A Tribute: Outside Magazine

I have often credited New Belgium Brewery with being the pivotal link in the chain of events that led to me deciding to pursue an extended experience of living and working in the developing world. Toward the end of my third-year and over the summer that followed I was working on applications for a variety of jobs— as a consultant, as a statistician, and as a research assistant— but very few of them were ever turned in. Mostly because I didn't really want them. It got so bad that I felt physically sick when I tried to write a cover letter. Then, one afternoon, I read about New Belgium Brewery: their work philosophy and their incentive scheme to encourage healthy living and environmentally friendly commuting. I liked the idea. Not just a job, but a life. The magazine in which that article appeared was Outside.

Outside has long been a fixture in my family. Good writing. Great gear reviews (I almost always buy my trail-running shoes based on the previous year's Gear Guide best buys... they're cheaper). Content that nails my interests, and, on top of it all, beautiful photography. You can always count on the writers of Outside to provide something to dream about (that heli-ski trip in Alaska or the ridiculously expensive adventure lodge in Chile), something to think about (Urban sprawl, upheaval in the Middle East, the future of green architecture), and something to act on (the best adventure races near you, quick outdoors getaways in your city). Whatever your mood— dream, think, or do— Outside has you covered. 

 

This past spring, my grandma bought me a subscription and every month she and my mom send me the newest issue. When it arrives it usually sits in the post office for a week or two, waiting for someone to pass through Ocotal headed for Jícaro (a two hour trip). Sometimes the magazine takes a detour. One poor issue (September 2011) sat in the post office for a week before being picked up by my friend Paul, who held on to it until one of my bosses came through the following week. My boss got it from Paul and tried to come visit me, only to be turned back by a roadblock protesting one thing or another. The magazine then went to Managua, where it stayed until one of the other Peace Corps staff members visited my friend Lexi, who gave it to me as I hopped on a bus to go to Esteli. Sadly, I left the magazine on the bus when I got off and it continued its journey into the unknown. (Outside, upon hearing the story from my mother, sent me a new copy, which has almost completed its journey to Jícaro.) When an issue finally gets here, I invariably spend the following Saturday in my hammock, leaving only to walk to the corner store and buy coffee. Sunday, I pass it along to my site-mate Natalie. All of us look forward to a new issue making its way to Nueva Segovia.

The reason I so look forward to each issue of Outside is bigger than the magazine itself. One of my major struggles during Peace Corps has been feeling unbalanced, feeling like only some parts of myself and my personality are being expressed. I miss standing on top of mountains in the middle of the night, jumping of cliffs into lakes, the sense of anticipation you get eying up a ski run, running without being chased by dogs or laughed at, and hanging out at the bar after a long week just chatting with my friends. They aren't just activities, they are expressions of self. Every month when I get my new issue of Outside, those parts get a little attention. What I read injects something new and different into my daily life. The fresh look at things helps me me put my current experiences into perspective or makes me challenge something I used to think. Aerial photography of development in the west helps me think about urbanization and infrastructure development (Nicaragua is urbanizing at a rate of 2% per year). A ranking of the 19 best towns to live in (for the outdoors/adventure inclined) lets me ponder how such places and the establishments in them have come to be and why they exist in some places and not others. Then, of course, there is the yearly Best Places to Work issue... we've already seen what that makes me think about.

In Nicaragua I spend a lot of time developing new aspects of myself by playing with little kids and working with small farmers. I also spend time deepening other aspects, patience and flexibility, also my already impressive ability to drink coffee and ponder things. When I leave, they will demand a measure of attention just like the parts of my personality that currently feel out of place. That's the price you pay for stitching together a self from so many different places. Thankfully, there's always something like Outside Magazine waiting to help you make sense of them all.

Next up: Need I really say it? If you're allergic to nostalgia better start running...

A Tribute: Crooked Still

There are many things that I have come to associate with Nicaragua. Rice and beans. A particular shade of green. Sentences that start with “fíjese que” and end with “gracias a Dios.” But twenty years from now, long after I've taken my leave from Jícaro, it will be the fiddle solo from Crooked Still's Undone in Sorrow that instantly sends my heart back to the days of riding old school buses down muddy roads through rolling hills.

