July 1997

Hi Everyone! ... 1

The Story ......... 2

The End.......... 24

*”Nius Blong Mi” isSolomon Island’s Pijin

for “News About Me”

This was originally designed as a mail-out for my friends, to let them know whatI’d been up to during the last year. I have re-formatted and edited it since it is agood explanation of what life was like in Managua.

I had committed to my friend Rob Bell in 1995 that I would like to come and workwith him in Nicaragua. He left for Managua in April 1996, so I decided that Iwould arrive there in late May after he had some time to get organized andfamiliar with the barrio. He was, in fact, my security blanket. I’d been wanting tovisit Nicaragua for several years but hadn’t because of unfounded fears aboutNicaragua’s reputation as a dangerous place. I figured with Rob there for a fewweeks before me, he would have enough time to learn what places and things toavoid and hence keep me safe.

In fact, I could have used him more in Guatemala where I had no qualms aboutgoing, and where was robbed twice in one week. Such was the first of many“educational” experiences I had in Central America.

I spent a week in Guatemala first, trying to improve my Spanish, then went toNicaragua for four weeks to work with FOG. I didn’t really know what I wasgoing to do there, nor did I have any ideas about what I wanted to do. I wasputting myself in Rob’s hands as an assistant, to help out where I could and do asI was bid. I figured this was an opportune time to see a bit of Nicaragua andlearn about their culture.

This is a document of my experiences and observations while working with FOGin Barrio El Recreo, Managua during June 1996. I have tried to give you a senseof what life was like in the barrio, and what sort of projects were going on at thetime. I hope I succeeded.

Things change, and things in El Recreo have changed rapidly since my timethere. What I write about here is an accurate account of what I experienced atthe time – however, it may no longer be true. Already more than a year haspassed, and Rob is back in Canada. The project lives on.

May you be as inspired by the work in El Recreo as I am.

If you are on e-mail, send me a line at <allan_aoyama@telus.net> (don’t type the <> characters).

This Publication is Copyright © 1997 by Allan Aoyama. All Rights Reserved.Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this material is prohibited.

In late May 1996 I went on a five week trip to Central America. I stopped inGuatemala for a week to brush up my Spanish, then went down to Nicaragua towork with my friend Rob Bell. He and a partner created their own non-profitorganisation called FOG - Fair Opportunity Group. They chose to work inconjunction with a group of Catholic nuns in the neighborhood of El Recreo inManagua.

Programs they are involved with in the barrio include supplementary education,nutrition, health, and community development projects.

The plane slowly rolled to a stop. The door opened and I felt a blast of hot, humidair wrap itself around me. My clothes imperceptibly started to lose shape andbecome heavy with the damp air, clinging to my skin in an uncomfortable fashion.I took a couple of deep breaths and sagged as the heat sapped what little energy Ihad.

I stepped off the plane and started walking across the tarmac into the terminalbuilding, carrying my daypack. I passed several armed guards casually fiddlingwith their rifles. I was in Nicaragua, and I hadn’t a clue what to expect. I had justcome from Guatemala, where I had been robbed twice, and I was feeling verytwitchy. I was worried about being robbed again, regretting this trip, and it hadhardly begun. My Spanish was poor, my knowledge of the culture non-existent,and my confidence was rapidly receding in the distance.

I entered the terminal, a low building lined with grey linoleum and flourescentlights. It seemed dim and depressing after walking through the blazing sunlight.A segmented baggage carousel looking like a flattened centipede that had beenformed into loops clattered to life, its segments sliding and and turning to followthe track traced on the floor. After a short wait baggage started to pour out – mysmall pack was one of the first pieces. The rest of the passengers picked up theirbaggage and left, the centipede emptying before my eyes. And no sign of my mainpack. This was not a good sign.

Just as my head was getting ready to explode, it finally appeared on the carousel.Later I would discover that some of the drawstrings and buckles were mysteri-ously undone but nothing was missing. I picked it up as best I could (it weighed

in at over 30 kgs), gathered my other two packs, and staggered for the customsexit and joined the line.

I was worried about the next step of clearing customs. Both my guidebooks andthe customs form itself said that there was a button that I had to push on theway out. If it lit green, then I was free to go. If it lit red, then you were diverted tothe side and a search of your baggage was performed. So far I had yet to seeanyone diverted to the side, so I figured that the likelyhood of it being me wasrising rapidly. The closer I got, the more convinced I was that I would be stopped,searched, and questioned in rapid-fire Spanish facing a bright lamp. My greatestfear was being pulled to the side into a room where no one could witness whatwas going to happen. The pack I was carrying was jammed with an assortment ofkid’s books, baseball gear, a bat, a volleyball and basketball, computer software,and other donated items - not the sort of articles that a vacationer was likely towant or bring. I was sure that someone would take offence to all these goods andpunish me for it.

I stepped up to the gate, handed my form to the customs agent who glanced at it,then stuffed it into a large plexiglass box and motioned me forward. I looked forthe button I was supposed to press. She motioned me forward again. Confused, Iwalked forward and left the customs area. I looked back, expecting someone tocome running and stop me. The customs agent was busy with the next person.And that was that. No button. No search. No bright lights. Still confused, Iwalked outside before any one changed their mind and detained me.

