This will be my last post from Puerto Cabezas. Just writing that makes my throat constrict a little, as it has done from time to time, like when I passed the bakery on the way to the airport or left the dance studio for the last time.
There is always a script for my conversations with people here these days. "When are you leaving?" "December 27th." "And you're not coming back?" The number of times I have rehearsed this with people has allowed me to tinker with the script a little. I used to say, "To visit, yes, but not to work." And then a heavy silence sets in with the awareness of impending, permanent change. I have recently discovered a much better response, which is, "Yes, perhaps next December." To which they respond, "Oh, okay." This is followed by a much lighter sense of relief, that relationships may indeed have the chance to continue. One woman ruined this dialogue by persisting: "But you won't be living here?" "No, just visiting. But who knows?" One thing I like about Nicaragua is its permissiveness for the contemplation of possible if improbable futures. But who knows? When I left Nicaragua the last time, about five years ago, I never imagined I would be spending a year and a half here, during which time I visited my former host family in Nandasmo about five times.
You might have noticed that the departure date above has already passed, and yet I remain in Puerto Cabezas. I was slated to fly to Bluefields yesterday, where I would spend a few days with the girls working in Managua. My flight was cancelled due to heavy wind, so I have to wait until the next flight out to Bluefields, which is tomorrow. Unfortunately, we already sold my bed, so I found myself shacking up at the house of the pastor of the Moravian church, who lives just down the street and has an extra room. Now I'm in a weird limbo, having already said good-bye to everyone and prepared to leave, only to be stuck here for two days. I feel like a little like a ghost, trapped between worlds and haunting my former place of residence. So I try to watch TV, which transports me to a virtual world that is happy to have me for a few days.
It is nice to be able to rest. The last few weeks have been crazy and unrelenting. I had just finished up a few volunteer jobs I had taken on and said good-bye to Sol, my dear friend from Norway, when the girls from Managua came to visit. This was followed by Christmas, and then I went around saying good-bye, packing up, and giving away or selling all of our household possessions and personal affects that would not be coming back with me. Having nothing to do is a nice change, but it provides wide space for rumination and depression. I'm about to leave my community in this warm, vibrant place, leaving behind a language spoken almost nowhere else except in Miami, and a culture of music and dance all its own. And returning will cost a little more than popping over to Milwaukee or even Oberlin for a visit. I'm excited about seeing my family, and eating macaroni and cheese, and the recent cold spell, with temperatures in the 60s and 70s, has started to prepare me for Wisconsin winter.
The problem with traveling extensively and experiencing lots of different cultures is that my whole self, in all its facets that have developed in these different places, can never be truly home again, not in any one of them. Where do I belong now? In a way, it doesn't matter, since wherever I belong never seems to be where I end up. Sol, who has spent her time here moving between Puerto Cabezas, where her work is, to Norway, where her family is, and Colombia, where her house is, experiences this reality more acutely than anyone I know. Upon her return to Norway, she suggested that my next blog post be about good-byes. The transitory life, like life in generaly, is a continuing process of good-byes to the people and places that have become home. World traveler and writer James Michener overcame the sense of homelessness this causes by proclaiming that the world was his home. Christian tradition overcomes it by proclaiming that this world is not our home. Our director Marcia said she was trying to find home within herself.
All of these approaches are contemplative devices for seeking a continuous sense of peace, comfort, and belonging in a changing world that promises none of these things. I espouse each one at different times and try to keep all of my homes, in their diversity, alive inside of me.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Purisima
Last week, my dear friend and intrepid former nun Angela Pasquier invited me to her comunidad to celebrate Purisima, the celebration of the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary. Now, Angela could invite me to spend Purisima in a cardboard box with her and I'd accept. However, the additional treat of getting to travel to the famous "comunidades," the rural communities surrounding Bilwi, I would have to have grisi siknis not to accept.
For those who are unfamiliar with Catholic tradition, the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin refers not to the conception of Jesus, but of Mary. According to Catholic doctrine, Mary was born without original sin. That doesn't mean she was virgin-born, like Jesus, it just means God removed from her the sinful nature inherent in all people from birth. This quality of Mary is celebrated on December 8, which also happens to be my birthday. Which is why it's fitting that my name is Kathryn, though perhaps my parents did not realize it, since Kathryn means "pure."
