December 21, 2008
I write to you from San Jose Comunidad de Paz. There were murders not too long ago in San Jose, the village 8 minutes walk up the dirt road. Massacres. Assassinations and persecutions. FARC, the paramilitaries, and the police all competed in death-persuasion to win the villagers to their cause. So some of them walked down the road to where I am now, and said “No weapons, no sides, no commerce, and no talking with any militants.”
There are a few rows of wood-panel houses surrounding a large grassy center, with a straw-thatched kiosk as their central meeting place. I joined the evangelicals for three hours my first night here for lots of “Aleluia! Gloria a Díos!” to accompany their electric keyboard religious trance music. I went to bed around midnight, and the lady who cooked me breakfast told me they kept going until 5 in the morning.
The chickens, pigs, turkeys, horses, and children all walk or gallop freely throughout the village. A downpour has occurred around noon each of the three days I have been here. It is deafening on the metal roofs, as if I didn’t have enough trouble understanding their explanations in Spanish of their lives and history. They don’t seem to mind my broken questions and responses, and will talk with great passion for hours on end about “la lucha,” the struggle.
The majority of the men are clearly “campesinos,” farmers, as seen by their rubber boats, shirtless and ripped upper bodies, and the leather-sheathed machetes hanging from their belts. I joined them for one hard day of work up in the hills, weeding bean crops and picking ears of corn, all of it organic. The work is much the same as it would be in the U.S., only the near-equatorial sun beats more fiercely and the ants are more industrious and have a harder bite. As write this the day after
I have always known that Latin American kids flock to Gringos, and this place is no exception. I jokingly asked one of the young boys if he spoke English, to which he smiled and said no. I asked if he ever studied English in school, but the answer was no. He finished school last year, and now works up in the hills with the other campesinos. With your dad? I asked. No, he was murdered many years ago. I go with my friends, but not tomorrow because tomorrow is Sunday. How much do you earn in a day? 3000 pesos for eight hours. Worth about $1.50.
One of the girls who has been hanging around my quarters took a liking to my harmonica, and asked for it as a gift with which to remember me by. But she stopped playing it when I wouldn’t give her a clear answer and would do nothing other than ask for it, so I decided it wasn’t a good idea to just hand it over. Maybe I’ll ask her to write to me, and then send it to her in the mail.
San Jose up the street is having a festival before Christmas. The music was rockin last night: live salsa, marimba, and reggeton, horns and lots of complex piano that made me drool for wanting to see it being performed. But after several conversations the past few days I learned that they have almost NO relations with the village, especially with the police there. They said it would be very complicated for them if I went up there, and the police learned that I was here as an international “accompanier,” which is what they call me here in the community. I am reminded very strongly of being in Palestine. I sat outside listening last night, unconsciously trying to figure out a logic that would let me walk up there. (What is peace without music? Without healthy dialogue?) But because I lack clear understanding of this place, I went to bed.
This year, my writing is my gift to you.
Merry Christmas, everybody, y mucho amor!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Papa Kuni’s Stovetop Popcorn©, 2nd Generation Edition
A good pot is essential.
Ideally, use a heavy duty cast-iron pot, about 4 liters in size. A broken handle is to be avoided, but if the pot is well used and loved, such features can be overlooked. Try to find a cover that not necessarily fits the pot, but that at least allows projectile oil to drain back into the inside of the pot rather than dripping along the outside of the pot, onto the burner, and down into the netherregions below that. If a non-fitting cover is unavoidable, be sure to wipe up remaining grease while it is still warm to avoid solidification and social dificulties. Occasionally it may be necessary to purchase new silver range-basins at garage sales in repentance for untimely cleanups of afforesaid splattered oil.
Put the pot on the range and turn the range on high. This will save some time, but now you need to do everything else quickly before the pot gets too hot.
I prefer canola oil, because that is what I have prefered in the past. Olive oil can be used, but it burns at a lower temperature, likely increasing the amount of carcinogens in the finished product. A vague mix of different kids of oils might add that special unknown something to your popcorn experience.
Get out two large popcorn bowls and set them close to the range, but not close enough to melt. Have the salt shaker nearby, as well as a pair of hotpads or mittens.
