When I am on my home turf in the U.S., I consider myself to be a fairly "together", competent sort of person. I have my moments of forgetfulness or carelessness, but they're not too frequent, and the consequences are minor.
I see no particular reason why this should vary due solely to a change in location, but it seems to. It's as if I leave my brain at the border. Well, this particular border (U.S.-Nicaragua) at least, since I have successfully traveled to some 15 other countries without incident.
In the past five months in San Juan, I've committed a fair number of garden-variety gaffes, like locking the keys in the car; getting another key stuck in the lock of a gate; scraping the paint on the car's sideview mirror while parking really poorly; being cheated on prices at the market; and so forth. Nothing to stop the earth's rotation, and easy enough to overcome after a day or two of mentally berating myself.
Yesterday was different. I'm filling in for the weekend at the Internet cafe where E. works full-time, providing coverage for her co-worker who's on vacation. Long story short, a group of three thieves came in last night around 7 p.m. and managed to distract me well enough to make off with one of the laptops. The good news: the boss was more than understanding, saying that he was surprised it hadn't happened before now, and that were he working here, he had no doubt he would have been scammed multiple times. Also, though crime is definitely on the rise here--as is true worldwide due to economic conditions--Nicaragua differs from most of its Central American neighbors in that actual armed crime is still relatively rare.
The bad news: the scenario of how the robbery occurred was eerily similar to an incident 4 years ago when I was robbed at the real estate office where I worked at the time, which by the way was only two doors down from here. And yet, my instincts failed me again. "Me agarraron dormida," (they caught me asleep), I would say in Spanish. To put it mildly, I feel incredibly stupid and embarrassed.
I am generally a trusting person. I don't think my trust rises to the level of, say, Anne Frank ("In spite of everything, I still believe that people are truly good at heart")--I've had enough kicks in the pants to be a little more jaded than that--but for the most part I find it spiritually healthier to give people the benefit of the doubt. I have exchanged words with afore-mentioned boss more than once when he has gone off on a profanity-filled rant about the thieving, useless, lazy, dishonest Nicaraguans. (Um...why do you live here if you hate the people so much? I don't see the point. But I digress.)
A good part of my upset about last night's incident has to do with my own wounded pride. I have, up to now, thought of myself as a pretty savvy or street smart kind of person--this after my globetrotting and living in a number of big cities both in the U.S. and abroad. My time as a consular officer in Santo Domingo was particularly instructive. During my first year, in the course of interviewing more than 10,000 people for tourist visas, I heard volumes' worth of tall tales and inconsistent stories, and examined reams of fake documents. This turned me into a super-suspicious person--enough so that I was ultimately compelled to quit the job rather than lose my soul to the darkness. In my second year, when I worked in American Citizen Services, one of my major duties was to help out fellow U.S.ians who got themselves into jams in the Dominican Republic--both victims and perpetrators of crimes, mentally or physically ill people, deadbeats or otherwise destitute folks, and so on. There were some doozies, and I hoped that I would never personally have need to visit an ACS unit overseas.
When I was robbed in SJDS the first time, I chalked it up as one of those things that was bound to happen sometime in the course of my travels. But really, these latest thieves must have thought "it was like taking candy from a baby" as they laughed their way off to the black market trading post. And I don't blame them. I am 99% positive that if the same folks had come in when either E. or her co-worker had been on duty, they wouldn't have even tried.
So now my question is, how many times do I let myself be duped before I wise up? How do I find the middle ground between ingenuous and mistrustful? I thought I was there already but facts speak for themselves. Ergh.
11 October 2009
30 August 2009
Open message to the universe: Got a job for me in Canada, eh?
To cut to the chase: I am feeling very, very discouraged about both short- and long-term prospects for survival and happiness. Can't get a job here in SJDS; nothing is coming of the multiple apps for telecommute jobs; my Chicago condo sits empty, not selling, not renting, yet requiring that the mortgage be paid on time; really really want to try to get into Canada, somehow, someway, but fearing that a second attempt will only lead to further rejection, instability and loss of material resources.
If only the (living) Canadian part of my family had settled in Alberta or Nova Scotia instead of Quebec and Ontario, someone might be able to sponsor us for immigration.
Failing that, I need to figure out how to wrangle a permanent full-time job offer out of a Canadian employer (or New Zealander, or Dutch, or any country that recognizes same-sex relationships for immigration purposes) while I'm here in Central America. Or find a quick $400,000 to invest in a business. Uphill both ways, you might say.
I'm having a crisis: Despite all my education, I'm not qualified to undertake employment in any field where there are actually jobs these days. Why didn't I decide to be a mechanic or a petrochemical engineer, a nurse, a radiologist, or one of Canada's 38 "eligible" skilled occupations?
I need a source of inspiration, a glimmer of hope...please share if you've got one.
If only the (living) Canadian part of my family had settled in Alberta or Nova Scotia instead of Quebec and Ontario, someone might be able to sponsor us for immigration.
Failing that, I need to figure out how to wrangle a permanent full-time job offer out of a Canadian employer (or New Zealander, or Dutch, or any country that recognizes same-sex relationships for immigration purposes) while I'm here in Central America. Or find a quick $400,000 to invest in a business. Uphill both ways, you might say.
I'm having a crisis: Despite all my education, I'm not qualified to undertake employment in any field where there are actually jobs these days. Why didn't I decide to be a mechanic or a petrochemical engineer, a nurse, a radiologist, or one of Canada's 38 "eligible" skilled occupations?
I need a source of inspiration, a glimmer of hope...please share if you've got one.
08 August 2009
He was a very good kitty cat
Warning: following post may be seen as a bit self-indulgent. It also has nothing really to do with the professed themes of my blog, but it's what's on my mind.
My cat died on Tuesday night. As my dad said, he was probably ready to go, even if I wasn't entirely prepared for it. He was nearly 15 years old, and I'd had him for 10 1/2 years.