Angela's family lives in the auspiciously named town of Kilometro 43, so named because it lies 43 kilometers outside of Bilwi. Or at least it did, when there was a railroad, before the war. Along the current road, it's 47 kilometers away. But the name stuck. The community borders the slightly more well-known Mani Watla, which I heard of a few months back when it was said that two men there had been hacked to pieces with a machete, and then, still alive, set on fire, owing to accusations of witchcraft. I didn't quite make it there to get my National Park passport stamped.
The bus dropped us off in front of their house, and then we crossed a little creek on a log to get to the house. I was a little worried about keeling over under the lopsided weight of my baggage and because I had to stoop to grab the handrail. The kitten I was carrying from Angela's house in Bilwi was even less enthused about the crossing.
Bilwi is not exactly the heart of technological development, but Kilometro 43 is a step even farther back in time. There has been no electricity there since Hurricane Felix back in 2007, and cooking is done over wood and coal in a separate kitchen building. No running water, of course, except horizontally through the creek.
I'm used to not having electricity or even running water in my own house, but it's a little jarring and surreal to be somewhere unfamiliar in the dark. I just sat in the kitchen, the place where everyone gathers, and listened to the family chatting animatedly in Miskito in the dim shadows cast by a couple candles. From what I could understand, they talked about various health problems of people in the community and the failure of the doctors to treat them. A shy little girl of about 5quietly sat down next to me, and as the evening wore on gradually fell asleep against my shoulder, her face illumined by the glow of my candle.
Everything in the night was so quiet. There were no dogs barking, roosters crowing, cars passing by, people shouting. And for the first time in a while, I did not feel unsafe to be alone outside, despite the lack of light.
I went to sleep early that night, worn out by the bus ride, the language, and adjusting to a new environs. Everyone else worked on through the night, preparing nacatamales for the Purisima celebration the following day. They filled up a large steel trash can with nacatamales, which cooked through the night over an open fire.
The next day, December 7, is called the Griteria, or the Day of Shouting. Purisima is preceded by a novena, or 9 days of observance, and the Griteria is the last day. It is the big celebration day of Purisima, like New Year's Eve is the big celebration of the changing of the year. I went with one of Angela's sisters over to the house of another family member (somewhat easy to do, because most of Kilometro 43's residents are related), where we set up the altar to the Virgin where people would later gather for singing and prayers and nacatamales. We adorned the area with palm branches and balloons, the traditional celebration decor in these parts. Two little girls from the neighboring house ran up and started talking to me in a mix of Spanish and Miskito. One girl asked me a question in rapid-fire Miskito, and then the two girls giggled. I asked Angela's sister what she had said, and she replied, "Oh, you didn't catch that? She asked if you could fix the other girl's foot." Only then did I look down and notice that the other girl's foot was twisted, so she essentially walked on the top of her foot and her ankle. "No, I'm not a doctor," I replied, and the girls giggled again, apparently unconcerned about my lack of expertise in the medical and/or miracle department.
Around 2 in the afternoon, folks arrived to commence the Purisima celebration. We sang various hymns extolling the purity, beauty, and compassion of the Virgin, peppered with the traditional call-and-response shouts of "Viva la Virgen!" "Que viva!" and "Quien causa tanta alegria?" "La Concepcion de Maria!" That is, who causes so much happiness? The conception of Maria! As Lee pointed out, it should technically be WHAT causes so much happiness, since the subject is the conception, not Mary herself.
After the singing had ended, the gathered community received their nacatamales and moved on to another house to repeat the process. Tired from the morning activities, I skipped out on this house and the house that followed, choosing to return to Angela's house, where they had already prepared their altar for the fourth and last house visit of the Griteria celebration.
Shortly after sundown, people began to arrive, young and old alike crossing the log-bridge in the dark to fill out the yard in front of the altar and the house. Angela, in her typical lively energy, commenced with a round of shouting, threatening not to give out nacatamales if the crowd was not animated enough in its adoration of the Virgin. We then commenced with the same songs we had sung before. The repitition reminded me of Christmas caroling. There were readings and Scriptures, and Angela asked me to sing Ave Maria in Latin, since she had misplaced her recording. I readily agreed, then realized I had forgotten a chunk of the version I had sung in church back in college. I skipped over that part and hoped no one minded. At the end, Angela's father, a deacon in the local Catholic Church, gave me a special blessing and prayer for my birthday. It was a very special moment.
At eight o'clock, after six hours of visiting houses, the celebration had not yet ended. Everyone got their second round of nacatamales, after receiving threats that the Virgin was watching and looked unfavorably upon those who snuck into the line to get more than one nacatamal. They then headed off to the church for the final celebration. The pews were filled up, sprinkled with children falling asleep in their parents' laps. I was also very tired, but I could swear one of the crucifixes on the wall had a rasta hat on. I made a note to check it later, but the generator that was supplying the power gave out at the end, and I did not get the chance.