I was still accustomed to Guatemala. In the week I was there I had been har-assed by crowds when I got out of the airport, set upon by a con artist whorelieved me of my Spanish school tuition, looked upon as a money-laden target byshopkeepers, and then had my pack slashed and my toilet kit stolen the daybefore I left. I was tired, paranoid, and not at all happy with my decision to travelalone. I was even less happy about my decision to go to Nicaragua, as its distinc-tion of being a dangerous destination was looming in my head. After all, Guate-mala was supposed to be a friendly place for tourists to go, but I was robbed twiceand felt uneasy the entire time I was there. Here I was in Nicaragua with areputation for being filled with thieves and feeling uneasy was an understate-ment.

I was expecting mobs of people to start jabbering about taxis, hotels, restaurantsand so on, just like in Guatemala. I was worried about all the pickpockets andthieves that had been written about in the guidebooks, knowing how helpless Iwould be by myself. I was worried that I’d be accosted by crowds of starvingbeggars demanding cash. Most of all I was worried that I would be robbed by thepolice or customs, and my huge load of goods would be stolen, along with mypassport and money.

There was absolutely no one standing outside the airport, except for a small knotof airport taxi drivers a few metres off. I moved a short distance away from thedoors, dropped my packs down, buckled them together to thwart any attempts attheft, and sat down on them. I watched with a suspicious eye as people filed outof the building and were driven away in small trucks and cars. Where were thethieves? They must be pretty slick if I hadn’t seen them yet. So far no one gaveme a second glance. All in all, it appeared to be just another empty airport on yetanother day.

I sat and waited and dripped in the sweltering heat. I realized that in my haste toget out of the building I had forgotten to look for a currency exchange and toyedwith the idea of going back in and changing some money. I passed that one up asI remembered how heavy the big pack was, and how bloody hot and tired I wasjust sitting on it. I waited and sweated some more. More worries that Rob hadn’tgotten my e-mail from Guatemala telling him when to pick me up floated throughmy mind. I tried to concentrate on not sweating.

After about 20 minutes Rob appeared, looking healthy and somewhat grubby. Ileapt to my feet to greet him, overjoyed to see a familiar face. I shook his hand,glad to have human contact. He was followed by a thin and grubbier-lookingindividual whom he introduced as Stuart, his partner. The next half hour wasspent waiting for a ride, while Rob and Stuart taking turns going to the cafeteriafor food.

§ § §Don Tinoco (“Don” means Mr.) arrived driving a white truck, which we piled intoand drove off. We stopped at a mattress store - just a small building with mat-tresses in great piles outside of it - and picked up a thin foam mattress.

We drove on a wide cobble-stone highway in moderate traffic. The cars looked ingood shape for the most part - various models of Nissan, Toyota, Mazda, andHyundai ranging from late 70’s to current models. There were stoplights and gasstations and buildings and businesses, all the sorts of things you’d expect in acity. I was somewhat surprised since I’d heard that Nicaragua was a poor nation.This hardly looked like a nation in distress; in fact, it seemed to be in bettershape than many parts of Canada.

The difference came soon. As we got closer to the former city centre, Rob andStuart pointed out the wrecked skeletons of buildings in the distance, victims ofthe 1972 earthquake that were neither repaired nor torn down. I realized that Ihad yet to see a multi-story building, that all the ones I had seen so far were flat,one-story boxes.

We drove past an immense, tall round building painted bright yellow and blue. Tome it appeared more to be a huge wall enclosing something, which it was - thebaseball stadium. It was by far the largest building I had seen yet.

We drove on, getting closer to the barrio (neighborhood). The streets still wereconcrete cobblestone - it must have taken years to do all these streets this way.Another turn, and we were driving on a good wide gravel road, lined on the sidesby grass then fences and houses. To my eyes things didn’t appear too bad.

And then we turned again, onto a muddy track, barely wide enough for a car anda half. It was deeply rutted, strewn with garbage, and had a small stream ofwater running down one side. The things that looked like fences from the dis-tance showed themselves to be scraps of wood, wire, and concrete strung to-gether; all had locking gates and some were topped with broken glass. The houseswere not much better, ranging from barely enclosed shacks of warped planks topainted cinderblock. Dogs and chickens were feeding in the street. We hadarrived in El Recreo.

The truck rocked and bumped its way around a few corners, then stopped in frontof a small cinderblock house with pink re-bar grills covering the window and door.A small, barely-standing wooden fence attached to the side of the house barredentry to the back yard. This was home.

§ § §

The front door of the house consisted of two parts - an outer security door made ofwelded re-bar with a sliding bolt and padlock, and an inner wooden door with alatch and locking deadbolt. The back door was a sturdy metal affair with a coupleof brackets on the frame to accomodate a cross-bar. The front window consisted ofa re-bar grill protecting a horizontal wooden-slat shutter; the rear “window” wasnothing more than cinder block with decorative holes. From the outside the houseappeared more to be a pillbox armoured against the world than a home.

The walls of the house were bare cinder block, perhaps 2.5 m tall at the front andback, rising to 3.5 m at the peak. The roof was made of sheets of corrugatedfibrous concrete laid over a framework of wood beams that rested on a centralsteel beam. The roof was raised a couple of centimetres above the top of the wallsto provide ventilation. Despite this ventilation, the temperature in the housesoared to well into the 40°C range during the heat of the day.

Inside the house was divided up into three rooms by a 2 m high partition. Themain area was the kitchen. In the middle was a small wooden table surroundedfour small wooden chairs. Against the wall was a china cabinet that also heldsome of the book collection, and beside it was another table set against the walltopped with a small three-burner propane stove. On the floor were an assortment

of covered pails filled with water for when the taps weren’t running. A smallshiny-new white fridge, looking ridiculously out of place, was next to the stove.