I first saw Crooked Still play in Charlottesville, VA in the spring of 2010. I was making a last trip to C-ville to see some friends and ended up tagging along to a show on the downtown mall. Something about that night struck a chord that is still ringing. Maybe it was just the fact they are wonderful musicians. Maybe it was walking out into the cool VA night with my best friends and the words, “I'm young, the world is wide” still ringing in my ears. Or maybe Some Strange Country just sounded like the perfect album title for someone moving to Nicaragua for two years, but whatever it was it was immediate and it would prove to be lasting.

Now, Nicaragua is a beautiful country with a great poetry/folk-music tradition so maybe I would have continued my journey with Crooked Still regardless of where I was assigned after training. Then again, my musical interests had been few and fleeting since I gave up the saxophone freshman year of high school. As fate would have it, Peace Corps sent me to live here, with this man:

a banjo-wielding Agriculture volunteer from Michigan's UP as a site-mate. The first time we talked about music I mentioned Greg Liszt— Crooked Still's banjo player— and Kyle says, “yeah I've met him” and launches into Little Sadie. Music was soon cemented into my service. I started to learn guitar and a bit of banjo. Soon, Natalie (a Health volunteer from Iowa), arrived toting a mandolin and fresh off her own pre-Peace Corps Crooked Still concert. For the next year I wandered through a world of new experiences, full of highs and lows, sometimes feeling right at home and sometimes tremendously far from it, but with Aoife O'Donovan's voice smoothing things out and keeping me connected to that night in Charlottesville, in my other mountains and my other home.

In July I made my first trip home in 15 months. Of my six days in the States I spent two in New York getting my visa for my brother Tim's wedding in December. As it happened, Crooked Still was playing one of those nights at the Rockwood Music Hall, an amazing, tiny little venue in Brooklyn. I sat on the balcony with my brother and a good beer (family and good beer, two of the things I miss most), with a big smile on my face as everything that I'd experienced between my two Crooked Still shows flashed before my eyes. . Corey DiMario's double-bass— the first time I came down the hill into Jícaro— Greg Liszt's banjo— my shoe-shine boys and their friends drawing with my colored pencils in the park— Tristan Clarridge's cello— swinging in my hammock with a cup of coffee watching the rain— Aoife O'Donovan's voice— a class full of 16 year-old's in blue and white uniforms— Brittany Haas' fiddle— sunrise in Nueva Segovia. Sadly, (though deservedly) they are taking a break from performing in 2012 so I won't be able to book-end my Peace Corps service with Crooked Still concerts, but that night in New York everything was perfect.

Thanks guys.

Next up, Outside Magazine

Mid-service writer's block

I've been struggling through my mid-service writer's block for the last month. Writer's block is tough on me as my writing is my preferred way to process what's going on around me. While I was waiting for it to pass, I started to reflect on some of the things that have helped me deal with the past 17 months. There was, of course, my family, who received a brief hat-tip a few posts back, and some other things that I've picked up along the way like my hammock, stack of books, and my guitar. I thought briefly of including my camera (the Canon G11 definitely deserves a hat-tip, it's amazing), but I have a love/hate relationship with pointing it at things. I also thought of all my under-6 friends in Jícaro and sunrises with the cows out in the mountains, but they are part of life here and I was looking for something from the outside, a tribute to people/places/and things that have no idea they've been playing an integral part in my Peace Corps service. What resulted were the three tributes which will appear over the coming weeks. Keep an eye out!

Paz,

JGM

Suggested Reading

For those of you looking for a bit of extra reading, I highly recommend this Wanderphilia entry.  It's a great blog in general.

And since my last post was photoless

Seven

When I first moved to Jícaro I went out to look for some plastic containers. I needed something I could store leftovers in, use to freeze things (well-drained soy meat, for example), or just trust to keep my lunch and my backpack separate. As I wandered from place to place I found myself surprised and dismayed at the price of simple, closeable storage options. Thirty córdobas here, twenty-five there, but by far the most common price I saw on the type of vessel I was seeking? Seventy cords!

The stores that sell plastic goods, pots, pans and other household goods often call themselves “variedades”. You could translate it as “variety stores”, though in my mind I usually think of something more like “everything that would fit in the truck”. Variety just seems too coherent a word to describe a place that will sell you heavy frying pans, cartoon character sippy-cups, mangoes, green coffee, blocks of refined cane sugar, soccer cleats, fabric by the yard, shampoo, plastic garbage cans, leather belts and a microwave. These stores are, however, one of the few places in Jícaro that label merchandise with its price. I was especially appreciative of this fact during my early days in site. For me, knowing what things should cost is a big part of feeling comfortable in a place. Not knowing the bus fare from one place to another, a good price for a pound of onions, or the average price of a cup of coffee or a beer leaves me feeling out of place and at risk of being taken advantage of. That may be because, here, if you don't know what things should cost you end up paying double for them. Anyway, after browsing through Variedades Luz for awhile, I ended up with a set of three plastic containers for which I paid about seventy cords. Not bad, considering that the ones I really wanted appeared to run seventy cords a piece.