Again the singing commenced, followed by a section of testimonials. Various individuals got up and explained why they celebrated Purisima. Angela's mother, back at her house, had spoken of three consecutive visions she'd had of the Virgin at a time in her life when she was very depressed, encouraging her to take heart and keep moving forward. Some spoke of promises they had made in return for blessings, or thanksgiving for children healed. They prayed the rosary, which is for the most part the repitition of the Hail Mary, and then ended with a list of perhaps twenty epithets for the Virgin, from "Mother of God" and "Queen of Heaven" to the more enigmatic "House of Gold." The service over, they handed out coffee, juice, bread, and candy. I stole over to the children's side of the chapel so I could get juice instead of coffee.
And so ended my first marathon experience in Virgin adoration. I came to appreciate the affection Catholic Nicaraguans have for the peasant woman who loves them and intercedes on their behalf. There is reverence and honor for Jesus, but Mary is truly loved. Mary permits a kinder, more compassionate image of the divine which perhaps, in the Nicaraguan imagination, can only be found in feminine form because it defies machismo, while remaining sorely needed by the people. It seems to me that, despite her importance to the society, Mary remains constricted by this same machismo, that extoles her for her beauty, chastity, and obedience to God primarily and her prophetic calling for justice and the turning of society secondarily. Her elevation in the Purisima celebration took her away from the more human image of Mary I like to imagine, the one of a young woman who overcomes her own fears and misgivings to courageously play her role in the salvation story.
For those who are unfamiliar with Catholic tradition, the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin refers not to the conception of Jesus, but of Mary. According to Catholic doctrine, Mary was born without original sin. That doesn't mean she was virgin-born, like Jesus, it just means God removed from her the sinful nature inherent in all people from birth. This quality of Mary is celebrated on December 8, which also happens to be my birthday. Which is why it's fitting that my name is Kathryn, though perhaps my parents did not realize it, since Kathryn means "pure."
Angela's family lives in the auspiciously named town of Kilometro 43, so named because it lies 43 kilometers outside of Bilwi. Or at least it did, when there was a railroad, before the war. Along the current road, it's 47 kilometers away. But the name stuck. The community borders the slightly more well-known Mani Watla, which I heard of a few months back when it was said that two men there had been hacked to pieces with a machete, and then, still alive, set on fire, owing to accusations of witchcraft. I didn't quite make it there to get my National Park passport stamped.
The bus dropped us off in front of their house, and then we crossed a little creek on a log to get to the house. I was a little worried about keeling over under the lopsided weight of my baggage and because I had to stoop to grab the handrail. The kitten I was carrying from Angela's house in Bilwi was even less enthused about the crossing.
Bilwi is not exactly the heart of technological development, but Kilometro 43 is a step even farther back in time. There has been no electricity there since Hurricane Felix back in 2007, and cooking is done over wood and coal in a separate kitchen building. No running water, of course, except horizontally through the creek.
I'm used to not having electricity or even running water in my own house, but it's a little jarring and surreal to be somewhere unfamiliar in the dark. I just sat in the kitchen, the place where everyone gathers, and listened to the family chatting animatedly in Miskito in the dim shadows cast by a couple candles. From what I could understand, they talked about various health problems of people in the community and the failure of the doctors to treat them. A shy little girl of about 5quietly sat down next to me, and as the evening wore on gradually fell asleep against my shoulder, her face illumined by the glow of my candle.
Everything in the night was so quiet. There were no dogs barking, roosters crowing, cars passing by, people shouting. And for the first time in a while, I did not feel unsafe to be alone outside, despite the lack of light.
I went to sleep early that night, worn out by the bus ride, the language, and adjusting to a new environs. Everyone else worked on through the night, preparing nacatamales for the Purisima celebration the following day. They filled up a large steel trash can with nacatamales, which cooked through the night over an open fire.