His was quite the saga: he was born, ca. 1995, into a feral cat colony outside Lorton Prison in Northern Virginia. In late 1998, a decision was made to shut down the prison; something like a dozen local humane societies mobilized to rescue the several hundred cats in the colony. The story even made People magazine.
We adopted Sammy (as he was then called) together with Sarah (yeah, her name changed too!), a slightly younger female, through the Northern Virginia SPCA after meeting them at a Petsmart adoption event. They had been fostered together, and were clearly a team, even though they couldn't have been more different in terms of personality and physical appearance. So both went home with us.
This big gray neutered tom--at the time, weighing about 15 pounds--was christened Bismarck by my ex-husband, after the Prussian military leader. As it turned out, the name didn't match the cat. Far from being bellicose and decisive, he was the meekest, scarediest kitty I had ever owned. He spent more than a year living almost full-time on top of the furnace, only sneaking out to eat at night when the house was quiet. He eventually learned to appreciate human company, although always in limited doses. He had a teeny tiny high-pitched voice, though he could get pretty loud when he was hungry. Puzzle (ex-Sarah) was definitely the alpha cat, and Bizzy (aka Big Gray, la Nena Gris) followed her lead at all times.
As it turned out, Bizzy was prone to a variety of chronic ailments as a result of inbreeding in the colony--he was basically allergic to himself, which meant lots of skin and fur issues, ear issues, and teeth issues. I lost count of how much I spent on dental surgeries over the years, but it was at least a couple thousand dollars. But overall, he was a well-behaved, sweet companion, so it was a worthwhile investment. He got fat and happy, peaking at about 18 pounds.
When I started my wanderings, Bizzy & Puzzle came along for the ride. They went to the Dominican Republic and back to the U.S.; to Nicaragua and back. I became very familiar with USDA, airline and foreign government requirements for export and import of live animals (you'd think we were talking multiple head of cattle!). I found creative ways to get around high and low temperature restrictions, learned how to bribe vets to avoid over-vaccinating my babies, and managed multiple passages through TSA checkpoints--yes, the cats had to go through the metal detector too--without anyone getting loose in the airport, which was my greatest fear.
The kitties were probably happiest during our first stint in Nicaragua, when we finally moved into our house out in the (relative) wilderness. For the first time since they were rescued, they were able to be outdoor cats again, courtesy of our fenced yard. Puzzle actually managed to jump the fence a couple of times, which was quite a feat given that it was 8-foot chain link with razor wire on top. She made it back unscathed, but I scolded her roundly. For his part, Bizzy enjoyed walking laps around the house, especially--surprisingly--when it was drizzling out. He also became expert at slaying the little frogs that often made their way into the house overnight.
When we returned to Chicago, our kitties readjusted to indoor life, though we had to be far more careful about monitoring open doors. They both enjoyed lounging on window sills whenever weather allowed.
Puzzle died suddenly and very unexpectedly in October 2007; the cause was never fully clear. I was very distraught, especially because she passed away overnight while in the care of the vet, and I had no opportunity to say my goodbyes. In any event, it was a shock, since she had always been the far livelier and healthier of the two.
Bizzy appeared to accept the life of a single cat, though he still acted more like a beta. But he continued to hang in there. At a certain point, I noticed that he was losing weight despite eating as much or more than ever. The vet eventually diagnosed him with hyperthyroidism (over-active thyroid), which is an extremely common condition among older neutered male cats. The problem was that none of the treatment options seemed like good ones for him: trying to give him two pills daily for life? Nuh-uh--he would have spent the rest of his days cowering under the couch or in the closet. Transdermal gel applied in the ears? No go either, given his hyper-sensitivity in that area. Radioactive iodine therapy? The $1,500-2,000 price tag made that impossible at the time. So, correct or not, I decided that benign neglect was the best choice as long as he didn't seem to be suffering.
Bizzy made his last trip with me in May. At that point he was down to about 10 pounds, so at least there was no trouble with him fitting in the smaller carrier required to travel in-cabin with me. Alas, the adaptation to Nicaragua seemed much harder this time. The heat, the dust, the noise--all things that bother me, but I have avoidance strategies at my disposal--seemed to be too much for him. First, he stopped eating his dry food, even the regular food I'd brought with me from the States. Then, he gradually began rejecting all the other aliments I tried--Whiskas canned food (the only kind I found here), home-cooked chicken, pork and beef (both meat and broth), Gerber chicken baby food, and finally even his most beloved tuna. I cringed to see this once-hefty fellow diminish to skin and bones, but he continued to act pretty normally--greeting us in the morning, when we came home, and generally being a nuisance anytime we were working in the kitchen.
A few weeks ago, we started to notice slight changes in his behavior--scratching around his food and water dishes, as though he were covering up his "business" in the litter box; occasionally missing the actual litter box; and generally acting a bit disoriented. He had bad days, and better days. Then came the day when he stopped eating altogether. He continued to drink water, though, at least if it was served to him fresh and cold out of the refrigerator.
On Monday morning, he snuck outside while we were sleeping--we had the back porch door open to catch a little breeze--and found a new hiding place in a rooftop storage area. E. ultimately had to drag him out (as gently as she could), since we were going to be leaving the house and didn't want to leave him there unsupervised. But to me, that was a sign that he was looking for a place to die. When we brought him downstairs into the kitchen, he drank a large quantity of water and then retreated behind the washing machine, where he spent most of the rest of the day and night. On Tuesday morning, when I went to make breakfast, he meowed his hello and came out to flop at my feet. But even that much movement was clearly an effort. And he no longer touched his water, even when I put it right in front of him.
That night, I spent a couple of hours by Bizzy's side. I gave him a good combing, caressed and talked to him, thanking him for being such a good companion and telling him that he should let go if he was ready to go. His breath was shallow and rapid, and his eyes became glassy and almost fixed. Around 9 p.m., I told E. that he wasn't going to make it until morning. She told me it was better to leave him alone, since he seemed to be fighting to stay with us as long as I was there. I went outside with E. to spend some time chatting with her grandfather and aunt, but my thoughts were with my kitty. I prayed (in my way) that he would go quietly, without suffering.