The strangely expensive plastic containers continued to bother me. Then, about a month or so later, I started noticing strange math mistakes in all my classes. My students having trouble with math was not overly surprising, but it usually results in them leaving questions blank because they didn't have their calculator, not in making calculation errors. After about a week of seeing the numerical equivalent of “seventy times three equals thirty” and “twenty-seven divided by three equals seven” it finally hit me: they are misreading my sevens as ones. Which, of course, meant that I was misreading their ones as sevens.

 Turns out, the Nicaraguan one looks like this:

                          

     and the seven like this:

Simple little misunderstanding, right? Now I write my examples and homework problems with the Nica seven and am no longer fooled by outrageous plastics' prices (10 cords, not 70). If I have doubts, I know to ask and now that my Spanish and my confidence are much higher that isn't as difficult. But the story isn't over.

Understanding the Nica seven is very cultural adaptation. The cross-bar on the seven isn't natural to me, but I've learned to understand it and I've used it over and over again for the last eleven months. Sometimes I forget, other times I find myself doing it without thinking. But on occasion something more interesting happens; I look at something I've written (a phone number) or I think about something I am writing (a date) and get caught somewhere between the two ways of writing the number seven. Was I talking to a Nicaraguan and using my Nicaraguan numbers when I copied the phone number? I know this form is going to the Peace Corps office, but will they misunderstand me if I don't put the crossbar on the seven? Will I misunderstand myself later? It is a neat little summary of my cultural adaption process. For me, cultural adaptation isn't so much learning to live and function seamlessly in a new and different place as it is navigating smoothly in a world where there are a million little things that are done differently or have a different meaning than what you originally learned.

Many of these little cultural differences are communicative. Even when firmly in the middle of our own culture we often make the mistake of thinking that everyone communicates the same way we do (Hi Mum!). Outside one's own culture, knowing how to give and receive information is even more difficult. “Ud. casi no habla español, ¿verdad?” doesn't mean the same thing as the English phrase, “You don't really speak Spanish, right?” I've learned to accept that and not be offended when someone questions my ability to speak Spanish after we've been talking for half an hour. On the other hand, I still feel like I'm being yelled at if I receive a text message in all capital letters. I know I shouldn't, but I also know that my mom trying to make my plans doesn't mean she thinks I'm incompetent and that is still the most common source of our arguments.

One of my hopes is that Peace Corps service is making me a better, more aware and more intentional communicator.

Free Time

I try to stay busy. During any given week I work with my counterparts, teach computer classes and entrepreneurship, visit the businesses I advise, work on my sexual health study or my basic grain market project, and spend time hanging out in the park with kids in my community. When all my projects are written out on paper, it would seem that I do a pretty good job of staying busy. Maybe, if I lived somewhere else, that would be true. When you take into account, however, that over the last few weeks the closest I've come to having a normal class was running into a bunch of my students sitting on the steps of the gazebo in the park and talking to them about fixed and variable costs for ten minutes, or that it routinely takes a month to get a meeting (read: find the person you are looking for actually occupying their office, even after you've fixed a time to get together) and in that meeting you're as likely to be sent off on a four hour trip to meet with someone else as to have your simple question answered, things look a little different.

Now, free time is both the boon and bane of the Peace Corps existence. It can recharge your week or leave you feeling unproductive, lonely and far from home. By far my favorite place to while away the hours is my hammock. I purchased my hammock from a volunteer who was finishing his Peace Corps service just a few weeks before swore in and moved north. It is made of denim and, while it is occasionally a bit warm, distinguishes itself by its durability, lack of pressure points (or line leaving strings), and ability to keep mosquitoes from biting me from behind. It is also large enough that, when temperatures are a bit cooler or it is raining, I can pull up the sides and wrap myself into a cocoon. My hammock is the linchpin of my free time. When I am traveling or working and become tired or frustrated the thought that crosses my mind is almost always, “I can't wait to be back in my hammock.” In the scene below, everything is organized for easy access from my hammock.