Cover the bottom of the pan with oil. The amount of oil you use will determin how many kernals you add, how oilly your corn will be, and/or your future heart condition. DO NOT leave the kitchen while there is oil heating on the range. But if theres a really good movie on in the other room and you have to leave, make sure to check back on the oil every chance that comes to mind. If you sprint back to the kitchen to find the oil smoking, turn the range off and move the pot to one that is cool. If you find fire, DO NOT attempt to remove the pot. Use the fire extinguisher at arm’s reach, or throw baking soda into the pot, or try to get the lid on to smother the flames. I haven’t tried it, but I’ve heard throwing water on such a fire isn’t pretty. If, despite all these suggestions, you do pick up the pot and attempt to take it outside, be aware that when you open the door a gush of new oxygen will likely strengthen the flames, singeing what little hair you may have left, and you quite possibly could burn your skin off. The staying in the kitchen idea is a better option overall.
Take the popcorn out of the freezer. Everyone knows you’re supposed to keep popcorn in the freezer, and if you didn’t keep it there, you didn’t read ahead in these directions, like your fourth grade teacher taught you to, before commencing this sacred cooking ritual. Later, don’t forget to refill your freezer popcorn jar with kernals from the 50-pound bag in the basement you purchased at Sam’s Club for twelve dollars, despite the fact that Sam’s Club might be representative of economic and social relationships that your conscience tells you is hindering healthy local and international community development. The point is, choose your battles, but also don’t ignore the ones you haven’t yet fought.
Add one kernal to your oil. When it pops, you’re ready to add the rest of the kernals, but make sure to turn the range down if the oil starts to smoke.
Add sufficeint kernals so that none of the oil has a flat surface. Having all the kernals totally submurged means you’ll have greasy popcorn, while having too many kernals not touching the oil at all means you’ll have dry popcorn, burnt popcorn, and/or lots of leftover kernals. You’ll have to find your own happy medium through experience and practice.
Don’t let the kernals pop right away. This might mean turning down your range, or temporarily taking the pot off of the range. If they pop too soon after heating, the result is chewy popcorn with tough husks that like clinging to the back of your throat and making you gag. You want to cook the outside before you cook the inside, and this is part of the reason you keep them in the freezer. Let them simmer for a couple of minutes, adjusting the amount of heat as necessary. When popping commences, your cover will be helpful. Shake the pot in both circular and up and down motions to allow even popping, as well as to settle the unpopped kernals to the bottom of the pan rather than up with the adult popped kernals where they always want to be. Choose a heat that will allow continuous popping, but not too hot so that you can’t manage to teach the baby kernals where to go, and certainly not so hot that they will burn and fail to develop properly.
If you added enough kernals to feed your friends and family, your popcorn is going to overflow the pot. But no worries! Let the popping push the lid up. Just before they are pushed up so high that they would spill onto the range, dump the top half into one of your bowls. The next overflow should mm go in a different bowl, and the following in the first bowl, so that you have even dispersion of greasy corn with the drier corn on the bottom of the pan. Kind of like socialism, except that you know your friends and family and have enjoyed being fair to them in the past. Add salt between layers and toss.
Only after you complete popping and tossing can you know if butter is appropriate. If its already pretty oilly, skip the butter.
If you’re on the road or are truly conservative, save the unpopped kernals for later use.
Ideally, use a heavy duty cast-iron pot, about 4 liters in size. A broken handle is to be avoided, but if the pot is well used and loved, such features can be overlooked. Try to find a cover that not necessarily fits the pot, but that at least allows projectile oil to drain back into the inside of the pot rather than dripping along the outside of the pot, onto the burner, and down into the netherregions below that. If a non-fitting cover is unavoidable, be sure to wipe up remaining grease while it is still warm to avoid solidification and social dificulties. Occasionally it may be necessary to purchase new silver range-basins at garage sales in repentance for untimely cleanups of afforesaid splattered oil.
Put the pot on the range and turn the range on high. This will save some time, but now you need to do everything else quickly before the pot gets too hot.
