. A child coughed. An elderly man held his hands in his head, cradling a headache. Amanda lay down with a fever. Could this perhaps be a better waiting room than the ones in the States where everyone is inside breathing in others' germs?

In the States, hospitals are stark, white, and they humm of "clean." And we feel safe and sanitary. Yet Nicaraguans don't leave the hospital with diseases or illnesses that they contracted while being seen by a medical doctor. And nor did we. Like the toilets, just because the emergency room is more colorful and a bit more humble, doesn't necessarily denote it less clean. And although I still would not want open heart surgery here, the sanitary white-ness of the U.S. to the point of insanity suddenly seems frivolous.

Humble Laughter

Stomaching the pig you heard being slaughtered two hours earlier is not the easiest thing to do for breakfast. Especially when it is fried and served with rice, beans, salad, and tortillas at 6:00 a.m.

* * * *

Determined to be able to speak Spanish at least at a conversational level before leaving Latin America, Amanda and I enrolled in a week of intense Spanish lessons at La Mariposa, in the small town of San Juan de la Concepcion. For the past week, we have been studying one-on-one with patient teachers, and re-learning grammar and vocabulary that had been lying dormant for years. It is amazing how much comes flooding back when you study just grammar for 6 hours a day. Yet what has marked our time here in San Juan more than the school, has been our conversations, hearty laughs, and sometimes awkward moments with our host family.

Sleeping, eating, and conversing with locals plunges you into the thoughts, problems, cultures, and concerns of day-to-day life. It is a view that is hidden from hostels, cities, and the long bus rides across the country. It is how you are able to wake up to a pig dying and then eat it fresh! for breakfast, and how you get to know someone who has just returned from work at a sweatshop.

In this humble abode lives Gollita, her husband, and one of her grown daughters. In the other

house on the property lives another daughter and her three children. Yet members of the family flow in and out of the rickety metal gate; stopping by to ask a question, to pass the time, and to snag a bite to eat . . . but mainly just to say hello.

Each evening Gollita serves us a feast. The family sits around the table watching us eat (they eat separately), laughs at our misunderstandings, and quizes us about life in the states. We daily eat our body weight in traditional Nicaraguan food: a heaping plate of gallopinto (red beans and rice mixed together), a fried plantain, weird extremely salty cheese, a salad of tomatoes and shredded lettuce, and small portion of meat. Then dessert -when you can't possibly fit anything else - is a giant bowl of fruit.

Wednesday evening, stuffed to the brim, Gollita told us that she hoped we would be able to sleep through the madrugada (early dawn). Amanda and I chuckled, knowing that neither of us would sleep well at all. Nights are not quiet in Central America, to say the least. Each house blasts their stereo systems as loud as possible. When the people can't hear their own mariachi or reggaeton music over that of their neighbors, they crank it up louder. Radios usually shut off by midnight, but come on by 3 a.m. Add some dog fights. And some dogs barking at the dogs fighting. Toss in some roosters, and the honking of public buses carting people to Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. No, nights are not very quiet in Central America. Gollita said it again: "Espero que puedan dormir esta noche." Why, we asked? What's special about tonight? "It's Thursday, the neighbors kill the pigs tomorrow," she replied. "Fried pig for breakfast!"

Sure enough, at 4 a.m. we awoke to the shrill cries of the pig being slaughtered in the neighbor's yard. The noise is piercing at first; you can hear the animal's initial moment of absolute terror and pain. The shrieks gradually slow down and each cry becomes quieter, as though in his last few breaths the pig finally realizes what he should have known all along, that this has been his fate since birth.

6 a.m. cerdo frito! Good morning Nicaragua! It was enough to make me want to return to my vegetarian habits . . .

The family was so pleased to share this meal with us. Gollita had woken up early to get in line to purchase the freshest pork possible. The people of San Juan de la Concepcion live humbly, but largely. To go to the bathroom, you go in a hole. To take a shower, you pour water over your body, scrub and then rinse - all out of a bucket. To wash dishes and clothes, you carry just enough water across the yard. To dispose of trash, you burn it. To earn enough money, many people work 12 hours days in a sweatshop and commute over an hour each way, without complaining. Yet despite these perhaps humble elements of life, the people celebrate like no one else, taking out loans in order to throw their daughter a proper quinceanera, or their son a huge graduation party. They joke and jest constantly, and are not afraid to laugh. They dine and drink well. And on Friday's they eat fried pig.

