Crossing the Line, Torching the Wart, Hunting the Beast - Lundgren Family Update #13

Crossing the Line, Torching the Wart, Hunting the Beast

Verruga Vulgar – Scary sounding words regardless of the language, especially when they come out of a Doctor’s mouth in a foreign country at the end of a rather long diagnosis concerning a foot ailment. But such were the final words of Dr. Carlos Pacheco Paiz, delivered just before he began unscrewing a large canister of volatile liquid that smoked profusely as it collided with the hot Nicaraguan air. Harlan and Cully had gone to the second floor of a nondescript physicians office in Leon seeking a consult for the wart on Harlan’s left foot that had steadily grown over the past couple months. Medical treatment was a must because while largely painless if untouched, the wart screamed in pain whenever it was hit by anything, usually a ball or foot colliding with Harlan’s, either on the soccer pitch or while trying to squeeze between riders, money collectors, or the plethora of ice cream, vegetable, fried plantain, or soda hawkers on the Tololar-Leon bus.

After opening the large container of liquid nitrogen, Dr. Pacheco Paiz began transferring it to a smaller, more manageable thermos, pouring the steaming liquid into the small opening with semi-steady hands, spilling only a little on the tile floor below. Harlan’s eyes grew wider with each fluid transfer, no doubt in his mind questioning how the good doctor meant to administer the super-sub zero liquid to his foot. Fortunately the end of the thermos possessed a small-spray hose that would ensure that only Harlan’s wart, and not his entire foot, would be frozen. After two separate spray sessions with a few minutes in between, the procedure was complete. The doctor provided assurances that all would be fine, and to expect the wart to blacken and fall off in short order. Trusting someone you don’t know with an integral part of your body, regardless of their qualifications, requires a certain sense of courage and Harlan gets huge props for being game to put his feet in Dr. Paiz’s hands.

They were tracking it through the jungle-like forest that had long since swallowed up the road that formerly served as a major thoroughfare in El Tololar. A posse of eight they were, four of whom possessed the instincts of a bloodhound, having hunted the beasts with slingshots and rocks on many occasions before. Here and there were telltale signs that a giant one had passed by recently, visible to the experienced eye in the long, smooth trails left on the dusty soil by it’s huge tail. Forty-five minutes into the hunt, the beast was still nowhere to be seen, but they were sure it could see them, watching intently as it lay hidden in the trees above. They crossed the abandoned road, dodging foxholes, stumps and roots, and wasp nests, arriving at a stand of giant eucalyptus trees swaying to the rhythm of the late morning breeze. Suddenly, the champion tracker raised his weapon toward the sky, placed a rough-hewn rock in its pouch, and launched it towards the branches above. A giant green Gorobo fell from the tree, running toward them at an astonishing speed, only to be stopped in its tracks by the mottled brown and black dog that had accompanied them on the hunt. Later that afternoon, they along with the rest of the family gorged themselves on successive bowls of soup, flavored with an array of colorfully-named local vegetables, such as the que-qui-que, and the tasty meat of the behemoth dragon they had slayed that morning. Disclaimer: This story has been slightly embellished for your reading pleasure but most or all of it, in some form or another, actually took place:)

From the Desk of Olle

Living in Nicaragua, I have noticed many differences between Nicaragua and Milton, Massachusetts.

1) Sometimes, we play soccer and after the games, I am hot and dirty, but I can’t take a shower because we don’t have water. I either have to take a bucket shower or go to the house that usually has well-water. In Nicaragua, our water is always cold and sometimes (hard to believe), I just want a hot shower but I have to wait till we get back home to Milton.

2. Our Neighbors Carlos and Miriam spend all day on their hammock. Then one day they needed rope for the horse. They used the rope from their hammock for the horse, leaving them without a hammock. They couldn’t replace the rope because they needed money for food. People here only buy things they need. In the United States most people can afford to buy what they need and what they want.

3. Here in Nicaragua, we take buses to get anywhere. The buses are old school buses from the U.S. I always feel weird on the bus because I am not a local and our family are the only gringos on the bus. In Milton the buses are nice but I don’t need to go on buses there because we have a car, which is easier and quicker. I have learned Nicaragua is different than the States. (END OF OLLE SECTION)