Sure enough, just over an hour later, we went back inside to find him gone. I gave him a few last pets and a kiss on the head. Then we wrapped him in fabric and took him down to the river bank, where we found a spot to bury him. I brought along Puzzle's ashes, and scattered them in the grave. Maybe that seems morbid, but it was important to me to reunite them in some way after so many years they spent together.
Even though Bizzy was never a big noise-maker, the house is far too quiet--something is simply missing. My grieving for him has been of a different sort than for Puzzle, in part because overt sadness or upset would not be culturally understood here, but mostly because I had a while to get used to the idea, and knew that his physical body was tuckered out even if his spirit persisted.
If you read this, and have a pet, please honor my kitty's memory by showing him or her or them some extra love today.
My cat died on Tuesday night. As my dad said, he was probably ready to go, even if I wasn't entirely prepared for it. He was nearly 15 years old, and I'd had him for 10 1/2 years.
His was quite the saga: he was born, ca. 1995, into a feral cat colony outside Lorton Prison in Northern Virginia. In late 1998, a decision was made to shut down the prison; something like a dozen local humane societies mobilized to rescue the several hundred cats in the colony. The story even made People magazine.
We adopted Sammy (as he was then called) together with Sarah (yeah, her name changed too!), a slightly younger female, through the Northern Virginia SPCA after meeting them at a Petsmart adoption event. They had been fostered together, and were clearly a team, even though they couldn't have been more different in terms of personality and physical appearance. So both went home with us.
This big gray neutered tom--at the time, weighing about 15 pounds--was christened Bismarck by my ex-husband, after the Prussian military leader. As it turned out, the name didn't match the cat. Far from being bellicose and decisive, he was the meekest, scarediest kitty I had ever owned. He spent more than a year living almost full-time on top of the furnace, only sneaking out to eat at night when the house was quiet. He eventually learned to appreciate human company, although always in limited doses. He had a teeny tiny high-pitched voice, though he could get pretty loud when he was hungry. Puzzle (ex-Sarah) was definitely the alpha cat, and Bizzy (aka Big Gray, la Nena Gris) followed her lead at all times.
As it turned out, Bizzy was prone to a variety of chronic ailments as a result of inbreeding in the colony--he was basically allergic to himself, which meant lots of skin and fur issues, ear issues, and teeth issues. I lost count of how much I spent on dental surgeries over the years, but it was at least a couple thousand dollars. But overall, he was a well-behaved, sweet companion, so it was a worthwhile investment. He got fat and happy, peaking at about 18 pounds.
When I started my wanderings, Bizzy & Puzzle came along for the ride. They went to the Dominican Republic and back to the U.S.; to Nicaragua and back. I became very familiar with USDA, airline and foreign government requirements for export and import of live animals (you'd think we were talking multiple head of cattle!). I found creative ways to get around high and low temperature restrictions, learned how to bribe vets to avoid over-vaccinating my babies, and managed multiple passages through TSA checkpoints--yes, the cats had to go through the metal detector too--without anyone getting loose in the airport, which was my greatest fear.
The kitties were probably happiest during our first stint in Nicaragua, when we finally moved into our house out in the (relative) wilderness. For the first time since they were rescued, they were able to be outdoor cats again, courtesy of our fenced yard. Puzzle actually managed to jump the fence a couple of times, which was quite a feat given that it was 8-foot chain link with razor wire on top. She made it back unscathed, but I scolded her roundly. For his part, Bizzy enjoyed walking laps around the house, especially--surprisingly--when it was drizzling out. He also became expert at slaying the little frogs that often made their way into the house overnight.
When we returned to Chicago, our kitties readjusted to indoor life, though we had to be far more careful about monitoring open doors. They both enjoyed lounging on window sills whenever weather allowed.
Puzzle died suddenly and very unexpectedly in October 2007; the cause was never fully clear. I was very distraught, especially because she passed away overnight while in the care of the vet, and I had no opportunity to say my goodbyes. In any event, it was a shock, since she had always been the far livelier and healthier of the two.
Bizzy appeared to accept the life of a single cat, though he still acted more like a beta. But he continued to hang in there. At a certain point, I noticed that he was losing weight despite eating as much or more than ever. The vet eventually diagnosed him with hyperthyroidism (over-active thyroid), which is an extremely common condition among older neutered male cats. The problem was that none of the treatment options seemed like good ones for him: trying to give him two pills daily for life? Nuh-uh--he would have spent the rest of his days cowering under the couch or in the closet. Transdermal gel applied in the ears? No go either, given his hyper-sensitivity in that area. Radioactive iodine therapy? The $1,500-2,000 price tag made that impossible at the time. So, correct or not, I decided that benign neglect was the best choice as long as he didn't seem to be suffering.
Bizzy made his last trip with me in May. At that point he was down to about 10 pounds, so at least there was no trouble with him fitting in the smaller carrier required to travel in-cabin with me. Alas, the adaptation to Nicaragua seemed much harder this time. The heat, the dust, the noise--all things that bother me, but I have avoidance strategies at my disposal--seemed to be too much for him. First, he stopped eating his dry food, even the regular food I'd brought with me from the States. Then, he gradually began rejecting all the other aliments I tried--Whiskas canned food (the only kind I found here), home-cooked chicken, pork and beef (both meat and broth), Gerber chicken baby food, and finally even his most beloved tuna. I cringed to see this once-hefty fellow diminish to skin and bones, but he continued to act pretty normally--greeting us in the morning, when we came home, and generally being a nuisance anytime we were working in the kitchen.
A few weeks ago, we started to notice slight changes in his behavior--scratching around his food and water dishes, as though he were covering up his "business" in the litter box; occasionally missing the actual litter box; and generally acting a bit disoriented. He had bad days, and better days. Then came the day when he stopped eating altogether. He continued to drink water, though, at least if it was served to him fresh and cold out of the refrigerator.