The “main” bedroom held a smallcot with two chest of drawer sets,plus a small ironing board. Amosquito net was strung from thepartition to cover the cot. The otherbedroom was somewhat smaller,again with a cot and moquito net.This room was lined with boxes -labelled Ivory soap, maxipads,licorice, shampoo - that weredonated to the nuns. A small foot-treadle sewing machine was alsothere.

The back yard was bare brownpacked dirt - no grass or greenthings grew from it. There were twolarge trees with some sort of greenoranges hanging off them, and asmall decorative tree-like critternext to what appeared to be a half-finished cinder-block phone booth,

sans phone. That shoulder-height roof-less structure was our shower. Next to thehouse was a large concrete washing basin, and in the back of the yard was anouthouse. In the middle of the yard was a tap, sticking up about waist-height.Another tap sprouted at foot-level from the floor of our shower.

The outhouse rather lacked a roof - stretched between the gaping holes of theroofing sheets were shreds of sun-rotted green plastic. Standing proudly in themiddle of the outhouse on a concrete platform was the throne itself - a squareconcrete box with a toilet-shaped hole in the top. It did not appear to be all thatappealing as I was expecting (and rather preferring) a squat-hole or chinese-styletoilet. Still, it was free of vermin and despite a strong ammonia odour, didn’tsmell too badly.

On one side of the yard was the neighbor’s house and a forbidding brick wall; atthe back of the yard was another building and brick wall; along the other sidewas again a neighbor’s house and a rather decrepit 2 m high fence made offlattened barrels and scrap metal. The whole property was about 7 m wide, andperhaps 17 m long.

Our house, looking at it from the street

While hardly luxurious, the house served us well. I felt safe and secure in it, andit had all the basics needed for life in the barrio. Our luxuries - the refridgeratorand fan - made it much more comfortable.

§ § §

My next shock was meeting the nuns and others in the barrio. I had just spent afew days taking a Spanish refresher course, and felt that I had a much better gripon Spanish than ever before. I was by no means fluent, but I felt I had the tools toat least understand and be understood in a rudimentary sort of way.

The first thing I found out was that the nuns spoke Spanish with a differentaccent than I was used to. Plus they spoke too fast for me to catch. For at least 15minutes they stood there welcoming me and asking questions, and I think Icaught perhaps two words. Rob spent a lot of time translating and explaining forme.

Even worse were the locals. From what I could tell, they weren’t even speakingSpanish. They could understand me for the most part, though I couldn’t really besure that they were hearing what I was trying to say. It took me about three daysbefore I could weed out enough words to start understanding their accents, and Inever did reach a point where I could understand a full conversation. Actually,conversation was pretty much one-sided, with me either providing short answersor prodding with questions. The rest of the time was spent by them either repeat-ing what they said or trying to explain something in terms I understood.

§ § §

I met our housekeeper, Doña (pronouned don-ya, meaning Mrs.) Nubia. She was apetite woman, perhaps 5’ tall, sinewy and thin, not weighing more than 40 kg.Her age was a mystery, though I figured she was probably around her mid-30ssince her oldest daughter was 18. She had 5 children, plus one who didn’t survive.

Doña Nubia was our godsend. She cleaned the house, did our laundry, cooked ourlunch, and as I wrote in my journal, “generally keeps us from becoming savages.”I was at first a little taken aback by the idea of needing a housekeeper - thatseemed sinfully bourgeois. However, after watching her for a day I realized whyshe was hired. After scrubbing our clothing by hand in the washbasin out backmost of the morning, she would then spend a great deal of time preparing deli-cious fruit drinks called frescos, along with making rice and other food for lunch.

In between and after these tasks she would wash up whatever dishes we hadn’thad a chance to clean, sweep up the leaves, clean the outhouse, and iron (!) ourclothes. Once a week she would go to the market and buy the majority of ourweek’s vegetables and fruits. She would also sweep out the house several times aday - battling the mud and dirt was a full-time job in itself. As if that wastn’t

enough, she also made sure that any plantthat managed to gain a foothold in ouryard was immediately pulled out andswept away.

It became pretty clear that without DoñaNubia’s help we would end up living infilth and be sick all the time. I couldn’timagine trying to keep up with all thework around the house in addition tohelping out in the barrio.

§ § §

I attended a celebration on May 29 for Diadel Madres - Mothers’ Day. Being a veryfamily-oriented culture, Mothers’ Day is avery important event and a half-daypublic holiday. To celebrate, the nuns puttogether a fiesta with the help of theeducation program teachers. Groups ofchildren from the education program did

dances, played the recorder, played guitar, sang, and put on skits. Afterwards thenuns held a raffle for gifts of soap, shampoo, maxipads, and other householdgoods. Then the nuns distributed drinks, baking, and licorice to both the childrenand the mothers. It was mayhem, with perhaps 40 mothers and at least twice asmany children attending.

May 30 was Dia del Niños - Childrens’ Day - and cause for another celebration.Again, it was mayhem. The nuns bought a piñata which was suspended from theroof of the school shelter by a pulley. The children took turns wearing a blindfold,trying to beat it to pieces while one of the teachers pulled on a string that raisedit up and down. The piñata was a beautiful piece of art - it was a nurse, about 3-1/2 feet tall. It was covered with colourful crépe paper, with arms and legs madeof rolled cardboard. At its centre forming the torso was a clay pot filled withcandies. It was deafening as the children screamed and yelled with delight,especially when a good hit was scored or when pieces of the piñata broke away.And when the pot finally was broken and the payload of candies released, therewas an immediate dogpile as all the kids dove in to try and get some. After a goodfive minutes of crawling all over each other, the teachers finally started haulingthe kids off. I was startled to see only a very small amount of dust and a fewshards of broken pottery left in the middle - all the pieces of head, legs, and armshad been taken as part of the booty.

