Summer in the Garden

It's summer time but the livin' ain't so easy when you're at a year round school and have to go back in mid-July. There's much to gripe about at the beginning of the new school year, but the garden is looking great. Check out the pictures:

http://picasaweb.google.com/rfadam/SummerTimeInTheParkGarden#

As usual, there is a lot on my mind, but for now, if you're checking out my blog, why don't you check out the photos and enjoy something nice?

Adios Fruitvale

It's a sunny Saturday morning in Fruitvale. A bit of chill still hangs in the air. I take a walk down to Fruitvale and Foothill to find something to eat. I pass a senior citizen outside the Posada de Colores retirement home. He greets me with a nod and a smile as I walk by. At the corner, the laundromat is already open and I see families dragging enormous sacks of clothing inside. The taco truck is still closed. On the other side of the street, day laborers gather in the Kragen parking lot, hoping for some work and a bit of pay to send back to families in Mexico, Guatemala and beyond. Picky shoppers crowd around big crates of corn that have just arrived outside one of the many produce stores that line that stretch of Foothill between Fruitvale and 35th Avenue. A dozen workers breakfast on rice, beans, pupusas, tacos and tamales outside the 'Pupusas Mi Lupita' stand. I go into a restaurant to order a licuado to soothe my hunger and still-unsettled stomach. Back at home, I look out my window at the big tree that casts its' generous shade on our home. The neighbors are working on their car.

Last night was my last here in this vibrant but troubled East Oakland neighborhood. I have already moved much of my stuff to my new home in South Berkeley, and am waiting to pick up my U-Haul to move the bulky furniture. Despite feeling out of place here in Fruitvale, despite the violent crime that abounds during the dark hours, despite the loud cars, the constant droning of mechanical equipment from a thousand home repair projects, despite a thousand and one could be annoyances, this has become home. I have lived here a year and a half, longer than anyplace I've stayed since I left my parents home when I was 18.

It is evening. The neighborhood is quiet for a moment, a sense of peace in between a hot afternoon of cruising scrapers, miniskirts and oversized t-shirts. A respite, the calm before the violence that will likely flare after darkness falls. Thin clouds float overhead, the heat of the day is gone. Children play on the streets and in yards. I return home, I will not sleep here again. A car drives by, playing Cambodian music. Friends shout to each other down the street. Sirens in the distance. The smells of barbeques and dinners from a dozen households, each with their own culture, drift through these streets. I am out of place here, but I don't mind. It is nicer to walk these streets than to navigate them in a car, where I must reckon with drivers are stoned, drunk or just trying to show off their twenty fours.

I leave Fruitvale with of mixed feelings. There is much to love in this community, but on days when I return home from work tired and needing a rest, it can be too much. I am glad I lived here and spent part of my life walking these streets. I have had good times--summers spent taking afternoon naps under the shade of the plum tree, fall snacking on persimmons, winter time eating oranges a little too sour because of too much summer fog. I won't miss the drive-bys that happen all too regularly in these blocks, but I'll miss the afternoon tooting of the horn of the tamale van and the belting voice of the driver, advertising all kinds of goodies. I have had very few problems in this area, but at night, when gunfire rips through the air, I often wondered if a stray bullet might hit my room. It is too bad that amidst such vibrancy, an incredible mix of cultures and close-knit families exists such poverty, gang violence and drugs. I won't be going too far away, and I am glad of that fact. It will be easy for me to stop by for a pupusa and some horchata at Los Cocos, where I can talk about Latin American politics with the wonderful owners, Rosa and Ricardo. If I miss it too much, I will only have to walk a few blocks to get my fill of scrapers, tamale vendors and all the other color and culture of Fruitvale.