On Monday morning, he snuck outside while we were sleeping--we had the back porch door open to catch a little breeze--and found a new hiding place in a rooftop storage area. E. ultimately had to drag him out (as gently as she could), since we were going to be leaving the house and didn't want to leave him there unsupervised. But to me, that was a sign that he was looking for a place to die. When we brought him downstairs into the kitchen, he drank a large quantity of water and then retreated behind the washing machine, where he spent most of the rest of the day and night. On Tuesday morning, when I went to make breakfast, he meowed his hello and came out to flop at my feet. But even that much movement was clearly an effort. And he no longer touched his water, even when I put it right in front of him.
That night, I spent a couple of hours by Bizzy's side. I gave him a good combing, caressed and talked to him, thanking him for being such a good companion and telling him that he should let go if he was ready to go. His breath was shallow and rapid, and his eyes became glassy and almost fixed. Around 9 p.m., I told E. that he wasn't going to make it until morning. She told me it was better to leave him alone, since he seemed to be fighting to stay with us as long as I was there. I went outside with E. to spend some time chatting with her grandfather and aunt, but my thoughts were with my kitty. I prayed (in my way) that he would go quietly, without suffering.
Sure enough, just over an hour later, we went back inside to find him gone. I gave him a few last pets and a kiss on the head. Then we wrapped him in fabric and took him down to the river bank, where we found a spot to bury him. I brought along Puzzle's ashes, and scattered them in the grave. Maybe that seems morbid, but it was important to me to reunite them in some way after so many years they spent together.
Even though Bizzy was never a big noise-maker, the house is far too quiet--something is simply missing. My grieving for him has been of a different sort than for Puzzle, in part because overt sadness or upset would not be culturally understood here, but mostly because I had a while to get used to the idea, and knew that his physical body was tuckered out even if his spirit persisted.
If you read this, and have a pet, please honor my kitty's memory by showing him or her or them some extra love today.
21 July 2009
What is my time worth?
I had a very non-bendy moment this morning--but am trying to justify it by the fact that the instigator was not Nica, but rather a compatriot who should know better.
For the past few days I've been working on a month-long contract to investigate possible funding sources for a local non-profit organization. Said non-profit is closely affiliated with the biggest employer in town, a fancy-schmancy hotel/resort/vacation home project. While the beneficiaries of the foundation's good works are locals, the organization itself was started by and still directed by fellow gringos.
Today, for the fourth or fifth time, my main contact at the foundation, the executive director, failed to show up at the appointed hour for a meeting we had scheduled. Five, ten minutes late is one thing. At twenty, I said "I'm outta here."
Yes, I've grown accustomed to tardiness and delays here, by necessity--and have occasionally been guilty of slipping into late mode myself. Nonetheless, I continue to hold my fellow North Americans to a higher standard, even if they've lived here for longer than I and could claim a certain amount of acculturation. And especially in this instance, when I made a bid for the project based on a certain number of hours, and assigning a price tag to each of those hours. I was conservative in my estimate--that is, I deliberately underestimated the time I might spend, because I needed the work and was afraid a higher dollar amount would scare them off. I guess that may have been the wrong tactic, because when I felt the clock ticking, and was sitting in an an office thinking of all the other things I could be doing with that time, I got irritated and resentful.
So what kinds of other things? Well, blogging, for one. Preparing exercises for my ESL student who is back from vacation today. Reading the news. Following up on e-mails related to my condo back in Chicago. Thinking and planning for a small business I'd like to open here. Investigating options for emigration to other locales where we might have more of a stable future. Maintaining contact with friends and family in the U.S. Making lunch. Mopping the first floor of our apartment, which is getting filthy. Doing another load of laundry. Trying to figure out some kind of food that my poor ailing kitty might eat. And oh, plenty more I'm sure.
OK, so I'm not saving the world. But these things are important to me and to us. A running joke with one of my friends here is that I've become, or at least am becoming, a good Nica housewife. Not entirely true, but in a strange way I'm starting to feel a lot of solidarity with all those women who have dedicated their lives to maintaining their households and their homes. Yes, this work counts and even if not paid in currency, it needs to be recognized.
So I'm going to lay down the law with this guy and let him know that it's not acceptable to keep me waiting. Take that, Mr. Big Important Man.
For the past few days I've been working on a month-long contract to investigate possible funding sources for a local non-profit organization. Said non-profit is closely affiliated with the biggest employer in town, a fancy-schmancy hotel/resort/vacation home project. While the beneficiaries of the foundation's good works are locals, the organization itself was started by and still directed by fellow gringos.
Today, for the fourth or fifth time, my main contact at the foundation, the executive director, failed to show up at the appointed hour for a meeting we had scheduled. Five, ten minutes late is one thing. At twenty, I said "I'm outta here."
Yes, I've grown accustomed to tardiness and delays here, by necessity--and have occasionally been guilty of slipping into late mode myself. Nonetheless, I continue to hold my fellow North Americans to a higher standard, even if they've lived here for longer than I and could claim a certain amount of acculturation. And especially in this instance, when I made a bid for the project based on a certain number of hours, and assigning a price tag to each of those hours. I was conservative in my estimate--that is, I deliberately underestimated the time I might spend, because I needed the work and was afraid a higher dollar amount would scare them off. I guess that may have been the wrong tactic, because when I felt the clock ticking, and was sitting in an an office thinking of all the other things I could be doing with that time, I got irritated and resentful.
So what kinds of other things? Well, blogging, for one. Preparing exercises for my ESL student who is back from vacation today. Reading the news. Following up on e-mails related to my condo back in Chicago. Thinking and planning for a small business I'd like to open here. Investigating options for emigration to other locales where we might have more of a stable future. Maintaining contact with friends and family in the U.S. Making lunch. Mopping the first floor of our apartment, which is getting filthy. Doing another load of laundry. Trying to figure out some kind of food that my poor ailing kitty might eat. And oh, plenty more I'm sure.
OK, so I'm not saving the world. But these things are important to me and to us. A running joke with one of my friends here is that I've become, or at least am becoming, a good Nica housewife. Not entirely true, but in a strange way I'm starting to feel a lot of solidarity with all those women who have dedicated their lives to maintaining their households and their homes. Yes, this work counts and even if not paid in currency, it needs to be recognized.