§ § §

Our friend and adopted mother, Doña Nubia

For my first two weeks in Managua I spent my time learning how to get aroundon the bus system, meeting some of the community, helping with the supple-mentary education program, and playing with the kids during recreo (play-time).

The bus system in Managua was surprisingly good - and despite the warnings inthe guidebooks and some stories that Rob and Stuart told me, I found littleevidence of thieves and pickpockets. The buses cost 1 cordoba - C18¢ - each, andprovided good coverage of the city. They were not, however, the same sort ofbuses that one would expect in Canada. Most of them were old rusting Bluebirdschool-buses, lacking any form of shock absorber and looking the worse for wear.My most memorable bus had wooden planks hammered over gaping holes in thefloor, and I could watch the street pass underneath the parts that hadn’t yetbeen patched. Some buses were newer and in better shape, perhaps only adecade old. All were usually packed to dangerous capacity, with passengerscrushed against one another. I remember one ride where we were packed sotightly I wondered if I would be able to get off at my stop. It was difficult toimagine getting any more intimate with one’s fellow passengers. I often won-dered about the mechanical state of the bus’ brakes and such, but after a whilestopped caring. What good would worrying do?

Every weekday I’d work with the children in the supplementary educationprogram. There were two separate 2-1/2hour sessions of the supplementary

education, taught by locals thatthe nuns had hired plus somevolunteers such as Rob andmyself. Nicaragua’s publicschooling consists of 2-1/2 hoursof classes a day, either in themorning or the afternoon. Thechildren came to study duringthe time they didn’t have school,working through problems inarithmetic, Spanish spelling,penmanship, and reading. Theeducation program cost 1cordoba per child per week -roughly 18¢ Canadian.

Rob and I helped out with thelarger afternoon session. At thattime there were three teachersthat were hired, plus the volun-teers - Rob, a Nicaraguanwoman named Rita, and myself.

Our study group in the supplementary education program.Rob is wearing the baseball cap.

When I first arrived there were perhaps 20 childrenfrom the ages of 6 to 13 attending; by the end of mysecond week there were almost 40. Mothers wouldshow up with one or two children in tow and ask Robabout the program and whether their children couldjoin. They were split up roughly by age group or bywhat they were studying. Rob and I did arithmetictutoring, from simple addition and subtraction tolong division to concepts like Least Common Denomi-nator. It was a lot of fun and it was a great place forme to pick up more Spanish.

Study lasted about 1-1/2 hours; after that the chil-dren lost interest and stopped working, insteadtalking or fooling around. The next hour was spentas recreo, running group activities like puzzles andindoor games if it was raining, playing baseball andplatillo (frisbee) outside if it wasn’t. Rob tended to bethe baseball guy, and I took on the platillo group.Chaos would ensue yet again as all the kids foughtfor a turn to hurl the platter off into the distance.Teamwork and sharing wasn’t too evident, and ourroles were largely that of a fairness referee.

§ § §

About this time I also spent a good deal of time fighting a very nasty intestinalinfection. The infection started off slowly - I found myself unable to cope with theheat. I would lie exhausted on the cot with a pounding headache, feeling that Iwas going to burn up. We had an electric fan on a stand, and I’d place that acouple of feet away from me turned on high. Only with great difficulty would I beable to get up and go off to the education program. Eating proved to be a greaterdifficulty - I found I just wasn’t hungry and had to force myself to eat at least afew mouthfuls. Then the diarrhea started. Let it suffice to say it was really bad -the worst I’ve ever experienced. Unfortunately I came down with the bug on aFriday, so I had to wait until Monday before I could go to a clinic and get treated.

At a private clinic Rob and I waited a couple of hours for the doctor to arrive froma call he had at the hospital. After a quick examination he sent me to the lab tohave a whole slew of tests done. A couple hours later we had to wait another hourto take the results back to the doctor, then get a prescription for Flagyl, myfavorite antibiotic (my last episode of Flagyl left me nauseaus with a black tonguefor three weeks). Since this was a private clinic, the whole thing cost me just overC$190 - it was a good thing I’d spent the C$35 on medical insurance before I leftCanada. After two weeks of Flagyl-induced nausea and headaches I was largely

My friend Eddie with the platillo

back to normal, if somewhat thinner. I began to appreciate the value of Canada’shealth program.

§ § §

I also went to see a couple of other organisations which FOG worked with.Cantera was a “popular education” group who put on courses and publishedmaterial on a wide variety of topics, such as health, sanitation, and women’sissues. They geared their education to the uneducated masses - hence “popular”education. We provided Cantera with computer consulting and support for US$6per hour. This fee was then credited to FOG for courses at Cantera. For example,the teachers in the supplemental education program took courses at Cantera,paid for by FOG’s computer work. In this way no money changed hands and bothorganisations benefited.

A similar arrangement existed between FOG and Oxfam Canada - in return forassistance with their laptop computers, Oxfam provided help writing up fundingproposals and provided contacts within Nicaragua.

Much of my work with FOG was helping fix up Cantera’s computer systems, toeliminate some of the problems they were having and to standardize their com-puters. Their computers ranged from old 286-based PCs to fairly modern 486DX4systems. Due to the vaguarities of the electrical systems in Managua they wereall hooked up to UPS and power stabilizer units - in many cases both. They wererunning Spanish versions of DOS and Windows 3.1 - I found it both surprisingand difficult to see familiar screens and menus filled with Spanish text. Evenmore difficult was trying to figure out the keyboard layout of those PCs - most ofthe systems had keyboards that looked like the standard US layout, but theydidn’t produce the expected character when pressed.

