village

I lay, face up, in my bed listening to my host family noisily and lovingly get ready for bed in the room next to mine. There is a hole in my mosquito net the size of an orange, my only defense against the raiders of the night which will, the following morning, have left their mark of visit over most of my body. I’m staying with a mother and the five children of her’s still alive and/or still living with her; she has six sons, four of which have chronic kidney disease (CKD) and five daughters, one of which committed suicide at the age of 15. However, in that moment, as I lay listening, I only think about how close this family is; two brothers sharing a small bed together because there isn’t enough space for everyone, the entire family retiring early to bed at around 9PM, and the daughters tickling each other to tears as their older brother yells at them to go to sleep.

The small, four room, brick house is finally quiet, that is, until the family pig comes into my room, snorking and sniffing for the eggs that have been hidden under my bed. In the dark, he crawls under my bed, leaving a distinct odor that I will let the readers imagine on their own, he finds what he is looking for and begins clawing at it with little patience and eventually gives up, laying peacefully under my bed; it seems I won’t sleep alone after all. My host family has raised this little porcine pet since it was born; raising it for future use in tacos, bacon and various other sorts of Nicaraguan meals. For now, however, he is ignored being allowed to wander around wherever he pleases, getting fatter and only more delicious.

I am woken up by Israel before even the cocks have begun their symphonies of noise signaling the start of a new day; it’s 4:00am and we begin our walk to a place where all the workers board their buses to get to work at the Ingenio San Antonio (ISA). It’s eerie walking through the village in the dark, moving only by memory and general feel of the beaten dirt paths; as we begin walking I instantly step in something that has been left behind by another animal. We are not walking alone; we are followed by what seem to be ghosts of men making their way in the same direction as us. The only thing that can be heard are these ghosts quietly talking to each other, still drowsy from sleep and yesterday’s exhaustion. Eventually we arrive at an area where three roads meet, next to a large open field of cane, directly under the great and expansive milky way. I can barely make out the outlines of the dark silhouettes patiently waiting for the buses to pick them up. The quiet of the early morning is suddenly disrupted by what sounds like a dragon screaming in a location far from where we are; it is the call of the large yellow beast that will take these poor workers to the fields in which they must toil for the day. The noise gets louder and louder as it approaches our location, eventually illuminating the men sitting on the ground with the fire of it’s headlights. Just like that, everyone boards the buses and Israel and I are left alone in the dark; we go back to his home, to get a few more hours rest.

Each day begins with the same routines at the humble home. The dirt yard must be swept clean of the debris that has collected from all the trees and animals which inhabit the property as well as the trash which has been simply thrown down. The process beings by first throwing water onto the ground so that the dirt does not become airborne dust; it is then all swept to one corner where everything collected will eventually be burned. Someone else, normally the mother if she is around, is in charge of making breakfast which, like most days, is simply gallo pinto: white rice and red beans. Because of my presence, breakfast is made a bit unique by including a piece of white goat cheese and is accompanied with coffee which has as much sugar in it as the Berber people of Morocco put in their mint tea. While the elder brothers are busy with tasks around the house, the younger children are outside running around with home-made toys that seem to be extensions of their own arms: a raggedy lap-sack of rocks and a small sling shot. Each child, no matter where he /she wanders about, carries this to hunt any bird which has the unfortunate luck of landing in a nearby tree offering perhaps a little snack to break the monotony of gallo pinto. However, this morning they are simply shooting at the large clusters of bitter mangoes hanging lazily from the branches of the large tree destined to make a mango salad.

On a previous visit, I had noticed that Israel had an infected toe; as I look at it brushing the little mosquitoes away from the wound, I ask him what happened. Nonchalantly he mentions he cut it open on a rock several days ago, and after being asked he says it’s been hurting him ever since. Before being able to apply the gauze I had brought with me, we had to cut off any loose skin and clean out all the dirt which had encrusted itself within the wound. After bathing his foot in salt water for over half an hour, I was able to get most of the wound clean using hydrogen peroxide and a cloth to rub the dirt out. I made sure Israel was watching me and listening to me when I told him how to do this himself so that he could continue keeping it clean after I had left. I have the impression the Israel is not concerned about his wound, nor about keeping it clean. Perhaps it’s a reality of their life, that they cannot do much when any situation occurs that calls for medical attention. After all, his mother does not have enough money to dedicate to food, why would she have money for gauze and disinfectant?

After applying the gauze, he, Victor and I set out to another nearby village to interview a man who was dying from chronic kidney disease. On the way, as we cross the cane fields, I ask Victor (a six year old) what he thinks about his people working in the cane fields. He tells me it is a good thing because it offers people work; he further mentions he wants to work as a pailero, the most back-breaking position of them all, “because it pays the most money” he says. At the time, I was surprised that he did not mention anything negative about the sugar cane work; for him it’s an inevitably destiny, the only one which will provide a means for sustenance for him and his family. As we continue, I see white smoke rising from the horizon and immediately recognize it as a burning sugar cane field; I’m ecstatic to have the chance to finally capture one, so I eagerly urge the two boys to follow me as I hurriedly move them along. We approach a solitary man holding a can filled with a diesel/fuel mix and holding a thin stick with one end on fire. He seems eager to see someone else in the fields and greets me with a warm smile, quickly asking me what time it was. I ask him if these fields are owned by the Ingenio San Antonio. He shakes his head even though I know that the sugar cane grown in this field is destined for the very same mill at ISA. I take my time shooting and noticing the smoke and ash slowly drifting towards the elementary school which is just on the other side of the field; luckily school is not in session, however I imagine that once school lets in, this may happen again. We eventually move on, making our way to the sick man’s house, only to find out he is out; slightly defeated, I lead the two boys back home in hopes of grabbing lunch and finding some shelter from the high sun.