Una basura? Qué es eso?

A trashcan? What is that?

Streets throughout Central America are littered with plastic bottles, grocery bags, candy wrappers, newspaper, and snack packaging. In cities, small pueblos, and along rural highways, trash routinely does not find its way into garbage receptacles.

I sat on a public bus cradling my backpack on my lap and trying not to think of the heat that was pouring up from the streets of Granada, one of Nicaragua's colonial cities. Waiting for the bus' engine to roar to a start and counting the seconds until air would be flowing through the windows, I watched a kid lick his candy wrapper clean. Satisfied with his snack, he reached up and dropped the plastic wrapper out the window. Realizing that I was staring, I diverted my attention to another section of the bus just in time to see a woman chuck a plastic plate and fork out the window.

Why do the majority of people here not think about where they should put their waste? Can it be simply attributed to the fact that they don't care? Because surely people would rather have a clean city. Right?

The public bus took us from Granada to Masaya, where we then transfered to a microbus - a 12 person van that typically crams 25 people between the seats. The microbus dropped us off in San Juan de La Concepcion, a small town in the mountains of Nicaragua. Later that day, Amanda and I sat on a concrete wall watching a local baseball game. We finished our cookies that we had bought for 10 cents at the small closet-sized store and looked around for where to dispose of our wrappers. Amanda stuffed hers in her pocket to deposit later. I continued to look around the park's edges. There were no trash cans. The park was covered in litter. A baseball player dove onto a pile of plastic.

In one of my language classes, we spoke about the trash problems in Nicaragua. A large part of the issue, my teacher told me, stems from the education system. Schools don't teach the proper disposal of waste and many kids, who later grow into adults, think that plastic will deteriorate just as a banana peel will. Additionally, there are problems with municipal trash disposal. Families must pay a monthly fee for the city to pick up their garbage every week. When faced with several bills that are difficult to pay each month, many families choose water, electricity, (and unfortunately television), over garbage. Many families instead decide to burn their trash in their yards. Which is not a pleasant or easy thing to breath in. Nor is it good for the environment.

To find a solution for the trash problems of Nicaragua, and of Central America, is a very daunting task. There is so much garbage that needs to be cleaned up before even being able to set a good example. And then, for the trash that does successfully make it out of the city, the landfills are often built on hills and are contained with barbed-wire fences. What will the solution be? Will there be one? While I don't want to be a pessimist, it's hard to think that this situation will be alleviated anytime soon.

A Few Whirlwind Weeks

Rice and beans, sand, waves, surfers, chicken buses, sore butts, fever, hammocks, rice and beans, ziplining, border fees, Nicaraguan emergency rooms, banana trees, and rice and beans.

How do I attempt to summarize everything that has happened in the last two weeks when I have slept in a different bed every other night? When you forget what country, let alone what city, you are currently in, you know that you have been hostel hopping just a little too much.

Yet when traveling with an open itinerary, and rough appointment times, you somehow seem to fall in a groove, moving along at a rapid, but completely manageable speed. And although we have not stayed in most locations for longer than two or three days, we haven't had heavy hearts about leaving any of these places either. Somehow each spot we have visited, be it beach or colonial city, has managed to wrap itself up on its own, saying: "Thank you for stopping by, we think we've shown you all there is to see, now you best be on your way".

After our epic journey to cross the border from Panama to Costa Rica, we found our way serendipitously to Mal Pais, a small beach town on the western coast of the tourist-invaded country. It took Amanda and I only several seconds of spotting the beach and also seeing a sunset for the first time (due to the rain in Panama) to both know that we were going to anchor our feet into the sand for quite some time. (Some time meaning 6 days - still our longest stay in any one place.) Yet after a week of tanning, making friends, learning to surf, and rekindling my love of running, we both somehow knew it was time to leave. Over a romantic dinner date, the two of us planned our departure for the next morning. That night, as we wandered back into our hostel, the entire place had an eerie quiet that we had not experienced in the last five days. Perhaps it was our confirmation that our time in Mal Pais had come to a close.

We next headed to Monteverde, Costa Rica, a small tourist town that is nestled near the Monteverde and Santa Elena Cloud Forest Reserves. The town would not exist if the cloud forest were not such a major attraction - to scientists, naturalists, and tourists alike. After spending a day hiking through the forests, and the next ziplining above the treetops, we sat on the porch of our mountain lodge drinking Cabernet Sauvignon and realized that yes, it has been lovely, but no more time was needed.