The next day, December 7, is called the Griteria, or the Day of Shouting. Purisima is preceded by a novena, or 9 days of observance, and the Griteria is the last day. It is the big celebration day of Purisima, like New Year's Eve is the big celebration of the changing of the year. I went with one of Angela's sisters over to the house of another family member (somewhat easy to do, because most of Kilometro 43's residents are related), where we set up the altar to the Virgin where people would later gather for singing and prayers and nacatamales. We adorned the area with palm branches and balloons, the traditional celebration decor in these parts. Two little girls from the neighboring house ran up and started talking to me in a mix of Spanish and Miskito. One girl asked me a question in rapid-fire Miskito, and then the two girls giggled. I asked Angela's sister what she had said, and she replied, "Oh, you didn't catch that? She asked if you could fix the other girl's foot." Only then did I look down and notice that the other girl's foot was twisted, so she essentially walked on the top of her foot and her ankle. "No, I'm not a doctor," I replied, and the girls giggled again, apparently unconcerned about my lack of expertise in the medical and/or miracle department.
Around 2 in the afternoon, folks arrived to commence the Purisima celebration. We sang various hymns extolling the purity, beauty, and compassion of the Virgin, peppered with the traditional call-and-response shouts of "Viva la Virgen!" "Que viva!" and "Quien causa tanta alegria?" "La Concepcion de Maria!" That is, who causes so much happiness? The conception of Maria! As Lee pointed out, it should technically be WHAT causes so much happiness, since the subject is the conception, not Mary herself.
After the singing had ended, the gathered community received their nacatamales and moved on to another house to repeat the process. Tired from the morning activities, I skipped out on this house and the house that followed, choosing to return to Angela's house, where they had already prepared their altar for the fourth and last house visit of the Griteria celebration.
Shortly after sundown, people began to arrive, young and old alike crossing the log-bridge in the dark to fill out the yard in front of the altar and the house. Angela, in her typical lively energy, commenced with a round of shouting, threatening not to give out nacatamales if the crowd was not animated enough in its adoration of the Virgin. We then commenced with the same songs we had sung before. The repitition reminded me of Christmas caroling. There were readings and Scriptures, and Angela asked me to sing Ave Maria in Latin, since she had misplaced her recording. I readily agreed, then realized I had forgotten a chunk of the version I had sung in church back in college. I skipped over that part and hoped no one minded. At the end, Angela's father, a deacon in the local Catholic Church, gave me a special blessing and prayer for my birthday. It was a very special moment.
At eight o'clock, after six hours of visiting houses, the celebration had not yet ended. Everyone got their second round of nacatamales, after receiving threats that the Virgin was watching and looked unfavorably upon those who snuck into the line to get more than one nacatamal. They then headed off to the church for the final celebration. The pews were filled up, sprinkled with children falling asleep in their parents' laps. I was also very tired, but I could swear one of the crucifixes on the wall had a rasta hat on. I made a note to check it later, but the generator that was supplying the power gave out at the end, and I did not get the chance.
Again the singing commenced, followed by a section of testimonials. Various individuals got up and explained why they celebrated Purisima. Angela's mother, back at her house, had spoken of three consecutive visions she'd had of the Virgin at a time in her life when she was very depressed, encouraging her to take heart and keep moving forward. Some spoke of promises they had made in return for blessings, or thanksgiving for children healed. They prayed the rosary, which is for the most part the repitition of the Hail Mary, and then ended with a list of perhaps twenty epithets for the Virgin, from "Mother of God" and "Queen of Heaven" to the more enigmatic "House of Gold." The service over, they handed out coffee, juice, bread, and candy. I stole over to the children's side of the chapel so I could get juice instead of coffee.
And so ended my first marathon experience in Virgin adoration. I came to appreciate the affection Catholic Nicaraguans have for the peasant woman who loves them and intercedes on their behalf. There is reverence and honor for Jesus, but Mary is truly loved. Mary permits a kinder, more compassionate image of the divine which perhaps, in the Nicaraguan imagination, can only be found in feminine form because it defies machismo, while remaining sorely needed by the people. It seems to me that, despite her importance to the society, Mary remains constricted by this same machismo, that extoles her for her beauty, chastity, and obedience to God primarily and her prophetic calling for justice and the turning of society secondarily. Her elevation in the Purisima celebration took her away from the more human image of Mary I like to imagine, the one of a young woman who overcomes her own fears and misgivings to courageously play her role in the salvation story.
Friday, December 10, 2010
"¡Se oye, se siente, las mujeres están presentes!"
While my friends and loved ones were celebrating together and giving thanks for myriad blessings last Thursday, I marked a very different observance that, this year, coincides with Thanksgiving: the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. It was nice to have something special to pour my energy into that was not related to Thanksgiving. It helped me not feel sad and adrift while eating my traditional scrambled eggs and gallo pinto.