I prefer canola oil, because that is what I have prefered in the past. Olive oil can be used, but it burns at a lower temperature, likely increasing the amount of carcinogens in the finished product. A vague mix of different kids of oils might add that special unknown something to your popcorn experience.
Get out two large popcorn bowls and set them close to the range, but not close enough to melt. Have the salt shaker nearby, as well as a pair of hotpads or mittens.
Cover the bottom of the pan with oil. The amount of oil you use will determin how many kernals you add, how oilly your corn will be, and/or your future heart condition. DO NOT leave the kitchen while there is oil heating on the range. But if theres a really good movie on in the other room and you have to leave, make sure to check back on the oil every chance that comes to mind. If you sprint back to the kitchen to find the oil smoking, turn the range off and move the pot to one that is cool. If you find fire, DO NOT attempt to remove the pot. Use the fire extinguisher at arm’s reach, or throw baking soda into the pot, or try to get the lid on to smother the flames. I haven’t tried it, but I’ve heard throwing water on such a fire isn’t pretty. If, despite all these suggestions, you do pick up the pot and attempt to take it outside, be aware that when you open the door a gush of new oxygen will likely strengthen the flames, singeing what little hair you may have left, and you quite possibly could burn your skin off. The staying in the kitchen idea is a better option overall.
Take the popcorn out of the freezer. Everyone knows you’re supposed to keep popcorn in the freezer, and if you didn’t keep it there, you didn’t read ahead in these directions, like your fourth grade teacher taught you to, before commencing this sacred cooking ritual. Later, don’t forget to refill your freezer popcorn jar with kernals from the 50-pound bag in the basement you purchased at Sam’s Club for twelve dollars, despite the fact that Sam’s Club might be representative of economic and social relationships that your conscience tells you is hindering healthy local and international community development. The point is, choose your battles, but also don’t ignore the ones you haven’t yet fought.
Add one kernal to your oil. When it pops, you’re ready to add the rest of the kernals, but make sure to turn the range down if the oil starts to smoke.
Add sufficeint kernals so that none of the oil has a flat surface. Having all the kernals totally submurged means you’ll have greasy popcorn, while having too many kernals not touching the oil at all means you’ll have dry popcorn, burnt popcorn, and/or lots of leftover kernals. You’ll have to find your own happy medium through experience and practice.
Don’t let the kernals pop right away. This might mean turning down your range, or temporarily taking the pot off of the range. If they pop too soon after heating, the result is chewy popcorn with tough husks that like clinging to the back of your throat and making you gag. You want to cook the outside before you cook the inside, and this is part of the reason you keep them in the freezer. Let them simmer for a couple of minutes, adjusting the amount of heat as necessary. When popping commences, your cover will be helpful. Shake the pot in both circular and up and down motions to allow even popping, as well as to settle the unpopped kernals to the bottom of the pan rather than up with the adult popped kernals where they always want to be. Choose a heat that will allow continuous popping, but not too hot so that you can’t manage to teach the baby kernals where to go, and certainly not so hot that they will burn and fail to develop properly.
If you added enough kernals to feed your friends and family, your popcorn is going to overflow the pot. But no worries! Let the popping push the lid up. Just before they are pushed up so high that they would spill onto the range, dump the top half into one of your bowls. The next overflow should mm go in a different bowl, and the following in the first bowl, so that you have even dispersion of greasy corn with the drier corn on the bottom of the pan. Kind of like socialism, except that you know your friends and family and have enjoyed being fair to them in the past. Add salt between layers and toss.
Only after you complete popping and tossing can you know if butter is appropriate. If its already pretty oilly, skip the butter.
If you’re on the road or are truly conservative, save the unpopped kernals for later use.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Nicaragua
I came to Nicaragua, arguably the second poorest country in Latin America (as a result of dictatorship legacies, current government corruption, and of course American government anti-development through the funding of the Contras in the 80’s). Only Haitians are poorer.
Granada is a beautiful colonial town resting along the side of grand Lake Managua, the largest body of freshwater or “agua dulce” in central America. but tourist dollars are changing its character, as well as its property owner. I sat in the city square, the center of social life, people watching, horse-drawn carriage vending, and begging. After talking with an 11-year-old cashew vender for some time about why I wasn’t going to buy any cashews from him, and then letting him type “llllddddddggggggggewsdedsvneijeyvf85jndfk” on my keyboard, I strolled down the main street towards the lake.