Added to that confusion was a certain amount of office politics and personalbiases. Certain people in the office liked certain programs, and other felt that acertain brand of computer was better than another. Changes could not just bemade to the computers - people had to be asked and permission granted from theright ones before things could happen. As a precaution to all of this, a tapebackup was purchased and used to store the old configurations of the PCs so thatthey could be restored if someone changed their mind.

Despite all this, I felt that a lot had been accomplished. Some long-standingproblems appeared to be corrected, a new PC was installed, and I think the staffwere happy to have someone to be there if only for moral support.

Oxfam was much simpler - we helped them determine what was wrong with alaptop, installed some memory in one of the computers, and helped configure acouple PCs for Internet access. Again, they were grateful to have some help withtheir computers.

§ § §

El Recreo itself was a neighborhood ofperhaps 3,500 people in the south-west partof Managua. It consisted of a large numberof tiny shacks on small plots of land vigor-ously fenced off from each other. The qualityof shacks varied widely, from dirt-floorwooden cubicles slapped together withwarped planks, to rickety corrugated sheetmetal huts, to relatively nice cinder-blockhomes with concrete or tiled floors. Theywere roofed with either galvanized steel orfibrous, corrugated concrete sheeting. Noneof them were more than one story tall, and Idoubt that many were larger than 6 x 6metres. These shacks housed families of twoadults and five or more children.

Some of the houses had electricity forlighting. Some of the more affluent of the community owned small refridgerators.From what I knew, almost all the houses had water taps, though the water didn’trun all day long. There were no aguas negras (sewers) or drainage systems, so allthe waste water from washing, bathing, and cooking was allowed to drain intothe street. Every home had outhouses in varying states of filth.

These houses lined rough, rutted dirtroads. The roads were strewn withplastic bags, chicken and dog excre-ment, and all sorts of rubbish rangingfrom burned tires to shreds of barbedwire. Small rivulets of waste waterthreaded down the roads, formingmuddy patches and small puddles. Inplaces these rivulets were permanent,and had healthy crops of algae grow-ing in them.

El Recreo was bounded on three sidesby roads, and on one side by a deepravine that was the waste-waterdrainage system. A rusting steelfootbridge with missing portionscrossed this ravine into the adjoiningbarrio.

Some of the shacks in El Recreo

A typical street in El Recreo

Residents used the ravine as a garbage dump,throwing their refuse down its banks. Every fewdays someone would go light the whole mess on fireget rid of some of it, and for hours the whole barriowould be filled with acrid smoke from burningleaves, tires, and plastics. There was seldom anybreeze to lift the smoke and take it away - instead itwould hug the ground and wind its way through thestreets, burning into ones’ eyes and lungs.

§ § §

Not all of Nicaragua was poor. There was a signifi-cant number of people who were quite rich, livinglifestyles similar to our own here in Canada. Thedifference was that this lifestyle cost them far morethan ours did. There was a supermarket a few blocksfrom our house which rivalled stores in Canada forsize, cleanliness, and assortment of goods. However,imported or manufactured foods like broccoli,cookies, and sliced bread cost double or more com-pared to home.

As evidence to the existence of the wealthy were theshopping centres. Next to the supermarket was a

series of banks, airline offices, and computer, hardware, and drug-stores. If onewanted, one could order a brand-new computer with the latest software, albeit forabout twice what it cost in Canada. Or buy a video camera, luxury car, fancyclothing, fax machine - in fact, everything you could want. But there was nomiddle ground between the rich and the poor. Either you enjoyed the life of theextremely rich, or you suffered as a member of the poverty-striken.

One of the starkest examples of the disparity between the rich and poor was onthe northern border of El Recreo. Here there was an overpass across the trash-filled ravine which lead into the adjoining barrio. Suddenly the trash-strewnmuddy track with waste water running down it became a very wide paved road,with proper cement sidewalks and shade trees lining it. Tumble-down woodenshacks turned into well-kept painted cement houses surrounded by wrought-ironfences and concrete walls topped with razorwire. Driveways held expensive cars,guarded by bored-looking men toting rifles and machine guns. There wereflowers, well-groomed lawns and glass windows. The streets were clean, andthere were no chickens and dogs mooning about looking for food.

The ravine. Photo taken a fewmetres away from someone’s shack.

§ § §

Life in El Recreo was difficult to adjust to.

First of all was the heat.During the day tempera-tures rose quickly to themid-30s, made all theworse by a blazing sun ina cloudless sky. Thehumidity was alwayspresent, creating anthick, cloying atmos-phere. Even indoors, outof the oppressive sun, thetemperature was murder-ous. The wind, when itblew, did its best to avoidour house, blowing on thesides that didn’t havewindows. I found myselfsilently willing it to rain.

Rain was a relief, but only because it lowered the temperature for a short while.Huge blatting raindrops would thud to the ground, kicking up a small splash ofdust before they sank into the ground. Very quickly the dust would turn to mud,and the streets to shallow streams. The air would cool slightly, but as soon as therain stopped the humidity and temperature rose again to smother me.