Our next stop, San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, offered us more sun, and the opportunity to compare another beach to Mal Pais. (Conclusion: Mal Pais really is that pretty. And the people are that friendly. So don't go.) We decided to depart the day before an international surf competition. Gasp! What were we thinking? We were going to miss the biggest surf competition and the best parties Nicaragua has seen in a while! Yes, it was time to go.

Granada, Nicaragua, offered us two days of rest, a cute hostel, a quaint colonial city, and the opportunity to visit a Central American emergency room - which I think just may deserve it's own blog. (No, Amanda does not have malaria, and she is now equipped with some mysterious yellow pills.) But the city is expensive and it was here, that Amanda woke up asking me, "Where are we?"

Everything happens for a reason: be it landing on a beach that wasn't originally part of our plans, or finding our way to a city so that we can unexpectedly pay a visit to the hospital when feeling a little under-the-weather. On the road, ideas for places to stay are born spontaneously and out of the blue. And just as some of these stops bud in a single day or in a flash moment, they somehow find closure and fizzle out just as naturally. To put it, perhaps as cliche as possible, when the bloom dies it is time to move on.

Day Trip to Montezuma: A Photo Blog

The roads connecting the small towns scattered across the Nicoya Peninsula are, to say the least, horrendous. Giant potholes, large rocks, and naturally-formed inverted speed bumps always promise an interesting drive. Small cars are simply not practical. At times, despite what Chevy and Ford may show you in their commercials, even the best SUV's are not either.

Which is why, if you're smart, you drive a Quad.

Because they can do anything.

And can easily get you through the most difficult terrain to some of the most remote locations. Like the Montezuma waterfalls.

But once you have successfully driven to the park's entrance, the challenge is not over. The hike, like the roads, are not for the lazy.

And while getting here was half the fun, the view was definitely worth it.

Waterfalls within minutes of a beach? Yes please.

War: Food for Thought

The Vietnam War lasted for 103 months, from August 1964 to March 1973. It was previously the longest war in the history of the U.S. Until America declared war on the Middle East.

As of November 7, 2010, the U.S. has been in Afghanistan for 109 months. I am not going to look up death tolls and devastation numbers, it is too depressing. And I don't want to ruin how happy I am sitting in a cabin in the middle of a jungle. But we all know, it's a lot.

Whatever reason you believe the U.S. sent troops eastwards - whether you think it was because of oil, 9/11, terrorists, to better the lives of the citizens - one thing is certain: the U.S. daily employs acts of violence.

Compare that to the current conflict between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. The conflict that has probably not graced the States' attention once, but that is splattering the front page of all newspapers here.

The San Juan River marks the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Just over a month ago, Nicaragua sent troops to the river to dredge the way for bigger boats to more easily navigate the area. This was no problem, until they began tossing the debris on the Costa Rican side of the waterway.

Costa Rican President Laura Chinchilla Miranda declared that Nicaragua was invading Costa Rican territory. Nicaragua blamed the invasion on a Google Map image of the region, claiming they didn't realize the land belonged to their southern neighbor. Google maps has admitted their error of mis-marking the land, giving 1.7 miles of territory that is legally Costa Rica's to Nicaragua. Google has since fixed the error, but not before blaming the U.S. State Department for inaccurate information.

While it seems silly to think that a Google map error is a reason for dispute, the issue of territory invasion is one that would quickly become a military battle among other countries. That is, countries with an army.

In 1948, at the conclusion of the civil war, former Costa Rican President Jose Figueres Ferrer abolished the Costa Rican military. The military budget is now used for security, education, and culture. There has not been a civil war since 1948.

Thus, unable, and more importantly unwilling, to respond with violence, Costa Rica called on the Organization of American States (OAS) for help. Through peace talks and negotiations, the OAS has voted Costa Rica in the right and has ordered Nicaraguan troops to retreat. While the conflict is not completely resolved, there is no news of a death count, no plans for war, and the latest headlines read: OAS urges Nicaragua and Costa Rica to talk out differences.

Talk out differences? There's a thought. Huh...

Does Costa Rica really have life figured out? Here, you ask someone how they are doing and they reply with the phrase, "Pura Vida." Pure life. People are calm, laid back, not in a hurry, and are happy to stop what their doing to chat with you. The citizens do not want an army. The locals talk about how they are in a war with Nicaragua, and how it is really serious. Which it is, I'll give them that. But just have to wonder, that if war for them means a month long tension resolved by discussions, votes, and just a little intervention, life is pretty damn good.