The Center for Integrated Attention to the Costena Woman, or CAIMCA, home to the Nidia White Women's Movement, where I teach dance classes to victims of domestic and sexual abuse, organizes an annual celebration of this day. It is especially meaningful in the RAAN department, which has the highest numbers of women dying in acts of violence in the country. We commenced with what was the most exciting march I have ever participated in. I was honored to be able to march side by side with the girls that I work with in the shelter. Not too long into the march, it began to pour mercilessly. Our numbers dwindled as the less enthusiastic sought shelter along the route. The core that remained became even more determined, our paper signs disintegrating into wooden sticks for smashing injustice.
As we rounded the corner into the central plaza, we were met with reinforcements for our reduced numbers. Several groups from the communities surrounding Bilwi were waiting for us there with their own signs, banners, and loudspeakers. They began to rally: "Where are the women from Sasa?" And a sector cheered. "Where are the women from Waspam?" And another section cheered. I felt a little sad that I had no hometown to cheer. And then I heard: "Where are the women from Wisconsin?" I was thrilled. They were, of course, referring to the small community of Wisconsin, Nicaragua, but who's to judge?
Normally, I'm not much for marches and mass enthusiasm. I feel shy, uncomfortable, and awkward, even if it is a cause I support. This time, however, I felt proud and determined. Maybe it was the dynamic women who led the march, or the fact that I was marching with the girls I work with, or because I´d been mugged just the weekend before. Maybe it was because of the variety of ways gender-based violence affects my life here, much more than in the US, in both first- and secondhand ways. It's ubiquitous. Some studies say that 4 out of 5 women in Bilwi experience some form of domestic violence, either sexual, physical, or psychological, during their lives. The fear, insecurity, and stress that engenders is palpable in all settings of social interactions. Whatever the reason, I actually was angry, and the rally was both therapeutic and empowering.
When we arrived triumphant back at the CAIMCA, the girls in the shelter insisted I ask the director to allow them to dance in the act. They had worked hard at a choreography I had given them, only to have their slot in the show revoked due to bad behavior. I spoke with Chira, who said, "Okay, they can dance, because they have been behaving well and because their teacher interceded for them." They were thrilled. I think they forgot that they were supposed to do the moves they had been practicing in the order they had practiced them. Still, they got up in front of everyone and had fun and I couldn't have been prouder.
The Center for Integrated Attention to the Costena Woman, or CAIMCA, home to the Nidia White Women's Movement, where I teach dance classes to victims of domestic and sexual abuse, organizes an annual celebration of this day. It is especially meaningful in the RAAN department, which has the highest numbers of women dying in acts of violence in the country. We commenced with what was the most exciting march I have ever participated in. I was honored to be able to march side by side with the girls that I work with in the shelter. Not too long into the march, it began to pour mercilessly. Our numbers dwindled as the less enthusiastic sought shelter along the route. The core that remained became even more determined, our paper signs disintegrating into wooden sticks for smashing injustice.
As we rounded the corner into the central plaza, we were met with reinforcements for our reduced numbers. Several groups from the communities surrounding Bilwi were waiting for us there with their own signs, banners, and loudspeakers. They began to rally: "Where are the women from Sasa?" And a sector cheered. "Where are the women from Waspam?" And another section cheered. I felt a little sad that I had no hometown to cheer. And then I heard: "Where are the women from Wisconsin?" I was thrilled. They were, of course, referring to the small community of Wisconsin, Nicaragua, but who's to judge?
Normally, I'm not much for marches and mass enthusiasm. I feel shy, uncomfortable, and awkward, even if it is a cause I support. This time, however, I felt proud and determined. Maybe it was the dynamic women who led the march, or the fact that I was marching with the girls I work with, or because I´d been mugged just the weekend before. Maybe it was because of the variety of ways gender-based violence affects my life here, much more than in the US, in both first- and secondhand ways. It's ubiquitous. Some studies say that 4 out of 5 women in Bilwi experience some form of domestic violence, either sexual, physical, or psychological, during their lives. The fear, insecurity, and stress that engenders is palpable in all settings of social interactions. Whatever the reason, I actually was angry, and the rally was both therapeutic and empowering.
When we arrived triumphant back at the CAIMCA, the girls in the shelter insisted I ask the director to allow them to dance in the act. They had worked hard at a choreography I had given them, only to have their slot in the show revoked due to bad behavior. I spoke with Chira, who said, "Okay, they can dance, because they have been behaving well and because their teacher interceded for them." They were thrilled. I think they forgot that they were supposed to do the moves they had been practicing in the order they had practiced them. Still, they got up in front of everyone and had fun and I couldn't have been prouder.
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