It’s almost 2:00pm as we near the village on our return journey. As we reach the location Israel and I had been earlier this morning, I see the same yellow beast dropping off the workers after a hard days work. I’m surprised to see the quantity of women who are also descending from the bus alongside their men. One of the very first men that jumped out of the bus scales to the roof of it and begins unloading a large amount of wood. Branches, small trees and sticks are all being thrown down onto the ground as those who have exited the bus begin collecting it all. I’m uncertain as to where this wood is collected from, however I know it is all destined as cooking fuel. Some households, if they can afford it, use propane inside their homes with which to cook; however most houses simply cook their food on a wood-fed fire. What further surprises me is the women’s up-beat and happy nature as they go about collecting the dropped wood into bags and trying to lift it up onto their shoulder. Two women giggle like school girls as they struggle to lift the all too heavy bag onto a carrying shoulder.

We continue or day, following the workers into town and meeting Josaline on our way into the village. Josaline is known throughout the whole village as being one of the sweetest girls running around and keeping up with the boys. She has learned to ride around on a full sized bike putting her little body within the frame and peddling standing up. We see a fruit tree, on the way back to our little house, and Israel climbs it to grab the delicious snack sharing with Josaline just before she bikes off to another adventure. I’m touched with how loving Israel is. He seems to be a big brother type to all the kids in the village and he often shares his affection with those that follow him. As we arrive at his home, and as he begins to relax, I see this affection again as another boy puts his arm around him. The more time I spend with these people, the more I see how warm and loving they are. They aren’t distracted with blackberries and email, nor are they in a rush to get anywhere. They are able to take each moment that is offered to them and draw from it an immense amount of joy, happiness and love. We continue through the village seeing some boys loudly playing baseball,using nearby trees as their bases and a home-made baseball bat to hit the raggedy ball into the mango trees.

The mother is, as we arrive, preparing lunch; she was waiting for our return. To no surprise, I see her preparing the staple of the Nicaragua diet: red beans. As she cooks, I see Victor has begin showering himself. He stands next to the well, hoisting up the bucket so that he can fill a nearby basin. He then strips down to only his underwear and loose flip-flops and begins happily using a large bowl to pour water over his body. I return to get lunch, taking the opportunity to talk to my host mother. She talks to me about her life, and how she struggles to provide for her family now that her husband has died of chronic kidney disease. She says that her family of six lives off about $200 USD a month but now that school is about to start again, she does not know how she can afford the school uniforms and supplies that are needed for her children. She also hands me an electricity bill, saying that she has not been able to pay it for over a year and that now the company is threatening to cut it off. The houses in these communities, since they consume such little amount of electricity, are all charged the same amount on a monthly basis.

Part of that electricity goes to a single light bulb which hangs, naked on the outside of the small house; the other electricity use is for the television which sits in the middle of the living room underneath photos of deceased family members. One family member, which I often found watching television is named Mauriel. Of all the family members, I found him to be the most humble and with the softest character. He is one of the four sons of my host mother that now has chronic kidney disease and is not allowed to work at the sugar mill anymore because of it. As he sits there, watching one of the latin soap operas currently showing, several other family members and village friends come and join him pulling in chairs from the outside and even sitting on the cold concrete floor. It’s a good refuge from the hot sun and ideal way to pass the time since all the daily chores have been completed and every belly is somewhat full. I try to follow along with the soap opera, apparently one of the main characters has just told her maid of 15 years that she is indeed her daughter. It seems everyone watching enjoys the drama and over the top emotions, it takes them away from their own reality I suppose. The children, in the mean time, are busy outside scribbling and coloring away between the lines that fill the coloring books that I brought with me.

Being so close to the equator, the sun sets relatively early in Nicaragua. After spending some time playing with all the kids outside, and teaching them some new games, I see Isreal begin a fire. He is about to cook some sort of nuts which he has found in the forest that surrounds the village. He places them on a metal sheet located directly over the fire. Eventually, I hear small explosions as the nuts begin bursting and popping due to the moisture within their protective shells. All the kids seem to enjoy the loud noises of the exploding snack, I even see a smile come across Israel’s face. The rest of the evening is spent like most other days, passing time playing games, watching more television and waiting as the mother prepares another meal. This time, she tells me that she has included some vegetables and a small piece of chicken since I had brought with me a large bag of vegetables the day before. I continue to be amazed at how much these people have given me even when they cannot afford it. As the night goes on, the sounds outside in the village begin to quiet. The visiting children of nearby houses slowly return to their homes and my host mother calls in all her children telling them all it is time for bed. It’s been a very long and eventful day for me, an experience that I won’t soon forget.

Doel, Belgium

A day with the people of la Isla