The best $66 dollars we ever spent! At least that’s what we’re telling ourselves. We had actually done our homework and found that we could in fact change our visa (we need to do so every 90 days) at the Honduran Border instead of the Costa Rican one. Or so we thought. Our arrival at the border went swimmingly. We took a taxi from the beautiful town of Somoto with a young man named Yader. We exchanged numbers, just in case it took longer then expected, but the short line and bounty of border agents made it look like a quick criss-cross was a sure thing; thirty, forty minutes tops to go across into Honduras and back. The first caballero who checked our passports was very pleasant, and when we provided a quick summary of our border crossing plans, he seemed supportive of the idea. Things went downhill from there. Our conversation with the Nicaraguan border agents was tough on multiple levels – language, ambient noise, misinformation, and a little misdirection. Add all of these up and you have unsavory, muddled soup of confusion. We paid our exit fee of $4 each to leave the country, and then walked confidently up the hill towards Honduras. There two kind agents confirmed what the previous agents had been trying to tell us – you guys can’t cross the border here and then re-enter Nicaragua - no way, no how. No amount of pleading, gesticulating, or making fake running movements in the direction of Honduras could dissuade them and we were forced to turn around. We surmised that because we had not officially entered Honduras, we could simply return to Nicaragua, but not so. It turns out that because we had paid our exit fee, we were essentially in purgatory, four gringos destined to haunt the border region for years to come. Unless, that is, we paid our entrance fee to get back into Nicaragua, the country we had actually never left. And so with heavy hearts – and the knowledge that we would need to attempt another border crossing to Costa Rica within the month – we shelled out another $12 each (to the same lady we had paid our exit fee to), lining the pockets of those that uphold a corrupt immigration system yet assuring that Yader our taxi driver’s wait was over. It was ironical that our mini border debacle happened on the same day Trump announced his frightening major updates to US immigration policy, making border crossings, for many, not just an inconvenience but an impossibility.

There is a Manny Ramirez, a Mickey Mantle, or a Roberto Clemente waiting around every corner in El Tololar. Really, the kids here can play baseball, possessing the raw talent that in a different world would give many of them access to the big leagues, the grandas ligas. But they lack something kind of essential to the game...equipment. Several of you have been so kind to donate balls and gloves. We gave some to one of the local elementary schools, and Harlan has at one time or another come running to the house mid-game to procure a new ball, having lost the last one in either the pile of peanut leftovers at Don Lionel’s or in the cow paddock that abuts the bus-stop baseball field. This piecemeal approach to baseball development worked fine for a time, but last week we hit on an even better one. Our neighbor Adilsa (who is literally connected to everyone in the village) brought the local coach in waiting, Paulo, to our house for a chat. Paulo has been wanting to start a baseball team in Tololar, and has great plans for entering the team into local leagues while coaching them to be a legitimate contender. He really thinks he can do it, and now, thanks to you, he can. It seems small, but Paulo was so happy when he received the assortment of gloves and baseballs. He could envision each glove encircling the hand of a 12 year old protege, or a ball careening off the bat of the next big slugger from El Tololar. Bats and balls are trivial until they get in the right hands, then they are magic.

Running is not a thing in El Tololar, just not part of the culture. It’s not part of the culture partly because people here don’t have a lot, and free time is spent either working in the fields or looking for work. At the end of a long day toiling under the hot sun, often a nice swing on a hammock is preferable to a lengthy, sweat-filled run. Plus, almost no one can afford a new pair of running shoes. Our good friend Tyler, who is the reason we are here, began running when he worked here from 2008-2010 with the Peace Corps. Tyler, along with local partners, subsequently started Tololamos, www.tololamos.org, with whom we are privileged to continue to partner. Tyler introduced us to his peanut-field route when we arrived, and for the first three months we ran there a few times a week, jumping in between the green peanut plants while we looked up at the smoking volcanoes that stood in the distance. A couple weeks back we shifted our running route as the peanut field, now all plowed over, has become something of a dustbowl, as has virtually all of El Tololar. Our route takes us on a dirt road (a bit less dusty than the peanut field, unless your run coincides with the daily walking of the cows, in which case it’s both dusty, stinky and a bit dangerous), across a peanut field – they are hard to avoid - along another dirt road that passes the elementary school Harlan and Olle will attend two days a week starting soon, pass the school and the clinic, and back up through another peanut field to our house, approximately 4 miles round trip. One day when Cully was running, a young man drove by on a motorcycle. He stopped, clearly concerned, and asked if Cully needed a ride. It was inconceivable that the guy running down the street with a stick (you always run with a branch to shoo dogs away) might actually be running...for exercise, for the fun of it. His look of concern was only equaled in magnitude by the blank, perplexed stares we get from the cows we pass, clearly similarly baffled by the running aliens. Yet an equally important aspect of the encounter with the moto-ist was that he stopped; he saw someone from a different tribe, a different culture, and a different language, and he crossed the divide to make a connection. In the end, Cully declined the offer of the ride (he really was exercising!), but he was thankful for the Motorcycle Samaritan (like the Good Samaritan in the Bible), the guy who did what we should all do, take a chance, a risk, cross the line, to connect with someone different from ourselves.

For the past two months, we’ve been teaching English, every Tuesday and Thursday, 3-4pm. We’ve had a mixed group of students, from Harlan and Olle’s baseball, hang-out friends, to assorted members of the Rivas family, to local high school students who through word of mouth have heard about the classes. Harlan and Olle have taken a turn or two in helping teach (perhaps planting the seed for future teacherdom?), but generally it’s Miriam and Cully who lead the classes. We’ve done body parts (including bellybutton (ombligo), which is just kind of a funny word), some basic verbs, colors, greetings, the alphabet, and most recently, prepositions. We’ve taken to teaching the class in both Spanish and English, partly because we feel like we had mixed results in our initial Spanish classes that were ALL in Spanish. Still, we get a fair few looks of bewilderment (it’s like we’re running :), and you realize how difficult learning another language can be. ‘What on earth are these two talking about’, they must think, ‘and for goodness sakes why is stomach so hard to pronounce.’ We get it, because we still have many moments of great frustration and confusion with Spanish. But little by little, poco a poco, we are getting there, and we hope they are too.