 1) My guitar is the newest member of the free-time team. She was a birthday present to myself and, being from the department of Esteli, I think of her as the norteña girl everyone keeps trying to hook me up with. She is slightly less polished and professional looking than her cousins from Masaya (down south), but that's what I love about her. It should be noted that I'm not much of a guitar player, but that is exactly why Veera (that's her name) is such a great part of the team. Learning the guitar is something I can work on every day and listen to myself improve. Besides the calming quality of music, slow progress does wonders for my emotional state.

2) Six years ago I was sitting at my desk in what we called the fishbowl, 141 Fitzhugh, my first-year college dorm. It was called the fishbowl because its only window opened out to a walkway from which passersby could peer into our room. I assume it was a weekend because everyone was out except for my roommate and I, who were both hard at work. Finally, needing a break, we wandered up to an on-grounds convenience store called Cross-roads where I purchased my first cup of coffee. In the years since, coffee has come to be my favorite time passing aid, facilitating both countless hours of conversation and quiet reflection. Here in Nicaragua it has been no different. If I am puzzling through the details of life here in Jícaro or escaping into the memory of adventures past, there is usually a cup of coffee to the right of my hammock. (Hat-tip to both Chaka Market-Bridge and Rise Up Coffee, check them out!).

3) My free time is usually accompanied by a stack of books. I like to keep my options open. In the year I spent at home prior to coming to Nicaragua, I did a pretty good job of cluttering up my mom's kitchen table with an assortment of journals and reading material. Now my books usually occupy a plastic chair within and easy arm's reach of my favorite spot. The lineup changes from time to time, sometimes including my computer or a new magazine, but the basics are about the same. (Everything pictured here is highly recommended.)

The key to making free time a positive force in my Peace Corps life has been aimless purpose. The idea of killing time has never done me any good. I feel guilty about killing time. I prefer to use my free time for some purpose, however trivial or oft-changing that purpose may be. When I practice guitar I'm learning something. Having a cup of coffee in my hand helps me organize my thoughts into something coherent and my stack of books provides new inputs to be organized. But as I said before, it hinges on the hammock, on having a place where aimless purpose can be relaxing and rejuvenating regardless of what is going on in the wider world.

The Return of Green

 

After months of oppression under thick layers of dust and sun-baked soil, the green world of living things has once again sprung forth in the hills of Nueva Segovia. Dull gray fields, burned in April by the incessant sun (and some misguided/lazy farmers) happily took in the May rains and turned black under ox-drawn plows. Now they are bursting forth in slightly crooked, green rows of beans and corn. The nature is, of course, far ahead of the farmers' fields. The untended hillsides and valleys are already in full “winter” glory. It happened so fast that it was almost impossible to believe that a few weeks before there was nothing— absolutely nothing— green and growing to be found. Startling. Magical, but starling.

I have been doing my best to take advantage of this seasonal glut of growth potential to get my garden going. So far I've had only marginal success. For a long time I was surprised at how few Nicaraguans had home gardens. Given the length of the growing season and the fertile soil, I figured the productive potential would be pretty high. You could also stagger your planting in order to extend the period in which fresh produce was available. Unfortunately the same sun that nourishes most growing things seems to have a vendetta against seedlings; the rain that showers plants with love doesn't know when to stop and drowns the objects of its affection; and as those two forces battle for supremacy they create an ideal environment for molds, fungus and all sorts of leaf eating bugs. Only my cucumbers and my beans, plants that grow fast and are resilient to losing a few of their leaves, survive from my first round of planting (well, and one severely stunted swiss chard plant).

Far from being discouraged, I've sought some Ag volunteer advice and reorganized my efforts. I've planted some more beans and cucumbers, a concession to what grows well. My sitemate and I call beans “Nicaraguan ivy” and I plan to make a tunnel-like trellis for them to climb. For the more difficult items I've moved away from planting directly in my garden. I started my eggplant seeds in Coke bottles, my lettuce in old water bottles, and my kale and swiss chard in tubes made by from rolled up paper. My herbs (oregano, mint, basil, and thyme) are also in bottle planters, though they'll stay there for the duration. The green, leafy vegetables are the most difficult because of how susceptible they are to molds and hungry pests. That could be why they are not available in markets here... and also why I'm so anxious to get my own crop growing. I'm armed with soapy-water, flour, and various other non-chemical weapons for the battle ahead.

Some days I consider just growing interesting-looking weeds. Aside from the leafy greens I'm not overly excited about anything I've planted. I do, however, like playing in the dirt and watching things grow.