Leaving Managua

I have put some of my photos from the past two and a half weeks I spent in Nicaragua on my Picasa Web album. Here's the link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/rfadam/NicaraguaEnVerde#

I returned to Oakland last night after two and a half weeks in Nicaragua. I feel as if I've been gone much longer than that. Traveling a lot certainly has much to do with this: we packed a lot into a few days, with many early mornings, long bus rides, new places and many people we encountered along the way. Also, being in Managua for 24 hours before leaving Nicaragua was intense. Managua is an intense place. On my first visit to Nicaragua, I only passed through it on the way to and from Leon, and found it off putting and depressing: dirty, chaotic, noisy and poor. While the city certainly has plenty of these four qualities, I gained more of an appreciation for Managua this time around. Most of this has to do with the wonderful time I spent with Atalanta and her family. They are incredible people and my interactions with them will remain the strongest memory of these past few weeks. I was glad I was able to spend some time with them and wished my stay was longer. Although spending time with the family was the most important thing I did there, I was able to see a few things in Managua as well. On Monday, Atalanta, her young son and I headed to the Huembes Market, one of the city's many markets, a relatively clean, organized space. Colorful and vital, the markets exemplify Nicaragua's vibrant culture but also contain plenty of its' darkness: particularly the exploitation of child labor in the informal economy. While I was eating an enormous plate of comida tipica (the woman at the comedor kept piling on the food, and it's hard for me to say no to an extra platano) in the market's dining hall, a boy who looked no older than 12 came and began to make extraordinary small crafts out of young coconut palms: a flower, a cucaracha and a heart. He was quite a craftsman and talented at his art, though it was obvious he was not attending school and was in poverty. We gave him some money for his productions, and I let him finish my plate of food. This felt a little strange, but so did eating much more than I needed in front of someone who was very hungry.

On our return taxi ride from the Huembes (Managua is not a very walkable city) we encountered the usual assortment of vendors at the intersections, which is so common in Managua: men and even children haul sacks full of small bags of water, others sell mangoes, belts, cell phone chargers and many, especially children, wash windows. At one intersection, two young sisters (the older one looked no older than 10) came to our car begging for food. We gave them the rest of the bunuelos that Atalanta's son was snacking on. As the light changed to green away I thought of the cuajada cheese I had purchased, but by the time our taxi pulled away, it was too late to give it to the two girls. One of them was still looking at our car as we drove away, a beautiful smile across her face.

It is experiences like these that will remain etched into my mind. Children and youth were an essential part of my experience in Nicaragua. This may seem a little strange, since I am a teacher, why I would want to spend so much time with children during my vacation. In Lagartillo, it was soccer games with the chavalos nearly every afternoon, evenings spent playing pit (a card game) with Roniel, Sinthia, Tatiana and Javier. During the heavy afternoon rainstorms I chatted with Jairo, Jahaira's younger brother along with Monchito and our young neighbor Norvin who was a frequent guest at our home during my week in Lagartillo. In recollection, it was the young people that really drew me back to that community. On the road, we spent a whole day in Miraflor with Eyda, the 16 year old daughter of the owner of the posada where we stayed along with her younger nephew. Eyda was our guide to that wonderful mountain world, she had nearly completed high school (the school was 45 minutes away by horse) and was hoping to study medicine at the university. In Omepete, the person I will remember most is Uriel, the 18 year old son of the owner of the Hospedaje where we spent two nights in Merida. Uriel had grown up in Managua, Costa Rica and Nicaragua's Atlantic Coast and had arrived just days before to stay with his father, whom he hardly knew. He had the hardened exterior of someone who has come of age in tough situations and who has performed his share of hard labor, but quickly revealed a sensitive, thoughtful side. And it was my encounters with children that made my experience in Managua so profound. Children are vital and wonderful but so easily exploited, and in Nicaragua I have become aware of this an a way that is much more intense than what I've come to experience working with children and youth in the Bay Area. I see the exploitation and abuse of chilren more as a result of neoliberal policies that have stripped away funding for education and health rather than something inherent in Nicaraguan culture. And sadly it is the children who suffer most.