Beneath a canopy of Mango trees and only a few other people, I was joined by a young man who spoke impeccably more clear Spanish than his compatriots. He was slightly over-friendly, which sent vender/beggar-alarm-bells off in my mind, but he wasn’t aggressive and our conversation about Nicaragua and life in general was quite interesting. After reaching the shore we sat by the breakwater talking and watching the waves and other tourists.
He told me his work was showing tourists around, teaching them about the history of Nicaragua, and teaching them a bit of Spanish. He told me he had a young son named Kevin. Somewhere in the conversation, he asked me how much I thought a months worth of food would cost for him and his son. I said, what kind of food? He said, only rice and beans, and a little bit of eggs and vegetables. I thought for a moment and did some “new math” in my head before saying “$150.” He laughed, and told me it was around $8.
He asked if we were friends, I told him for right now during this conversations, sure we were friends. I told him it was a little difficult, though, because I figured he wanted money. He said that it shouldn’t matter, and that he wasn’t asking, but that he would surely accept if I did offer. I told him that sometimes it was difficult for us tourists in Nicaragua because of the number of people asking us for money. He told me that begging and bothering tourists for money without giving a service was wrong, but that he had also seen much rude behavior from tourists when they were dismissing the poor. We talked for another hour, him correcting my Spanish after asking permission if he could.
After a while he asked me if I wanted to walk down the beach. Down the path, he said it was because of a man that had sat down next to us that he didn’t trust. He said he knew all the really good and really bad men in town. We walked down to a more isolated part of the coast. He described to me what the river before looked like when it overflowed during the rainy season. I had my keyboard with me, and I was clutching it closely out of distrust, but he just kept talking about what was left of his siblings and his deceased mom and dad. I asked him why he didn’t get a decent job. He said that he did haul big bags of bulk foods for a pittance at the market, but he said he needed a $12 national identification card for the minimum wage jobs, which he could not afford.
We walked back towards town. He pointed out a boy a block ahead, and told me to yell “Kevin,” so I did, and the kid immediately turned around. He introduced himself and shook my hand after we approached, then went back to chatting with his friends. Roberj and I walked a bit further, me continuing to ask questions about his life and his views. His kid yelled to him a couple of times, motioning him to come back. I said just a minute, keep walking with me. He did. I asked him how much was sufficient. He said he couldn’t tell me something like that.
I gave him 5 dollars worth of Cordobas, worth a night’s stay at a hostel on my trip. He said thank you, I’m going to the market to buy food now. I said there was no way for me to know that. He said, “only faith.” I walked away feeling slightly used, but feeling even more wonder.
I’ve turned down hundreds of people asking for money since I left the states: children, wrinkled old ladies, cripples, even telling some of them to “go away” after they were too persistent. I’m sure I have hundreds more to turn down before I return home, though not all of them. I think that giving to beggars can certainly be harmful to them for encouraging non-productiveness and non-sustainability. I don’t know for sure, but this one seemed right. He gave me the service of his friendship and conversation for just a short while, he made my day interesting, he had tremendous patience and even incite into the relationship between him and myself, between the United States and Nicaragua, between rich and poor.
If he really is just going to get drunk with the money I gave him, then I just paid a terrific salesman. But all things considered, I believe it was a fair exchange.
Granada is a beautiful colonial town resting along the side of grand Lake Managua, the largest body of freshwater or “agua dulce” in central America. but tourist dollars are changing its character, as well as its property owner. I sat in the city square, the center of social life, people watching, horse-drawn carriage vending, and begging. After talking with an 11-year-old cashew vender for some time about why I wasn’t going to buy any cashews from him, and then letting him type “llllddddddggggggggewsdedsvneijeyvf85jndfk” on my keyboard, I strolled down the main street towards the lake.