Pura vida. Let's all follow suit.

A Word on Nomadic Hygiene

Backpacker [bak-pak-er] - noun

1. A person who carries everything they own in a backpack.

2. One who resides in cheap accommodations, often sharing a dormitory with up to eight others, and typically spends no more than one week in a single place.

It is important to understand that while some of the backpacker customs vary from other cultures, particularly America, they are not dirty people.

A note on backpackers' hygiene:

a. It is not surprising, and is often expected, for a backpacker to be seen wearing a shirt at night, then is known to sleep in it, and also wear it for the entire next day.

b. An article of clothing is not declared dirty until the hour before a backpacker does laundry. (This includes clothing splattered with mud.)

c. Laundry is necessary only when all undergarments have been worn. (Or, in extreme cases, when everything is wet and molding from intense continuous rain.)

d. Showers usually are taken every day. (In special circumstances, once a week by bucket is acceptable.)

e. A backpacker's shower typically last 45 seconds. This is because 96% of the showers backpackers use are frigid.

f. A backpacker washes his/her hair about every 2-3 days. Conditioner is optional. Camp soap is often used if shampoo is difficult to find. Note: If the backpacker is female, braids are often put into place when hair has not been washed for several days. This is usually due to the water being too cold.

g. Makeup is almost obsolete among backpackers. Some females may put on mascara once a week, though this rare.

While some of these habits may be hard to adjust to initially, a backpacker is typically fine with all of these conventions after the first 3 weeks.

Itineraries Are Really Just Rough Drafts

As Amanda and I find ourselves deeper in Central America and further along in this trip, the more we are convinced that itineraries are silly ideas. An itinerary is more a rough draft that should be scribbled down, and then tossed aside, to be referred back to from time to time.

Emerging from the Comarca dirty, damp, and muddy, we sat on a bus to David, a small city close to the border. We had planned to spend one night doing laundry, showering, and catching up before heading north to Costa Rica to complete our drying-out process on the beach. Yet as we cooked our stirfry and drank cheap red wine in the hostel kitchen, the evening news flashed images of landslides across Costa Rica.

While we had been hiding out from the downpours in Klaus' hut, Costa Rica was experiencing even more rain. Hurricane Tomás swept through Central America last week, showering Costa Rica with 37 inches of rain in just four days. As of this evening, 12,000 families are stranded without clean water, food, or medical help, and 27 people have been killed in the storm. 100,000 people are without clean drinking water due to the rupture of pipes from flooding.

123 roads and highways across Costa Rica were declared closed last week because of intense flooding and landslides. The Inter-American highway – the main drag connecting Panama to San Jose, Costa Rica – was one of them. Thus, a glitch in our plan.

We decided that we should leave the not-so-dashing city of David rather than sit around and wait for the road to be cleared in Central American time. Joining forces with two other travelers, we boarded a small shuttle bus to Changuinola, the very Northern corner of Panama. From there, we hopped in a taxi to the border town of Sixaola, were we physically walked across the “frontera” over a bridge comprised of abandoned railroad tracks and wooden planks. After a (too easy) pass through immigration, we were able to catch a bus headed straight from Sixaola to San José.

In summary, the $15, 6-hour bus ride from David to San José that we had marked in our itinerary did not happen. What did happen was an epic border crossing that included: 2 buses, 3 taxis, 1569 stops along the side of the road, $22, and 12 hours.

And here in San José, life seems normal. The only commentary our taxi driver had to offer was: “It's stopped raining here, I'm glad of that.” And: “Oh sure the water's still safe to drink.” Not sure about that one, Sir, but thanks.

Needless to say....Beach tomorrow? Yes please. Oh wait, only after a 2 hour bus ride from San José to the coast. Then a supposedly short ferry ride to the Nicoya Peninsula. But...we will see what happens!