The Mercado Oriental is the throbbing heart of Managua's small scale commerce. It is a chaotic maze of shops, stands and carts that spills across many city blocks. In a city with an abysmally high unemployment rate, many Managuenses seek their survival selling all kinds of things usually in the street and in the market. This is not something I applaud, but is a reality of the nation and the city. The Oriental is alive with the energy of the city and it's people. I was lucky to have two Nica guides to show me around, which made the market--which has a reputation for petty crime--seem much safer. I found a CD of revolutionary music, a pair of glasses frames, and bought some tamal pisques and cheese as well. My guides purchased a bunch of rice and beans and some bananas. We eventually made it out and drank some refrescoes out of plastic bags as we returned home in the cab. I guess in the end, I am glad I was able to see Managua. It is not a city that puts on a facade, and unlike some of the other places I visited in Nicaragua this time around, does not really cater to tourists. Contemporary Managua exists in the ruins of the once-elegant city destroyed by earthquake in 1972 and has been patched together slowly since then. Neoliberalism has left its' mark on the city, with enclaves of brand-new shopping centers dotting the Masaya highway amidst a sea of impoverished barrios. Managua is not an easy place to like, it lacks the colonial center of other Nicaraguan cities like Leon and is not pedestrian friendly. But it is reality for a million and a half people and cannot be ignored.

I was hoping that by staying in Nicaragua for a shorter time, it would be easier to remain detached from the reality of the country and not become involved in the lives of people there. I guess I fear having a split life, of not being able to be around people I care about as much as I'd like and having to cross cultural divides. But that is already the life I lead in so many ways, it is difficult but it is better to grapple with the challenge of caring across distances and boundaries than to live with the emptiness of trying to forget people we once held near to us.

From the Top to the Bottom

The noises of cars and pedestrians on the street here in Rivas are a strange shock after having spent nearly all of my time so far in Nicaragua in the campo. On Monday, Rawley and I left Lagartillo on the 6:30 bus (the times I´ve been waking up at will make going back to work seem like sleeping in) for Esteli, leaving behind friends and a great community. We arrived in Esteli, did some errands then left for Miraflor that afternoon. The bus gradually climbed through cattle pastures and forests to the highlands of Miraflor located north of the city. As we gained elevation, moss cloaked trees, small fincas and fields of corn, potatoes and cabbage appeared out of the drizzle. We passed small communities, eventually arriving at Puertas Azules. From there we hiked along a gravel road a few kilometers to Posada La Perla, located at the highest point of Miraflor. We had reservations to stay two nights there at the small farm of Maribel Gonzales and her family. The finca is a rustic spot, surrounded by pasture, corn fields, shade-grown coffee and a wonderful garden with vegetables like broccoli that one usually doesn´t associate with the tropics. We enjoyed a late lunch then checked out the surroundings.

On Wednesday, Maribel`s 16 year old daughter Eyda and her nephew took us on a long walk through Miraflor. We hiked across pastures, through corn fields, past small farmsteads with dogs, chickens, pigs and cows and under bromeliad and moss covered trees. Miraflor is a different world from Lagartillo, much damper with taller trees and suprisingly less rugged terrain. The area is a little more developed--people grow more crops for sale such as cabbage, potatoes and coffee and some even grow tomatoes in greenhouses. The finca where we stayed had solar power and a TV, which seemed to be the gathering point in the evening for the local chavalos (or maybe it was the young lady Eyda). The tourism is managed by a cooperative of local producers and there see to be a lot of other community oriented projects and organizations in Miraflor. Our long walk through Miraflor eventually led us to a beautiful waterfall, from there we checked out some orchids, few of which were blooming. Rawley scaled the inside of a large tree called a Matapalo. The matapalo is a parasitic tree which over a long time spread its` vines over another tree, eventually strangling and killing the other tree, creating hollow spot in the middle. I couldn´t climb because I was wearing rubber boots.