Bathing helped with the heat. I would shower in the evening after the sun had set,to wash away the layer of sweat and dust that accumulated during the day.Showers were taken by first filling up our large wash basin with water from thetap - something that took from five to fifteen minutes, depending on how muchwater pressure we had. Then I’d borrow Rob’s sandals, tell the others I was havinga shower (so they wouldn’t wander outside), and wrap myself in a towel beforeshuffing outside to the door-less stall. Feeling exposed and naked (which I was) Iwould then use a small bowl to scoop water and splash it over myself. A vigourousrub-down with soap and perhaps a hair shampoo later, I’d again use the bowl toscoop water up and rinse myself off. The remaining water I’d slowly pour over myhead and down my back, relishing the coolness after the heat of the day. Only afew minutes after towelling off, I’d be dressed in new clothes and sweating again.

While the barrio had running water, it didn’t run all day. In the early morning itwould start off strong and confident, spraying from the tap with authority. By 8am it would have lost much of its bravado, reduced to a slow rivulet. And, by 11 am

Some of the teenagers playing basketball. Theschool is behind the far basket

it would slowly decrease down to a trickle then a steady drip before expiringaltogether with a sigh and deep gurgle. The trickle of water wouldn’t return untillater in the evening, usually after 4 pm. And even though it was supposed to bechlorinated, it wasn’t fit for us to drink – we would buy agua pura (purifiedwater) at the gas station in big 20 litre bottles.

Another trial was the dust and dirt. No matter how hard I tried, I always endedup filthy, covered in a layer of dust and sweat. Some days I would change shirtstwice in an effort to get clean. Jeans, if one ignored the dirt, could be worn up tothree days in a row before they gained enough soil to take on a life of their own. Ialways tried to wear my clothes as long as possible to relieve Doña Nubia of theonerous task of laundry, yet things got dirty with amazing rapidity. If it wasn’t forher more than half the week would have been spent keeping up.

The wildlife was more of an interesting diversion than an annoyance. Gro-tesquely shiny cockroaches the size of plums would dart around our outhouse,rising from the noxious depths. On truly diverting occasions one would feel them

scuttle across one’s bottom whiledoing one’s business. Whenever wesaw one in the house we’d hurry tofind a shoe or something to smack itwith, their bodies making horridcracking, popping noises beforerattling lifeless to the floor. Oftenthey wouldn’t even run, too smugabout their chitinous armour torealize the danger.

The neighborhood dogs, when theyweren’t fighting or mating wouldleave messy piles of shit ourside ourdoor or in the street. At night they’dsneak through our laughable fenceand attack the garbage, ripping openthe bags and spreading it around theyard. I never pet the dogs, worriedabout fleas, mites, lice, and otherpleasantries. Actually, if you sawsome of the dogs and their sad, scab-ridden coats, you’d know why Ididn’t.

Mosquitoes abounded. I was on Chloroquine, but with my past record of Malaria Iwas taking no chances. Besides, I hated itching. I regularly sprayed myself withrepellent and wore long pants all the time. Even so, I had more than enough

Some of the kids at the morning food program

moquito bites to catch whatever they were giving. Unlike moquitoes in Canada,the Nicaraguan mosquitoes were tiny, lightning-fast, and silent. I sat andwatched as one Malaria mosquito homed in, landed, jabbed, drank my blood,and then flew away - all in under 2 seconds. I didn’t even have a chance to slapat it. Later I killed an eerie pinkish-white mosquito, and was told that it was thespecies that carried Dengue. Like Malaria, Dengue is a mosquito-born disease.

Unlike Malaria, there is no treatment for Dengue.Symptoms include terrible aching in the joints andbones, fever, chills, and in some cases, heamorraging.Some strains were fatal. Because of the pain it is alsoknown as “break-bone fever.”

The remaining critters included rats - creatures sosmall, skinny, and forlorn that I couldn’t help but feelsorry for them. In El Recreo, even the rats lookedstarved. They would scamper around the tops of thewalls, waiting to sneak down and nibble at the ricesacks stored by the fridge. We tried poisoning them, buteither they were too smart or we were too stupid or acombination of both, but they continued to eat our riceand ignore the bait.

With neighbors crammed close in on each side and thehouse far from sound-proof, finding peace and quiet wasa challenge. Screaming kids, dog fights, screeching cats,roosters, the neighborhood drunks, and our neighbors’ghetto blasters and televisions all conspired to depriveme of desperately-needed silence.

One of the paradoxes that I couldn’t really fathom hadto do with the number of ghetto-blasters and televisionsets in the barrio. I only knew of their existence by the

way the people would turn the volume up to 11, not hearing anything but feelingthe distorted noise instead. It was if this were their way of showing off to theneighbors, letting others know that they weren’t too poor to own some luxuries.And yet from what I understood, they largely had difficulty earning enough tofeed themselves consistently, and their meals were copious amounts of rice withbeans and the occasional egg or bit of cheese.

When I was sick, I was driven mad by the seemingly endless repetition of badCarribean rap music all day long. At night, the same rap music would be over-laid by howling televisions. After that din was shut off, the drunks would gatheroutside and bemoan their lives and ask for money. They would be replaced bydogfights, mating cats, and then there would be golden silence. A minute or twolater, the darkness would be shattered by the crowing roosters, closely followedby Rob’s alarm signalling another day. My stress levels rose dramatically.

Everth, Doña Nubia’s son, at thepainting program

But not everything was bad. We had two large orangetrees in our backyard, and I took delight in picking acouple of leaves and slowly crushing them, releasing thedelicate tangarine scent. I took even more delight throw-ing fallen oranges - dark green, compact fruit - at thevarious skinny dogs that jumped our fence and tore openour garbage.