What does an onion cost? Like 25 cents, if that? Not sure, you tell us. Here in Nicaragua, an onion costs a few cordobas, depending on the size, only cents on the dollar. Most of us wouldn’t think twice about shelling that out. But let’s shift the analogy, let’s pretend you are a resident of El Tololar. The dry season has kicked into full swing, and for some reason, every day you only have water for a few hours. The spicket runs dry. You and your neighbors put up with this for the better part of a month, but then you’ve had enough. You come together and set up a meeting with the local water officials to find out what the hell is going on. Hundreds of you congregate one sultry afternoon, and you air your grievances. ‘I need water to wash clothes, for my animals, to cook, to drink’, you all say. The water officials act like they care, but divulge little but scuttlebutt and empty promises. Then finally they say, ‘okay, we will release more water, but only if you pay six cordobas for 3 meters of water.’ That’s a pittance, right? But then you begin to think of that onion, or that tomato. Not being able to buy one isn’t a big deal, but when you add those cordobas up over time, it really impacts your bottom line. The price differential could mean missing a meal, or two or three, and that’s a problem, cause we all need to eat. So when injustice is happening around us, like an unjust water bill, or something else, we speak up. We see something that is just not right, doesn’t add up (for ourselves, or for other people, because heck, we are all in this world together) and we stand up, we unite, because there is strength in numbers. And guess what? The water bill thing worked out. Since that meeting, the water flow has not been perfect, and is never sufficient, but it’s been a heck of a lot better.

If you ever happen to be driving on Nicaraguan Highway one, about an hour north of Esteli, you need to stop at Somoto Canyon. We hired a local guide, a young, spry lad of about 60 named Anastasio Martinez, to take us through. We walked together with Anastasio, teaching each other our respective mother tongues. His dream, even at sixty – don’t you just love someone who never stops dreaming? - is to learn English. He taught us about the local and flora fauna as we walked along a ridge, then down into the Canyon. The water was chilly (especially to our bodies that have become accustomed to the really hot El Tololar climate) but the sun made enough appearances over the canyon walls to keep our shivering level to a minimum. As we walked – and sometimes swam or tubed – we were met on three occasions by jumbo Blue Morpho butterflies, rare but perhaps the most beautiful butterflies you will ever meet. There were other people in the canyon that day, but for the most part, we felt alone, floating together with only the Morphos and the high cliff walls as our companions. Perhaps the highlight of the trip was when Harlan and Olle (their nerves that day were steelier than the water was icy) each launched off a 5-meter high cliff into the narrow but deep, blue gorge below. Olle had never attempted such a leap, and it was awesome to see the initial fear in his eyes give way to a twinkle, and then a huge grin when he came up for air.

From the Desk of Harlan

The things I like to do in Nicaragua are playing with Leo, big soccer games, and Leon days. It is fun to play with Leo (who is a local boy) because I am interacting with another kid my age. I continue to try and find more opportunities to hang out with kids in the community. I also think Leo is cool because we play competition sports like soccer and baseball together. Sometimes I get board here, but playing with Leo is hours of entertainment. He is a good friend. Big soccer games are great because I can get better at soccer while having fun with the family. I also like them because I can feel like I am speaking to the people fluently in Spanish through sports.

Three reasons I like Nicaragua are, getting to know the culture, the experience and seeing things, and the new things I am learning. For getting to know the culture I get to talk to and get to know and understand the people. We also get to see the poverty especially in our days in Leon. The best part is we get to learn the language (Spanish). For the experience, we get to go to another country. We also get to learn what they do. We get to go to the school here to interact with other kids. For finding knew things I have found out passion by being here and feeling what it is like. I found out persistence by staying here for this whole time. I found out experience by seeing everything. These are the things I like about being in Nicaragua.

Three weeks ago we took a trip to the town primary school where some other volunteers from Spain had organized games for the kids. So we walked there with Adilsa (one of the family members we live with, she also works at the school) and her grandson Leo. When we got there, the outside space near the library was full of kids and games. Olle, Leo, and I stood on the side not really interested in any of the puzzles or board games. Then some twenty minutes later the running games started and the kids at the school were having the time of their lives. It was a really cool experience. It was really fun mainly for the kids here because they never get access to games like that. It was very interesting to see what it was like. It affected me because in the United States we take stuff like that for granted and don’t appreciate it as much.
(END OF HARLAN SECTION)

P.S. For those of you who came late to our updates, you can read them all on our blog link below as well.
http://lundgrensinnicaragua.blogspot.com/