Miraflor is a place where I could have stayed for a while. The mists, cool air, lush vegetation, friendly people and rural lifestyle make it a magical place. But after two nights in the wonderful Posada la Perla, Rawley and I caught an early bus, thus beginning a long southward descent, first to Esteli, then to Managua and finally to Rivas, a small city in southern Nicaragua. Rivas is not far from the Costa Rican border, the gringo surf town of San Juan del Sur and the waters of Lake Nicaragua. It´s a world away from the highlands of the north and is much less harsh than Managua, which as usual was full of chaos, poverty and hustle. Rivas seems more bucolic than Leon, less poor than the north but still full of that vital street life that makes Nicaraguan small towns and cities so charming. In the evening, chavalos bike the streets, families take strolls and the smell of grilling meat from fritangas drifts through the air. I am sure that I won`t be woken up tomorrow by the cries of a calf hungry for milk. Our stay in Rivas will be short, but enough to enjoy atmosphere in this small, un touristy Nicaraguan city. Tomorrow we catch the ferry to Ometepe, a volcanic island located an hour away in Nicaragua´s large lake, known to folks here at the colcibola.

Well, I tried to upload some pictures, but I guess that will have to wait for another time. Now it´s time to check out the night life here in Rivas, maybe sip a Toña or two and enjoy the evening breeze off the lake.

Futbol y frijoles

I am here on a cloudy Friday morning in Esteli. I needed to run an errand (get money from the bank) which means taking a 2 hour bus ride across the mountains. On the plus side, the landscape is beautiful because it has been raining a lot, and there´s no dust to inhale during the journey. I just have a couple of things to do so I´m returning to Lagartillo this afternoon. It´s been a week since I arrived in Nicaragua but feels longer than that because it´s been easy to slide back into the routine of life in Lagartillo. It´s a little different this time of year though since sometimes it rains for a few hours and the rains are heavy so everything comes to a stop for a while. Earlier this week it rained a lot, but the rains haven´t been as hard the last couple of days, so things have dried out a bit, which is good because all of my stuff was getting damp.

Limpiando frijoles

As some of you may remember from earlier posts, agriculture is a big focus of my experience here. Last January I spent a few mornings harvesting beans and corn. This time of year, the crops are growing with the help of the rain (though the heavy rains can damage the beans especially), and it´s hard work keeping up with the weeding. Agriculture here is very much done by hand, usually with the aid of a machete. I spent three mornings this week weeding the bean plants with a machete. Most people here use an herbicide to stem the heavy growth of weeds, but Alcides, my Spanish teacher and an avid farmer, grows his organically. This means more weeds to cut with machetes. Some have a lot of spines, which have left their mark on my hands.







Futbol has become an important part of life for the chavalos in Lagartillo. Every afternoon when it´s not raining, folks head to the small dirt soccer field behind the cultural center. The field is not so big, has a slight slope and more than a few rocks. We break into teams of five and play a tournament of sorts. At least half the time is spent chasing the ball when it goes down the thickly vegetated hill behind one of the goals. Having real athletic shoes has given me a great advantage, since many people play barefoot or in the rubber boots that are a necessity for travel along the muddy paths in the countryside. Yesterday our team had great success, and I´m looking forward to a few more afternoon games before I leave Lagartillo.

Lagartillo is blessed with splendid surroundings, including two waterfalls. In December, I spent a lot of time swimming. This time, it´s not so easy to get to the waterfalls due to the heavy mud, and the water is much strongers. No one was jumping into the pool below the falls this time. The waterfall and the canyon into which it plunges were more spectacular than ever due to the lush greenery on all sides.

I feel very lucky to have the opportunity to be down here in Nicaragua again. I am reminded again of the importance of savoring life, whether it´s working in the frijolera, playing soccer or eating beans with tortillas and cuajada cheese.

Rain in Esteli

Writing about travel is simply more fun than writing about everyday life. Things are new and exciting, and the unexpected becomes much more a part of the everyday experience. It´s my first full day here in Nicaragua. I arrived in Managua yesterday morning after a long but not so bad trip from San Francisco, via San Salvador. This time around, I was unable to get a deal on a first class ticket, so I rode in the coach section, which was less comfortable but more interesting. I spent much of the trip chatting with the woman sitting next to me, who was traveling with her two kids to visit family in Masaya, Nicaragua where she was from. I didn´t get much sleep, which was too bad since it was a night flight. Also on my flight was the daughter of one of my coworkers from Hayward, who was traveling with relatives to visit family in Guatemala.

