What I did this summer in Nicaragua

Beheading Ducks for Sport

Each morning, I wake up at 6 am to the sound of dogs yapping, roosters crowing, cows mooing, and neighbors shouting through my torn window screen, or perhaps through the gap between the corrugated tin roof and the mortar walls. I do not need to be up for an hour, but the world around me has been awake since four. I sit up, take a sip of bottled water, and kill whatever mosquitoes have penetrated my netting. Finally, I head through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the bathroom, with a “!Buenos dias!” to my host mother.

Inside the shower sits a trashcan full of water, underneath a faucet that may or may not work, depending on the morning. Bracing myself, I then pour ice-cold water over my head with a bowl. The dirty water runs through plumbing that I would not quite describe as ‘indoor’, which drains into the backyard. But I am happy as long as the toilet flushes. And that, at least, drains somewhere else.

Once I am clean, I cover myself with DEET and walk two blocks down a dirt road/cow trek to work. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, that means I am greeted at the preschool gates by a mass of giggling 4-year-olds wanting hugs. On Tuesdays, I enter the Anglican high school amidst cat calls of “!Te amo! I love you! ” and the smacking sound of many besos for a morning of English classes. And on Thursdays, I watch the preschool cook boil beans and rice over an open fire using plastic knives and old candy wrappers as tinder. My afternoons are equally varied: I might be assisting with computer classes at the high school, teaching my own English classes to area youths, or helping at the community health clinic. So planning to spend two months at this work in Chaguitillo , Nicaragua , I began to search for direction.

My first idea was to clean up the streets by installing public trashcans throughout the town and educating the preschoolers and clinic patients about not littering. As it turns out, a similar campaign was started in the past and every trashcan was stolen within a day. It was carefully explained to me that “A barrel in something to be envied here.” So gathering my resolve, I settled, instead, on improving the children’s nutrition…

The preschool is a sturdy room with yellow and green concrete walls and a tile floor that is constantly cleaned (to no end). Rusted ironwork decorates the windows. Streamers as old as the building color the ceiling, stapled, glued, and tied together at the breaks. There are animal caricatures and children’s drawings on the walls, and an old light bulb hangs from the wooden crossbeam above. A walk through the schoolyard brings the smell of burning peanut oil.

What teaching we might do of letters or numbers is usually shouted over the screeching of upturned chairs being pushed across the floor like trucks. But every morning, the children line up, smallest to tallest, and review life’s most important lessons:

Should you come to school clean or dirty?

“!Limpia!” the children answer in chorus. Clean!

“?Y tu pelo?” the teacher asks, pointing to her hair.

“!Limpia!”

“?Y tu ropa?” she indicates her clothing.

“!Limpia!”

She nods approval, then demands to see their mano derecha.

The four and five-year-olds obediently stick out their right hands, and the 3-year-olds follow their lead.

“!El mano izquierda!”

Left hands go out with a little less confidence.

“?Y el pie derecha?”

This question is answered with much hopping around on one foot and contagious giggles that break out into true laughter when asked to produce their left foot. Disney character shoes and wiggling toes pop up in all directions.

Then comes the culmination of my summer work: With a smile and wink in my direction, la maestra shouts, What food should you eat more?

“!Pollo!” yells the girl who always answers first (and usually incorrectly).

“!Platanos!” tries another.

I was going for fruits and vegetables, but chicken and plantains were a decent start. Mangos, queso, orange juice, the teacher prompts. What else?

“!Glu-Glu!” one child adds, getting excited, and I sigh.

My number one problem in trying to teach nutrition was junk food. The children eat cookies for breakfast. Or Dorito knock-offs. And every morning, a woman from the local pulpería supplies them with fried mini enchiladas and Glu-Glu, a bag of milky white liquid sugar, from atop her bicycle. By lunchtime, they are not even hungry.

So I added my question to the morning ritual and wrote them a song about nutrition. Cada día, Comeré set to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle explains what types of local foods one should eat every day to live a healthy life. I constructed hats for each child to represent the different foods, and while we sing the song each morning, I attempted to organize them into balanced meals.

In addition to my work with the children, I tried to stress the importance of a healthy breakfast during my charla, or talk, with their parents. I made a handout titled Cuanto cuesta salud? How much does health cost? Pictures illustrated that one liter of coke is the same price as one liter of milk, three bags of Glu-Glu are equal to two mangos, one bag of chips to one egg, and so forth. I spent an hour chopping up mangos and carrots for snacks and blending a refresco of bananas and milk. Unfortunately, no one came because my mentor failed to inform the parents.

Seeing me standing there, ready with flyers and fruit in hand, she bustled over the afternoon sewing class instead (because any female between the ages of 16 and 45 in Nicaragua is likely to have preschool age children). So, extremely uncomfortable, I delivered my charla to a group of women probably wondering, Why aren’t we sewing? But the food went over well, even if they seemed suspicious of the carrot sticks.

I also spoke with the woman on the bike. I asked her politely if she could possibly sell the children frozen bananas in the mornings instead of frozen ice cream, since bananas are equally cheap (and sweet) but much healthier. She listened and smiled and nodded, although I doubt she ever plans to follow my suggestion. Nicaraguans have a habit of telling people whatever they want to hear, not intending to lie, but simply trying to please you. It’s a cultural thing. Nonetheless, I walked away from the conversation feeling satisfied. So I guess the custom worked on me.

Unfortunately, my nutrition lessons were constantly put on hold due to an endless string of holidays and vacations. My first night in Chaguitillo was the Mother’s Day dance party, followed directly by el Día de los Ninos, a week-long celebration for children. Next came Father’s Day, their patron saint day el Día de San Juan, summer break, and of course, the unofficial holidays: those directly proceeding and following a celebration and rainy days. While this custom was frustrating in terms of my internship, I cannot complain too much. The town’s biggest holiday offered the most unique and fun experience of my summer…

All of the cowboys come out for el Día de San Juan , perched proudly on their horses of rustic browns and charcoal. They pluck and grease the neck of a live duck, then string it by its feet across the main road in town. One by one, they gallop toward the flailing creature and try to rip off its head. Whoever succeeds tears down the street in a burst of speed, friends just behind him, waving his bloody prize around to wild cheers from the crowd. He turns around at the end of the road, gallops back down the street, and throws the head at his sweetheart. Then they bring out another duck.

On my last day in Chaguitillo, Nicaragua, we sang my song about the food groups, and the children and teachers continued to sing snatches of it under their breath all morning. Senor Pan, Don Huevos, and La Reina de Piñ a proudly wore their bread, egg, and pineapple hats, while three other girls fought over Ensalada. And… we feasted on a piñata filled with caramelos and bon-bons. Oh well.

The twins may have come to school eating triple-headed lollipops, and the preschool cook’s daughter may have been sucking on a bag of Glu-Glu, but on my last day, when asked what food you should eat more, the girl who always screams “!Pollo!” at the top of her lungs, yelled “!Mangos!” instead. I consider my summer a success.