Outside our front door, I often would see whole squadronsof dragonflies dipping and swooping in the breeze, thesun glinting off their wings and bodies. They ranged incolour from bright fuscia to black to metallic blue. Theywould hover facing the wind, holding position withintheir squadron until they spotted their prey, - some smallinsect or other - then they would swirl and swoop throughthe air to snatch it up, then return to their position again.I could watch them for hours.

And there were the ubiquitous geckos. These tiny lizardswere relatively scarce, but I’d often find them on theoutside wall of the house or just inside our doorway. Theywere about 5 to 7 cm long, and had the interesting habitof staying stock still on the walls except for their tails,which they would curl to the left, pause, straighten,pause, curl to the right, then back again, tick - tick - ticklike a little metronome. They ranged in colour from lighttan with black specks to almost artificial brilliance. My

favorite gecko, only seen twice and never photographed, was about 8 cm long,with a brilliant rose-red head fading into a bright leaf-green body, finishing witha royal-blue tail. Their oversized chirps never failed to scare the hell out of me atnight.

The markets around Managua (there were six major markets, of which I saw two)were incredible mazes of all sorts of goods, ranging from freshly slaughteredchickens with unlaid eggs exposed, to locally-made wooden bowls. As with home, Ienjoyed the crush of people, the sights, and the smells of the food market thebest.

But perhaps out of all the things I saw and experienced in Nicaragua, it was thechildren that made the trip. As I noted when I was in the Solomon Islands, Ireally enjoyed the company of the children. Back at home in Canada I can’t bebothered - I have this idea that they are all spoiled brats who are stuck ontelevision and materialism. Yet every time I’ve gone abroad, I can’t help butremember the kids as the one overriding joy that I experienced.

The piñata at the Dia delNiños celebration

The kids were far from angels - like all kids they fought and pushed each other,they told fibs, cheated, and hated sharing - but somehow, despite their difficultlives, they maintained a glorious innocence about them. Being children they don’trealize that they had a tough life, and went about having fun regardless. Nothaving many toys or television to occupy their time, they made up games andused their imagination. My work with the supplemental education programremains the absolute high-point of my trip.

§ § §

So what was a typical day?

• Get up at 6:30 am.

• Prepare and eat breakfast, usually re-heated rice and beans from thenight before with or without a fried egg; perhaps some yoghurt; or maybebread and jam.

• Leave the house no later than 8:30 to catch the bus to Cantera or Oxfam,to a market, do errands, or to sight-see.

• Return to the house by noon for lunch - rice, beans, and tortillas, orspaghetti with veggies and sauce, or soup.

• Free time until 2 pm when it’soff to the school for theeducation program. Classesuntil 3:30, then playtime foran hour.

• Back to the house around 4:30or 5. Rest and unwind until 6or 6:30, then make a dinner ofrice, beans, eggs, and tortillas,or spaghetti with veggies andsauce, or occasionally frozenravioli.

• Have a shower at around 7pm.

• People arrive for Englishclasses or such around 7:30pm until 8:30 or 9 pm. OrDoña Nubia’s children comeand visit and play cards orchess.

• Bedtime by 10 pm.

Doña Nubia’s daughters over for a visit. L-R: Xochil, Rob, Gizel, Everling

The days were full and tiring - the heat, my illness, and the continuous bedlam ofnoise drained me. The heat was the worst, sapping what little energy I had.

Each day was pretty much the same as the next. Saturdays we usually went tothe food market or did our own errands instead of going to Cantera. The after-noons were busy with meetings or cleanup. Sunday was the only real day of rest.There were no formal duties, so Rob and I would go around town to see sights orto one of the markets, or off on a road trip.

Any spare time that we managed to find was spent reading books, writing in ourjournals, reading and sending e-mail, visiting with someone, or just sitting andstaring into space. There really wasn’t a lot of spare time to be found.

§ § §

And so it passed - four weeks of living in the Barrio El Recreo, in the middle ofthe mud, shacks, dust, garbage, and noise. Almost half of that time was spentsick from some form of dysentery, hating myself for going to Nicaragua anddreaming of rain and cold.

I ate well by barrio standards – lots of rice and beans, bread, fresh vegetables,fruit, corn tortillas, cheese, and eggs; occasionally frozen ravioli, spaghetti, andrarely, meat or chicken. This in contrast to a neighborhood that largely survivedon rice, beans, tortillas, and the odd egg. Still, I managed to lose at least 5 kg andseveral inches off my waist in the short time I was there.

§ § §

So what did I gain from my experience in Barrio El Recreo? What did I learn, andhow will I incorporate that knowledge into my daily life here in Canada?

Well, things I remember best and with the most personal impact are selfish ones.After my experience at the medical clinic, I was incredibly grateful of Canada’suniversal public health system. I realize that only because I was rich enough topay for a private doctor did I get such good care in a clean and safe environment.I feel guilty knowing that I paid well over a month’s wages for a middle-classworker for my single doctor’s visit, yet at the same time count my good fortune tobe able to afford to do so. I shudder to think of having to go to the public hospital,and again feel badly knowing that only the rich are lucky enough to avoid theplace.

The other thing I will never forget is the feeling of outrage and helplessness whenI first found out that the water didn’t run all day. I wanted to wash something, so

I turned the tap and nothing came out. I felt completely at a loss as for what todo, and wondered how on earth I was supposed to cope without running water.And yet thousands did, day after day, while I only had to for a few weeks.

I suppose what I learned was that I am one of the few incredibly lucky people onthe planet who have excessive food, water, and resources to live on, and excessivewealth to keep it all to ourselves. I earn in one year what a typical poor family inEl Recreo would earn in 30 years; I earn in one day what would take them sixweeks to accrue. And yet I find myself living paycheque to paycheque, moaningabout car payments and the high price of living in a trendy part of Vancouver.