When I arrived in Managua, I headed to the bus station, where I ate a quick meal (fried chicken, salad, rice, beans, tostones and a drink) then caught a bus to Esteli. I wasn´t in a big hurry, so I decided to take the ordinario which is the slow bus. As usual, it was a school bus, and since it was an ordinario it stopped just about everywhere, making the trip anything but short and direct. I´d never taken such a long slow bus during my previous time in Nicaragua, and it was an experience. At every stop, all kinds of people entered the bus, selling various items ranging from mangoes to chips, chicken tacos and pasties to water and cure all balms. There were an alarming number of children, which was sad because this time of year kids should be in school. But this is Nicaragua, one of the western hemisphere´s poorest countries, and the informal economy is where people go to seek their livelihood if they have no land or other work. To me, it´s a sign of the poor ability of our neoliberal economic system to distribute resources and allow people to pursue work with dignity. Perhaps I am more aware of it now than before, after reading Mike Davis´Planet of the Slums, which is about the growth of megacities and the rise of a class of people excluded from the formal economy in the Global South (though some of these trends could be said to be taking place in the US on a smaller scale), and David Harvey´s A Brief History of Neoliberalism. The latter work documents the rise of neoliberal economic theory, it´s replacement of the post-War embedded liberalism in the late 1970s and the negative consequences its´implementation has meant for especially for the global south but also for working people in the US. But I won´t get into all this too much right now, except that when I see people or a country in a precarious economic situation, I don´t blame them but a global economic order that creates a few winners at the expense of most people.

The countryside between Managua and Esteli was spectacular and green. The bus passed pastures, forests, small towns and rice fields before winding up into the mountains. As we neared Esteli, the clouds drew heavy over the sky and rain--which had been threatening all day--began in earnest. For the last part of my trip, I shared my bench seat with a young student traveling to Esteli, we chatted about all kinds of things especially movies and pop culture but also the fact that like many Nicas, she has a few family members working mojado (undocumented) in the states. I managed to catch a break from the downpour in Esteli when we arrived to catch a cab, I headed to Ermenlinda and Luis´ house where I had stayed during my previous visits to Esteli. No one was home, so I went to inquire at the store next door whether or not they still rented the house, they replied yes and just as I was about to go find a quesillo around the corner, a deluge of rain began. I spent an afternoon in the house and store of an extended family, drinking soda (I know I´m not supposed to do this, I´m a nutrition teacher) eating various baked goods and chatting with the people who were living and visiting the house. Like many Nicas, this particular family was kind and hospitable. Many members of the extended family shared the house, which was owned by the mother, who is working in Los Angeles. The roof was in need of some repair, as the storm intensified so did the leaks in the corrugated tin that also served to aplify the sound of the rainfall. It wasn´t always easy to understand what people were saying, but as the afternoon passed, I found myself getting back into the habit of speaking only in Spanish, and better being able to grasp the particularities of the regional accent here in Esteli. The rainstorm was as intense of a downpour as I´ve ever seen, turning the street into a river, which only a few vehicles braved (I felt bad for the occasional bike that made its way through the muddy water that flowed like a small river down the street). The torrent of water continued all afternoon, along with thunder and lighterning, tapering off only at night. Eventually Camilo, Luis and Ermelinda´s son, returned to the house, and I took my stuff over there for the night. I grabbed a quesillo and fell asleep early.

After nearly twelve hours of rest, I felt refreshed (a couple cups of coffee helped with that) and ready to take on the tasks of the day-buying rubber boots and catching the afternoon bus to Lagartillo. That is, unless Rawley appears and we decide to do something in this area this weekend. But most likely I´ll be making the two hour journey through the mountains this afternoon. If that´s the case, I probably won´t be posting again before next weekend. The plan is to spend the week in Lagartillo, doing some Spanish classes and assisting with the school garden project, whatever that entails. It will be great to see everyone there, and see how life is different during this rainy time. It will also probably mean spending a few hours in the afternoon waiting out the intense downpours under some kind of shelter.

