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.
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...
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