So I'm going to lay down the law with this guy and let him know that it's not acceptable to keep me waiting. Take that, Mr. Big Important Man.
14 July 2009
Super-duper financial discipline
This is not a new idea, and it's certainly one that's gotten more play in the U.S. media since the onset of the latest financial crisis: if you want to control your consumption, buy only what the cash in your pocket (or your drawer or under the mattress) allows.
Though it seems a bit backward in this area of electronic everything--and I must admit the huge advantage of being able to manage my existing U.S. accounts online--I appreciate the fact that Nicaragua still exists largely as a cash economy. There has been a noticeable increase in the availability of banks, ATMs and the like since I first started visiting here, but it's still a very small percentage of people who actually use them. So virtually everything is cash, and small bills at that. It is always a headache to deal with 500-cordoba notes (= about $25), or even 200's; I usually take care of them at the Pali, which is the Walmart-affiliated American-style supermarket in town where I buy a few select items each week. Use of credit cards is virtually non-existent, except among the wealthier tourists & folks in Managua.
Now that E. & I are pretty much done with the construction and furnishing of our apartment--paid for from savings--we are trying to live by the rule that we will not make any further withdrawals from my U.S. accounts, but rather only spend what we are actually making. Again, I know this is not a new concept. Lots and lots of people in the U.S., and I imagine elsewhere, live "paycheck to paycheck." The major difference in this case is that we don't have plastic to fall back on. And while I've never had a super-plush job, I've been fortunate enough in my working life to earn enough that I didn't really have to think too hard about maintaining what I'd call a solid middle- to middle-upper-class existence.
Here, in our collectively under-employed and under-paid state, we are struggling to cover our basic expenses--food, first and foremost, then utilities (though we have yet to receive our first electric bill; I had a nightmare a few days back that we got it and it was $3,373. Yes, three thousand DOLLARS and change. Yikes), then the bare minimum of cell phone minutes, a very little gas for the car, toiletries, and that's about it. An occasional meal out of the house--for example, our $15 lunch yesterday to celebrate a special anniversary--throws us way further out of whack than I'm accustomed to, but it does help us maintain our sanity, so I guess it can almost qualify as a necessity. After that, we try to set aside a few cordobas every week for special purchases: first, some perfume (mostly for E., who must smell good to feel good ;-) ); some furniture; and now, less glamorously, a new set of tires. We barely finish paying for one thing before the next item occurs to us...and this is for a household of only two pretty financially conscientious/a.k.a. thrifty people.
I have commented to several friends and family that I have no earthly idea how "regular" folks get by here, when prices for so many items equal or exceed U.S. levels. For example, beef and pork both cost the equivalent of over $2.00 per pound, while chicken is $1.50-2.00; milk, $3.00/gallon; butter, $4.00/pound; eggs, almost $2.00/dozen; toothpaste, $1.50/small tube; toilet paper, $2-$2.50/4 rolls; gasoline, $4.00/gallon. You get the idea. Produce is relatively inexpensive, thank goodness, but woman cannot live on tomatoes and onions alone!
To put things in further context, E.'s monthly salary of $200, for 50+ hours of work per week, is considered very good here. This is for someone who is bilingual and has computer skills, international experience, and several years of education past high school--a serious rarity in this country. With my B.A., M.S., multiple languages, and about 15 years of U.S. and international work experience, I'm pushing the envelope by asking more than $10 an hour for some of the specialized work I do. And it's far from full-time, only temporary contracts, no benefits of any kind, no long-term security.
So I'm definitely left scratching my head about other people's paths to subsistence, let alone building for the future. Especially because--here's where the criticism unfortunately has to come in--many locals' idea of what constitutes "the basics" includes cable TV, never-ending junk food for the kids, and of course alcohol in copious quantities. There is no culture of savings, no concept of a rainy-day fund, no sense of how to budget and live within one's means. Even if people had such ideas, they almost universally lack the education, skills and socio-cultural resources to act on them.
I've seen this phenomenon in other low-income countries I've spent time in, but I haven't had to live with it day in and day out. What to do? I'm speaking not for ourselves, because I'm pretty confident we will always find a way to get by--but for the people around us. Even proven ideas that have taken hold in other places, such as micro-financing or small business development programs (e.g. Grameen Bank and all its followers), fall flat here. You want to see a vicious circle in action? Come to Nicaragua.
[And by the bye, here's the wonder of the blogosphere: my original intention for this post was to say something positive about "doing more with less" and how even a well-trained consumer could change her habits...and it ended up being a depressing, seriously superficial commentary on the chicken-and-egg nature of poverty. I feel unsatisfied by what I've said but will publish nonetheless, with hopes of explicating my thoughts more effectively another day....]
Though it seems a bit backward in this area of electronic everything--and I must admit the huge advantage of being able to manage my existing U.S. accounts online--I appreciate the fact that Nicaragua still exists largely as a cash economy. There has been a noticeable increase in the availability of banks, ATMs and the like since I first started visiting here, but it's still a very small percentage of people who actually use them. So virtually everything is cash, and small bills at that. It is always a headache to deal with 500-cordoba notes (= about $25), or even 200's; I usually take care of them at the Pali, which is the Walmart-affiliated American-style supermarket in town where I buy a few select items each week. Use of credit cards is virtually non-existent, except among the wealthier tourists & folks in Managua.
Now that E. & I are pretty much done with the construction and furnishing of our apartment--paid for from savings--we are trying to live by the rule that we will not make any further withdrawals from my U.S. accounts, but rather only spend what we are actually making. Again, I know this is not a new concept. Lots and lots of people in the U.S., and I imagine elsewhere, live "paycheck to paycheck." The major difference in this case is that we don't have plastic to fall back on. And while I've never had a super-plush job, I've been fortunate enough in my working life to earn enough that I didn't really have to think too hard about maintaining what I'd call a solid middle- to middle-upper-class existence.