Twelve Hours to Managua

In nearly twelve hours, I'll be arriving in San Salvador, El Salvador, aboard a night flight from San Francisco. From there, it's just a quick hop to Managua, Nicaragua, then a bus ride up north to Esteli.

I must admit, it feels a bit strange going back to a country where I was just six months ago. I spent a little more than a month in Nicaragua this past December and January and had an incredible experience there, mostly because of the time I spent studying Spanish in the remote mountain community of Lagartillo. For those interested in hearing more about my time in Lagartillo, please check out my earlier posts. After returning to the states, I was happy to be back but scheming about returning to Nicaragua, hoping to stay longer in Lagartillo. My dream of spending many months there turned into a month long trip, now I am only going to be in Nicaragua for two and a half weeks. Life--recovering from a hernia surgery and having to find a new place to live--kept me from going down to Nicaragua for a longer time. Despite this, I am still grateful to be able to take this trip, since I am unsure at what point I'd be able to return in the future.

One of the most difficult things about being abroad is coming back to one's home country. I found out this the hard way after I studied abroad in Turkey during college. It's very tough to become used to a way of life and attached to people somewhere, then have to leave, unsure of whether a return will be possible. I approach this current trip with the same trepidation. I really appreciate the people of Lagartillo especially, I enjoyed immensely my time with them and have found memories of them. It will be good to see them again, even for a shortened time. It will be difficult to leave them. As much as I like Nicaragua, and care about the people of that country, I understand, especially after my post-Turkey experience, that my life is here in the US, and it's not the right path for me to choose that would mean constant traveling to and fro, having a split life. Furthermore, given the constraints of money, at this point I am not making saving for travel a big priority, even though it's a great thing to be able to do. I have to travel enough to visit family.

It was only 24 hours ago when I arrived back here in Oakland. I spent the past few days visiting my sister and brother in law in Montana. I had a wonderful time, we visited four hot springs, checked out some spectacular countryside and stayed dry despite heavy rains. The Pioneer Mountains area was especially wonderful--we soaked in the rustic, algae lined pools of Elkhorn hot springs, spent an afternoon playing 'Settlers of Catan' next to a wood stove in a rustic cabin, then looked for crystals the next day and went on a hike through wide parks that offered spectacular mountain views. It was great to spend time with family too, and get away from this sometimes-overwhelming Fruitvale district

(you can view the pics here: http://picasaweb.google.com/rfadam/Montana2009#)

Yesterday's bus ride on AC Transit provided a taste of travel in Central America; in some ways, this district of Oakland has more in common with Managua than it does with Montana. The first bus wound circuitously through Bay Farm island (never had been there before), then to Alameda and eventually to Fruitvale BART station. At the station, I had to transfer to another bus (the 53) to take me the last short bit up Fruitvale Avenue. The bus was crowded: lots of little kids, some seniors, moms with bags of laundry, some youth eating greasy, smelly Chinese food. The four Latino youth I shared the standing room with could have easily been in a Nicaraguan bus. I was in that strange space that is Fruitvale.

My nights here in the Fruitvale are numbered. I am moving to South Berkeley not long after I return from Nicaragua in mid-July. It's not a move I chose to make: our landlord is moving into the house August 1st. But neither is it entirely an unwanted move. As much as I appreciate the cultural diversity and vibrancy of this neighborhood, I still feel like a traveler here, and it is not a place I can really call home. Part of this stems from the violent crime: there was a drive-by with semiautomatic weapons a few blocks from us on a Saturday night a week and a half ago. The prevalence of violent crime, though it hasn't directly impacted me, is not something I live under easily. No one should have to live in a neighborhood of violent crime, and I have deep sympathy for the people who have no other place to go. But I am using my priveleges to head for a less violent home where the businesses within walking distances are not just taco trucks and phone card shops. There is a lot I can write about my experience living here in Fruitvale, it's lead me to some very complex understandings about race, class and priveledge in the urban environment that I neither have the time nor frame of mind to discuss at the moment.

Stay posted for more updates from the land of Lakes and Volcanoes...