Beneath a canopy of Mango trees and only a few other people, I was joined by a young man who spoke impeccably more clear Spanish than his compatriots. He was slightly over-friendly, which sent vender/beggar-alarm-bells off in my mind, but he wasn’t aggressive and our conversation about Nicaragua and life in general was quite interesting. After reaching the shore we sat by the breakwater talking and watching the waves and other tourists.
He told me his work was showing tourists around, teaching them about the history of Nicaragua, and teaching them a bit of Spanish. He told me he had a young son named Kevin. Somewhere in the conversation, he asked me how much I thought a months worth of food would cost for him and his son. I said, what kind of food? He said, only rice and beans, and a little bit of eggs and vegetables. I thought for a moment and did some “new math” in my head before saying “$150.” He laughed, and told me it was around $8.
He asked if we were friends, I told him for right now during this conversations, sure we were friends. I told him it was a little difficult, though, because I figured he wanted money. He said that it shouldn’t matter, and that he wasn’t asking, but that he would surely accept if I did offer. I told him that sometimes it was difficult for us tourists in Nicaragua because of the number of people asking us for money. He told me that begging and bothering tourists for money without giving a service was wrong, but that he had also seen much rude behavior from tourists when they were dismissing the poor. We talked for another hour, him correcting my Spanish after asking permission if he could.
After a while he asked me if I wanted to walk down the beach. Down the path, he said it was because of a man that had sat down next to us that he didn’t trust. He said he knew all the really good and really bad men in town. We walked down to a more isolated part of the coast. He described to me what the river before looked like when it overflowed during the rainy season. I had my keyboard with me, and I was clutching it closely out of distrust, but he just kept talking about what was left of his siblings and his deceased mom and dad. I asked him why he didn’t get a decent job. He said that he did haul big bags of bulk foods for a pittance at the market, but he said he needed a $12 national identification card for the minimum wage jobs, which he could not afford.
We walked back towards town. He pointed out a boy a block ahead, and told me to yell “Kevin,” so I did, and the kid immediately turned around. He introduced himself and shook my hand after we approached, then went back to chatting with his friends. Roberj and I walked a bit further, me continuing to ask questions about his life and his views. His kid yelled to him a couple of times, motioning him to come back. I said just a minute, keep walking with me. He did. I asked him how much was sufficient. He said he couldn’t tell me something like that.
I gave him 5 dollars worth of Cordobas, worth a night’s stay at a hostel on my trip. He said thank you, I’m going to the market to buy food now. I said there was no way for me to know that. He said, “only faith.” I walked away feeling slightly used, but feeling even more wonder.
I’ve turned down hundreds of people asking for money since I left the states: children, wrinkled old ladies, cripples, even telling some of them to “go away” after they were too persistent. I’m sure I have hundreds more to turn down before I return home, though not all of them. I think that giving to beggars can certainly be harmful to them for encouraging non-productiveness and non-sustainability. I don’t know for sure, but this one seemed right. He gave me the service of his friendship and conversation for just a short while, he made my day interesting, he had tremendous patience and even incite into the relationship between him and myself, between the United States and Nicaragua, between rich and poor.
If he really is just going to get drunk with the money I gave him, then I just paid a terrific salesman. But all things considered, I believe it was a fair exchange.
Compounded Interest
I must be mindful of my writing and of my picture taking. Both my digital camera, and my blog are new to me. When I climb to the top of a mountain and receive the gift of a beautiful view and the exhilaration of vast altitude, I feel the immediate desire to share these feelings with my loved ones.
But that desire to share has much more detail than the simple idea of altruism. Within it are also desires of wanting to be influential and powerful, to have my loved ones think, “wow, look at him! I wish I could be there.” Those thoughts are not helpful for people. They do not teach, and they are more a taking than they are a giving. Even if the receiver who views these things gets pleasure out of what I send, they too should be mindful of the roots of that pleasure.
Also, if I am photographing or thinking about photographing, then I am spending less time in plain site and more time behind a physical or mental LCD screen, which I believe is intended to remind myself or others of what it is like to NOT be behind that LCD screen. So I need to remember that what is right in front of me cannot (and should not?) be fully replicated digitally.
I need to try to be aware of the consequences when I photograph up a mountain, or blog to Paraguay, or eat a television program, or drink a football game, or ego a conversation.
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