Here, in our collectively under-employed and under-paid state, we are struggling to cover our basic expenses--food, first and foremost, then utilities (though we have yet to receive our first electric bill; I had a nightmare a few days back that we got it and it was $3,373. Yes, three thousand DOLLARS and change. Yikes), then the bare minimum of cell phone minutes, a very little gas for the car, toiletries, and that's about it. An occasional meal out of the house--for example, our $15 lunch yesterday to celebrate a special anniversary--throws us way further out of whack than I'm accustomed to, but it does help us maintain our sanity, so I guess it can almost qualify as a necessity. After that, we try to set aside a few cordobas every week for special purchases: first, some perfume (mostly for E., who must smell good to feel good ;-) ); some furniture; and now, less glamorously, a new set of tires. We barely finish paying for one thing before the next item occurs to us...and this is for a household of only two pretty financially conscientious/a.k.a. thrifty people.
I have commented to several friends and family that I have no earthly idea how "regular" folks get by here, when prices for so many items equal or exceed U.S. levels. For example, beef and pork both cost the equivalent of over $2.00 per pound, while chicken is $1.50-2.00; milk, $3.00/gallon; butter, $4.00/pound; eggs, almost $2.00/dozen; toothpaste, $1.50/small tube; toilet paper, $2-$2.50/4 rolls; gasoline, $4.00/gallon. You get the idea. Produce is relatively inexpensive, thank goodness, but woman cannot live on tomatoes and onions alone!
To put things in further context, E.'s monthly salary of $200, for 50+ hours of work per week, is considered very good here. This is for someone who is bilingual and has computer skills, international experience, and several years of education past high school--a serious rarity in this country. With my B.A., M.S., multiple languages, and about 15 years of U.S. and international work experience, I'm pushing the envelope by asking more than $10 an hour for some of the specialized work I do. And it's far from full-time, only temporary contracts, no benefits of any kind, no long-term security.
So I'm definitely left scratching my head about other people's paths to subsistence, let alone building for the future. Especially because--here's where the criticism unfortunately has to come in--many locals' idea of what constitutes "the basics" includes cable TV, never-ending junk food for the kids, and of course alcohol in copious quantities. There is no culture of savings, no concept of a rainy-day fund, no sense of how to budget and live within one's means. Even if people had such ideas, they almost universally lack the education, skills and socio-cultural resources to act on them.
I've seen this phenomenon in other low-income countries I've spent time in, but I haven't had to live with it day in and day out. What to do? I'm speaking not for ourselves, because I'm pretty confident we will always find a way to get by--but for the people around us. Even proven ideas that have taken hold in other places, such as micro-financing or small business development programs (e.g. Grameen Bank and all its followers), fall flat here. You want to see a vicious circle in action? Come to Nicaragua.
[And by the bye, here's the wonder of the blogosphere: my original intention for this post was to say something positive about "doing more with less" and how even a well-trained consumer could change her habits...and it ended up being a depressing, seriously superficial commentary on the chicken-and-egg nature of poverty. I feel unsatisfied by what I've said but will publish nonetheless, with hopes of explicating my thoughts more effectively another day....]
01 July 2009
Not saying no, Nica-style
Nicaraguans, at least those of the Sanjuaneno variety, do not like to say "no." They seem to think that a direct refusal of an offer or request, no matter how well justified, is rude or unkind. So if someone asks you to go out to a party, for example, rather than saying "I prefer to stay home" or--heaven forbid--"I don't want to go out with you", the more common response is to make up some other commitment or simply defer the question by saying "another time," "maybe next week" or the like. If someone asks you why you didn't call, the usual culprit is the bad telephone lines, a discharged cell battery...you get the picture. White lies, we call them--but here, such excuses or equivocations are not considered lies of any color.
This phenomenon rubs me a bit the wrong way. While I don't claim to be some paragon of virtue or honesty, I do make a conscious effort to be as straightforward as possible in the way I speak and interact with others, unless it will cause the other person unnecessary or lasting harm. This was not always so. For many, many years, I was a conflict-avoider par excellence. Too often, I suffered some resentment, anger or hurt in silence simply because it seemed easier. Not so good for long-term emotional health, and I sometimes ponder what effect all that internalizing might have had on my organs.
But then I spent two years in the Dominican Republic, where the m.o. is to let it all hang out--the stereotypical Latino "passion" leading to loud and sometimes vehement public arguments, commentaries, or other kinds of hoopla. Not coincidentally, during this time I began my relationship with E., who is of course Latina, and--to her credit--unusually forthright for a Nicaraguan, although she does equivocate once in a while when it's convenient. Under the stress of a long-distance relationship trying to bridge multiple cultural and social barriers, plus a very intense job I detested, plus absence from friends and family and almost all things known, my facade started to crack.
Instead of crying alone in my room, I cried in public (embarrassing, and not recommended except in very rare circumstances). Rather than avoiding fights, I sometimes picked them. My "nice girl" persona became, well, a bit more bitchy. In short order, I felt I had cried and screamed more in a year than in the previous 30. Obviously, I was going through some kind of transformation, and I wasn't sure if it was good or if I liked it, but it was often extremely cathartic. I also didn't know if it was a temporary or a lasting change. Yes, I did seek counseling during this period, but it ended up being for only a couple of months, and I stopped taking the meds I was prescribed once I got out of the D.R. and started feeling more in control of my life.
Long story short, after swinging 180 degrees over to the "let it all hang out" approach I started to move back to center, but with the goal of hanging on to those elements of emotional and relationship management that I found helpful. Ask my family, for example, if they've noticed a change in the way I speak with them; I guarantee they'll all say yes. They don't always like what I have to say, and I still hold some things back, but boy, do I feel better. And it's not just about self-gratification. I really do think that in almost all cases it's better to be brutally honest, even if it causes bad feelings in the short term, than to placate and stay silent and potentially create long-term problems. (That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!)