Comarca Ngäbe

A Snapshot:

Squatting on an empty gas can, I watched quietly as two kids hopped and danced barefoot on the dirt floor of the kitchen hut, while their grandmother added more sticks to the fire. Perched atop three rocks, rested a large metal bowl filled with yuca root. (Yuca is a fibrous starch that is very filling, but holds little nutritious value.) The bowl was covered with banana leaves to keep the moisture in and boil the root to a mushy, baked potato consistency. The youngest toddler fell over backwards mid-dance, and started to whimper. The adults all laughed and spoke rapidly in Ngabere, their native indigenous language. Realizing, he would get little sympathy, the young
boy stood up and giggled too, wiping his runny nose on his dusty palm. Despite the downpour outside, the kitchen was dry. Although the sides were open, the thatched roof made of penka palm successfully blocked out both moisture and wind.

The grandfather handed us large cups of coffee. Among the Comarca Ngabe people, coffee is usually offered when one is welcomed into another's home. Grandma first brought a pan of strong coffee to a boil, strained the grounds out, and then added an obscene quantity of sugar. She then poured in cold, unboiled water - to both cool it off and make enough for everyone. Not sure whether it was the thought that we were drinking liquid giardia, or if the lukewarm coffee actually tasted bad, but it was difficult to swallow. We managed to chug it down in the manner of the Comarca people who eat and drink everything quickly; or as they say, juego vivo, or "get it while you can."

This is how we spent our first afternoon in the small village Aguacatal, nestled in the hills of the Comarca region of central Panama. We had spent the morning harvesting rice with Grandpa, and as payment, we were invited for lunch.

Getting to the Village:

After leaving El Valle, we met up with Amanda's friend Klaus, who is working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Aguacatal. Desiring a more extensive view of Panama than the city and El Valle had to offer, we asked Klaus if we could crash his hut. Eager for some company and the opportunity to speak English for a few days, Klaus agreed. We spent Halloween day commuting the 5 hours from Panama City to Tole, the town closest to his remote community. From Tole, we had a 30 minute ride in a Chiva - a covered truck bed, and then a hike up the mountain. Heads turned as not one, but three, gringos trudged along the steep, muddy hills, struggling to carry all of our belongings while juggling umbrellas.

An hour later and thoroughly soaked, Klaus announced we had reached his community. I saw green hills, dense banana trees, and one hut in the distance. The houses were spread out, mostly made of sticks and a thatched roof of either penka palm fronds or bundled grass. Some roofs were made of corrugated tin hauled from miles away. Klaus' house was one of the few made of timber, and one of the few with a latrine.

The Facts of the Comarca:

The Comarca Ngäbe-Buble is an indigenous region of central Panama. Of the 16,512 registered homes:

- 70 % have no running water

- 77 % don't have latrines of any kind

- 99% have no electricity

The average annual household income is $519.00. Average family size: 6 children.

95% of the people are living in poverty. Most people largely live off welfare.

Loss of Culture?

At first, the community looks preserved, as though one could imagine how the people lived before the Spanish conquistadors arrived. Yet, as we sat receiving our bowls of yuca, seasoned with salt, and watching the family interact, it became more apparent how bits of technology and Latino culture has begun to creep its way up the red mud mountains.

A teenage boy whips a cellphone out of his dirty jeans. Our yuca is served in Tupperware dishes. Flashlights are scattered about the beds; a chainsaw lies against a tree outside. The younger children speak Spanish to Amanda and I, while Grandpa and Grandma speak mostly Ngabere to Klaus.

We asked Klaus about this potential loss of culture. When the road from Tole was built, Latino culture become more available. The trip into Tole from the village was reduced from a 5 hour venture to a 1 hour outing. As Klaus put it, the more the Ngabe people see Latinos, the more they realize how poor they are in comparison. One reaction is to conform. Yet this means they need more money, which as a whole the Ngabe people do not have. The rice they harvest will be eaten that day. The same goes for bananas, and chicken eggs, and yuca. The community is the epitome of subsistence living; they do not produce enough to ever make a profit.

As such, men are more and more heading out of Aguacatel to find work for their families. Some leave for a solid month to bring back $300. Their communist ways of thinking (and acting) are gradually being replaced by capitalism. Is this bad? Should it be stopped? Progress is inevitable, history tells us that. Technology - at least cellphones - apparently is too.

Yet it would be nice to see potable water solutions or nutrition improvements find their way up the mountains with those phones...

Our Final Lesson:

Yet, these observations aside, our week in the Comarca was eye-opening even on a personal level. In one week we were presented with the unspoken question: How far will one go to support oneself and ones family? In just a few days, we had materialism slapped in our face, and the sad fact that in urban life, one tends to forget about the truly important elements of life - living, loving, and laughing.