I look around and see everything I take for granted – clean running hot and coldwater, flush toilets, paved roads, mostly unrestricted news reporting, free high-quality health care, and good schooling. These things are dreams to most of theworld’s population, and some are out of reach to even the richest.

And a final lesson, one which only just struck me as I wrote that last paragraph,is the realization that Managua society closely mirrors the real world in itswealth distribution. There are some very wealthy people in Managua, driving

Mercedes Benz cars,living in incrediblemansions, supportingsome very expensive andupscale stores (even byCanadian standards). Yetthese people are theexception rather than therule. The remaining 80%or 90% of the populationlive in conditions similarto those in El Recreo. Aswith the world, 20% ofthe population holds 80%of the weath and con-sumes 80% of the re-sources. And I am in that20%.

§ § §A close-up of one of the fences in the barrio

Will I go back? Perhaps. It was important that I went, to meet the people in-volved, see what FOG and the nuns were doing, and find out what I could do tohelp. Without staying with them in the barrio I wouldn’t have gained the insightsI did, and I wouldn’t be as valuable to them. However, when I consider theamount of money it took me to get there and what that money would do for theirprograms, I hesitate.

I will continue to do what I can to help the barrio’s programs through FOG;however, I don’t know that it would be much more useful for me to go back to ElRecreo unless it was for a six month or longer stretch. A month was barelyenough time to meet a few people and gain enough of the language to get an ideawhat was going on; my actual impact in terms of contributions to the barrio waspretty small.

I can’t deny that the idea of travelling some more is appealing. I feel a strongaffinity to Central America for some reason, and would love to spend more timedown there learning about the cultures. However, as I mentioned before, I have astrong feeling of guilt when I think of the money that could be put to use in thecommunities instead of being burned up as aircraft fuel. This is something thatI’m going to have to work out for myself before I make any decisions.

If I do go back, it would probably be as a traveller rather than a volunteer. I seemore value in going further into Nicaragua – some of the other cities and countrytowns␣ – to meet up with some of the other groups I have heard of, rather than tospend that time in El Recreo. I feel that I can contribute to the communities moreby making contacts and seeing what other organisations are doing, bringing othergroups to work with FOG and letting those groups see what FOG is up to. Thisway a strong support network of organisations and communities can be developedto help further the work that has been started.

§ § §

Some final observations:

All the dogs and most of the women in the barrio were pregnant… Even the ratswere skinny - scarely twice the size of the cockroaches… Dust got everywhere… Ihardly saw any teenagers in the barrio… I have no idea how most of the barrioearned their income… Despite their poverty, all the children had clean schooluniforms that their parents purchased… All the children waved and shouted tous as we walked down the roads… Tap water wasn’t available most days between9 am and 4 pm… I found the volume of dog shit on the roads incredible… Thebasketball court and playing field were covered with dangerous garbage likebroken glass and barbed wire remnants… The drunks kept asking us for money…The main roads and highways were in excellent condition… The mosquitos gotworse as the rains continued… The neighbors regularly climbed our fences at

night to look for things to steal from our back yard… There were a surprisingnumber of luxury cars in Managua… The locals’ Spanish was crude and hard tounderstand, with thick accents, bad pronounciation, and words unique to Nicara-gua… There seemed to be a lot of aid organisations working in Managua… Thefood markets were great places to experience… Despite all reports to the con-trary, I found Managua to be a relatively safe place - safer than Guatemala…American Baptist mission tour groups have to be some of the most irritatingpeople to end up stuck in a plane with… Internet mail has to be one of the world’sbest creations… I hardly ever heard or saw planes flying overhead… I still don’tknow exactly what I learned from this trip, five months after coming home…

A painting by Everth. He gave me this painting as afarewell gift on my last night in Managua. I cherish it as

my most valuable souvenir.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Well, that’s it. There isn’t any more. I’ve out of space, out of things to say, and outof slides to paste in.

I hope you enjoyed this publication. It was a lot of work and fun to create.

At present I have no plans to go back to work in Barrio El Recreo - there are toomany different issues, both personal and ethical, that I have to deal with first. Iam toying with the idea of going back for a visit this winter, but that’s contingentupon money and time. As for doing more work with FOG, I continue to keep intouch with FOG and their activities, and provide my input to their programs. Ihope that I will be able to help out in a future project for a greater length of time -six months at least.

Until then I will be improving my Spanish, trying to save money, and educatingmyself on issues in developing countries.

Geek Section:

This newsletter was produced with a couple of new-ish toys - aPower␣ Macintosh 7100/66 and a WACOM ArtPad drawing tablet.

Graphics created in Adobe Photoshop v3 and Fractal Painter v3. Slidesscanned using an AGFA DuoScan (from work) and retouched in Photoshop.

Layout produced with Adobe PageMaker v6.

Text composed in MS Word v6.

Output to Poscript then processed with Adobe Acrobat Distiller v3.

Production time (not including writing): about 25 hours. About 10 of thosehours were spent fighting with graphics formats.

My E-Mail Address:

<allan_aoyama@telus.net>

Don’t type the <> characters. This e-mailaddress should remain contant for at leastuntil 2001.

My postal address:

Allan Aoyamac/o 2674 Ellison DrivePrince George, BCV2M 2S5Canada

This Publication is Copyright © 1997 by Allan Aoyama. All RightsReserved. Unauthorized distribution or reproduction is prohibited.