Yesterday, I violated my self-imposed honesty principle not once, but twice. First, one of the relatively trustworthy taxi drivers I know here asked me for a loan of $22 to buy a new cell phone. Instead of saying no, I am not an ATM, I don't make loans just because I'm a gringa and because you've occasionally given me a ride (though I would have said it a little more politely than that), I said something to the effect that I was waiting for payday and that I had virtually no cash in my pocket. Mind you, those two things were actually true. However, the truth is that if I had wanted to make the loan, I could have gotten the money. But I didn't want to, and I didn't say so. Shame on me!
Later, around 9:30 p.m., E. and I were getting ready for bed when I heard a knock on the door and a familiar voice asking if we were home. It was Amanda, an acquaintance who was coming to collect a second payment for some Avon perfumes we'd ordered from her. We'd known since the beginning that the second half would be due on the 30th; we'd set aside the exact amount we owed, and I had been expecting Amanda to show up or accost me on the street any time yesterday. So the logical thing would have been to go downstairs and just take care of it. But no. In true Nicaraguan style, I quickly turned out the lights, and "made myself deaf" until she gave up and went across the street. Afterwards, I felt pretty stupid, perhaps even cowardly. The truth was, it was late, we were tired, and I just didn't feel like dealing with her. Even so, it was the wrong choice.
Could it be that I'm adapting a little too much to the culture here? I will have to keep an eye on this...
But then I spent two years in the Dominican Republic, where the m.o. is to let it all hang out--the stereotypical Latino "passion" leading to loud and sometimes vehement public arguments, commentaries, or other kinds of hoopla. Not coincidentally, during this time I began my relationship with E., who is of course Latina, and--to her credit--unusually forthright for a Nicaraguan, although she does equivocate once in a while when it's convenient. Under the stress of a long-distance relationship trying to bridge multiple cultural and social barriers, plus a very intense job I detested, plus absence from friends and family and almost all things known, my facade started to crack.
Instead of crying alone in my room, I cried in public (embarrassing, and not recommended except in very rare circumstances). Rather than avoiding fights, I sometimes picked them. My "nice girl" persona became, well, a bit more bitchy. In short order, I felt I had cried and screamed more in a year than in the previous 30. Obviously, I was going through some kind of transformation, and I wasn't sure if it was good or if I liked it, but it was often extremely cathartic. I also didn't know if it was a temporary or a lasting change. Yes, I did seek counseling during this period, but it ended up being for only a couple of months, and I stopped taking the meds I was prescribed once I got out of the D.R. and started feeling more in control of my life.
Long story short, after swinging 180 degrees over to the "let it all hang out" approach I started to move back to center, but with the goal of hanging on to those elements of emotional and relationship management that I found helpful. Ask my family, for example, if they've noticed a change in the way I speak with them; I guarantee they'll all say yes. They don't always like what I have to say, and I still hold some things back, but boy, do I feel better. And it's not just about self-gratification. I really do think that in almost all cases it's better to be brutally honest, even if it causes bad feelings in the short term, than to placate and stay silent and potentially create long-term problems. (That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!)
Yesterday, I violated my self-imposed honesty principle not once, but twice. First, one of the relatively trustworthy taxi drivers I know here asked me for a loan of $22 to buy a new cell phone. Instead of saying no, I am not an ATM, I don't make loans just because I'm a gringa and because you've occasionally given me a ride (though I would have said it a little more politely than that), I said something to the effect that I was waiting for payday and that I had virtually no cash in my pocket. Mind you, those two things were actually true. However, the truth is that if I had wanted to make the loan, I could have gotten the money. But I didn't want to, and I didn't say so. Shame on me!
Later, around 9:30 p.m., E. and I were getting ready for bed when I heard a knock on the door and a familiar voice asking if we were home. It was Amanda, an acquaintance who was coming to collect a second payment for some Avon perfumes we'd ordered from her. We'd known since the beginning that the second half would be due on the 30th; we'd set aside the exact amount we owed, and I had been expecting Amanda to show up or accost me on the street any time yesterday. So the logical thing would have been to go downstairs and just take care of it. But no. In true Nicaraguan style, I quickly turned out the lights, and "made myself deaf" until she gave up and went across the street. Afterwards, I felt pretty stupid, perhaps even cowardly. The truth was, it was late, we were tired, and I just didn't feel like dealing with her. Even so, it was the wrong choice.
Could it be that I'm adapting a little too much to the culture here? I will have to keep an eye on this...
12 June 2009
Goldilocks was a wise little girl
Today I had a small success: in making lunch for E., I was able to get the fried plantains--tostones, in Nicaraguan and Cuban Spanish--just about right. This seems like a small thing, but as I am not very accustomed to deep frying as a primary method of cooking, I have yet to develop that sense of when the oil is at just the right temperature--not too hot, not too cold, but just right! (My dad, of course, has the sense after years of making scrumpdillyicious homeade donuts. But I guess it's not genetic.) In the past, I usually erred on the side of too hot, which meant the plaintains came out dark, dry and tough. Sometimes, if the oil was too cold, the coveted yellow disks languished too long and absorbed waaaaay too much grease. Neither result was appetizing. In any case, I was pleased that I managed to pull off the tostones, refried beans, roasted pork and rice all almost up to local snuff, and with the right timing. Hurray!
Several people, in particular my favorite former boss Mary Jean, have commented that they can't quite imagine what my daily life is like here in SJdS. One very short answer is that it involves a lot more manual labor and domestic tasks than I ever did in the U.S., and that's one of the things that I enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I've had a number of interesting and challenging jobs that have (mostly) kept me out of trouble and paid my bills, but I was just plain tired of sitting in front of a computer all the live long day. Such is the nature of white collar work. Now I can choose when and for how long to connect...this is why I'm not blogging constantly.
Today, for example, went very quickly--starting at about 6:15 a.m. when I had to leap out of bed and run next door to beg for a bucket of water after E. was left all soaped up with no water from the shower. The rest was taken up by buying, cooking & delivering a couple of meals to my love, who is trapped behind a desk at the Internet cafe; doing several loads of laundry in spite of the slow trickle of water; ditto several rounds of dishes; tracking down and conversatin' with four different lawyers to see how much they will soak me for to get my residency straightened out; prepping for & giving an English lesson; taking my favorite young kitty to the vet for follow-up from spaying surgery; and...I don't remember what else. But I find it sort of amazing that so many hours can pass just doing mundane tasks. And only about two and half hours of that would qualify as "work" by U.S. standards.
Several people, in particular my favorite former boss Mary Jean, have commented that they can't quite imagine what my daily life is like here in SJdS. One very short answer is that it involves a lot more manual labor and domestic tasks than I ever did in the U.S., and that's one of the things that I enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I've had a number of interesting and challenging jobs that have (mostly) kept me out of trouble and paid my bills, but I was just plain tired of sitting in front of a computer all the live long day. Such is the nature of white collar work. Now I can choose when and for how long to connect...this is why I'm not blogging constantly.
Today, for example, went very quickly--starting at about 6:15 a.m. when I had to leap out of bed and run next door to beg for a bucket of water after E. was left all soaped up with no water from the shower. The rest was taken up by buying, cooking & delivering a couple of meals to my love, who is trapped behind a desk at the Internet cafe; doing several loads of laundry in spite of the slow trickle of water; ditto several rounds of dishes; tracking down and conversatin' with four different lawyers to see how much they will soak me for to get my residency straightened out; prepping for & giving an English lesson; taking my favorite young kitty to the vet for follow-up from spaying surgery; and...I don't remember what else. But I find it sort of amazing that so many hours can pass just doing mundane tasks. And only about two and half hours of that would qualify as "work" by U.S. standards.
07 June 2009
In case you were wondering...
The title of my blog refers to one of my favorite passages from the Tao Te Ching, specifically the 1989 translation by Gia-fu Feng and Jane English. I first read the text for a course in Japanese religion in the spring of 1992, and it's one of the very few books that's accompanied me during the ensuing 17 years of peregrination.
While I don't subscribe to any particular religion, Buddhism, and Zen Buddhism in particular, holds a lot of appeal for me as a source of wisdom and comfort in navigating life's challenges. One of these days/weeks/months/years I need to make time and space to study it in greater depth.
I've come back to this chapter again because, as I try to adapt to the Nicaraguan lifestyle for the second time, I find myself constantly having to revise my expectations and stopping myself from reacting to situations in the manner I might if I were in the U.S. One of the things that has always struck me about Nicaraguans is that the majority seem to believe that they have very little control over their own lives. Either God, some other higher power, or simply "fate" is running the show. This is comforting in some ways, because it makes it easier for people to accept the many, many obstacles they face here; however, I think this mindset also holds them back from achieving a higher, more sustainable standard of living. On the flip side, the majority of U.S.-ians probably feel that they have 100% control of their lives. In my opinion, neither viewpoint is entirely correct.
All this to say that I am trying to be a bit more flexible and relaxed when things don't go the way I anticipate. I am trying to yield, to bend, and let things happen as they will, all the while keeping some semblance of a smile on my face. This is often far easier said than done...
Yield and overcome;
Bend and be straight;
Empty and be full;
Wear out and be new;
Have little and gain;
Have much and be confused.
Therefore the wise embrace the one
And set an example to all.
Not putting on a display,
They shine forth.
Not justifying themselves,
They are distinguished.
Not boasting,
They receive recognition.
Not bragging,
They never falter.
They do not quarrel,
So no one quarrels with them.
Therefore the ancients say, "Yield and overcome."
Is that an empty saying?
Be really whole,
And all things will come to you.
While I don't subscribe to any particular religion, Buddhism, and Zen Buddhism in particular, holds a lot of appeal for me as a source of wisdom and comfort in navigating life's challenges. One of these days/weeks/months/years I need to make time and space to study it in greater depth.
I've come back to this chapter again because, as I try to adapt to the Nicaraguan lifestyle for the second time, I find myself constantly having to revise my expectations and stopping myself from reacting to situations in the manner I might if I were in the U.S. One of the things that has always struck me about Nicaraguans is that the majority seem to believe that they have very little control over their own lives. Either God, some other higher power, or simply "fate" is running the show. This is comforting in some ways, because it makes it easier for people to accept the many, many obstacles they face here; however, I think this mindset also holds them back from achieving a higher, more sustainable standard of living. On the flip side, the majority of U.S.-ians probably feel that they have 100% control of their lives. In my opinion, neither viewpoint is entirely correct.
All this to say that I am trying to be a bit more flexible and relaxed when things don't go the way I anticipate. I am trying to yield, to bend, and let things happen as they will, all the while keeping some semblance of a smile on my face. This is often far easier said than done...
Yield and overcome;
Bend and be straight;
Empty and be full;
Wear out and be new;
Have little and gain;
Have much and be confused.
Therefore the wise embrace the one
And set an example to all.
Not putting on a display,
They shine forth.
Not justifying themselves,
They are distinguished.
Not boasting,
They receive recognition.
Not bragging,
They never falter.
They do not quarrel,
So no one quarrels with them.
Therefore the ancients say, "Yield and overcome."
Is that an empty saying?
Be really whole,
And all things will come to you.
One small reason to love SJDS: cheap ice cream!
Yesterday was one of those icky, sticky days. Paradoxically, "winter" here is more unbearable, weather-wise, than "summer"--while we wait for the rains to start, the humidity and pressure build and build until you are left praying for a downpour. Of course, you have to be careful what you wish for, because rains often mean extended power outages, i.e. no fans to cool off, no showers to get clean. Well, you either learn to live with it or run screaming back to northern climes.
In any case, I was happy to visit the nearest Eskimo store--about the only commercial brand of ice cream that exists here--and pick up a double scoop for 15 cordobas, or about $0.75. Can't beat that! Mmmm....coconut....
In any case, I was happy to visit the nearest Eskimo store--about the only commercial brand of ice cream that exists here--and pick up a double scoop for 15 cordobas, or about $0.75. Can't beat that! Mmmm....coconut....
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