Exit from Eden

Wintertime Summer

2012-01-11T22:16:00.000-08:00

Any reader who lives in Northern California is well aware that we've had hardly a trace of rainfall in these parts since Thanksgiving. In all the time I've lived here in the Golden State, it's the longest 'rainy season' dry streak I can remember. Although I appreciate more sun during what is usually a gray time of year, this 'Wintertime Summer' is impacting the agricultural landscape in some not so positive ways.

No green in the fields, no clouds in the sky

I work on an organic farm. One of the cornerstones of organic farming is that we do not use synthetic fertilizers to grow our crops. Instead, we apply poop from a chicken factory farm (mostly to the popcorn fields) and rely on green manures to provide fertility to the soil. A green manure--also known as a cover crop--is planted to fix nitrogen or add biomass and organic matter to the soil. In the fields at Pleasant Grove Farms, except where the wheat is growing, we sew a legume called vetch in the fall to do this job. In the rice fields, an airplane drops the seed into the paddy just before the fields are drained; it germinates in the water and begins to climb out of the rice plants before harvest. On the other fields, the vetch also arrives by plane or it is drilled into the ground with a Tye Drill (tractor-pulled grain seeding implement). Unlike the food crops, which grow in the hot, dry Central Valley summer thanks to irrigation, the vetch thrives in the cooler months and relies on the rainfall (as does the small amount of wheat we grow). This all works well, except when it doesn't rain.

The winter wheat hangs on

When I came back to work in this new year, I expected things to proceed at a slower pace at the farm due to it being our off season. Instead in this long stretch of dry weather many of the cover crops need irrigation and that takes work, so we are busy, as if it were summer again. On some fields, the vetch is surviving, clinging onto the residual moisture from summer watering and the rains we had in October and early November. The high organic matter content in the farms' soils have helped, since they hold more water--both in times of drought and during excess precipitation; the wheat in our fields generally looks better than that elsewhere. After such a long stretch without rain, the management decided to roll out the backhoes and tractors, rehire some irrigators, and put some water on a few of the fields. Since Pleasant Grove doesn't have sprinklers, this means pulling ditches and strip checks, cranking up the wells and flooding the fields with a couple inches of water. The hope is that this will reinvigorate some of the more sorry looking spots to ensure a good cover crop to enrich the soil. The risk is that such an amount of water after such a time with so little will be the botanical equivalent of eating a 16 oz ribeye after a weeklong fast. We'll see--the irrigators finish their sets on Thursday and the plants may be greening before the rain comes, which looks like it might arrive next week.

Last weekend I had the good fortune to take a much needed trip to Santa Cruz. Even though I only lived there for six months, my time at the UC Santa Cruz Farm and Garden was immensely positive, and a trip there is a sort of pilgrimage. The Farm and Garden is a beautiful example of the harmony between food production and nature and a testimony to the loving care and hard work of those who have double dug its' beds, pruned the limbs of its' apple trees, and furnished it with water during dry times. Like the rest of Northern California, it's been a long rainless stretch in Santa Cruz, and the CASFS farmers and gardeners also face the dilemma of how to keep alive winter brassicas, the ever important Ashmead's Colonel apple tree and of course, the winter cover crops. On a small farm this seems a little less daunting because of the scale: with the use of sprinklers, it takes only a day or two to water all the fields. Compare that to Pleasant Grove Farm, where a pair of irrigators spend a week watering only two fields. Perhaps small farms--with their diversity of crops and more manageable irrigation systems--are more resilient in the face of these sorts of weather 'events'.


UCSC Farm and Garden, Jan 2011

Back in the Valley on Monday I got to take two trips north up Highway 99 to Larry Geweke Ford in Yuba City, part of the saga of replacing the console on the ranch foreman's F-350. Unfortunately, this being a business outing, there was no time to seek out the acclaimed Five Rivers Tandoori Restaurant in Yuba City. I did however, get a good look at the heart of Sutter County farm country. In the afternoon, a thick white haze hung in the stagnant air and the trails of smoke from dozens of small brush and trash fires slowly drifted among the leafless walnut and prune plum trees. The eerily still flooded rice fields appeared not as a part of a bucolic landscape, but instead as waterways leading to an underworld. In this lonely landscape, the only people I noticed not in vehicles were a South Asian couple in a walnut grove picking wild mustard greens, one of the few things still growing. There is much I appreciate and enjoy here in California's agricultural heartland, but at times like this I yearn for the swirling mists and thousand shades of green of Washington's Olympic Peninsula. It would be really nice to be inside a cozy little cabin somewhere on the coast, watching the waves pound the beach and the rain lash against the windows.

During the workday, I sometimes glance at the National Weather Service's longer range forecasts, and hope we'll get a few inches this winter to fill up the reservoirs and cleanse our skies. I am trying to enjoy this 'Wintertime Summer', with it's frosty mornings, warm afternoons and evening bike rides. When I'm on my break at work I try to ignore the diesel and wood smoke infused air and the cracks in the parched earth and instead soak up the pleasantly mild sun while I throw sticks for a farm dog to fetch. But I will be happy to hear the sound of raindrops and watch the big gray clouds move across the valley towards the mountains, whenever they arrive.

Bringing in a New Year

2012-01-01T22:26:00.000-08:00

On the last day of 2011, three brave souls--Katy, Evan and Rawley--came with me for a farm tour at Pleasant Grove Farm. Here's a little of what we saw:

Grain Bins, Christmas Tree, Fuel Tanks

Katy, Evan and Rawley do their thing on the catwalk

Seed Cleaner

Inside the seed cleaning mill

Rawley on an old land grader

Old electric well motors--may be where R2D2 is from

Parts from cultivating implements

The old parts (not junk!) yard

John Deere CTS Rice Combine

Tractors enjoying their 2 week farm vacation

Rawley getting ready to harvest some rice...it's gonna be a long wait

Corn Harvester

This machine spends 3 months harvesting and 9 months as a very expensive cat perch

Tractors and combines

The Pleasant Grove Farm Machine Shop

The Sutter Buttes to the north

Harvesting the last bits of rice

'Winter' Wheat

We celebrated the New Year together at Katy and Evan's farm in Esparto, eating tamales, black eyed peas and their delicious pomegranates. After a pancake breakfast I headed to the Capay Valley to spend first day of 2012 in one of my favorite places:

View of Rumsey Canyon from the 'New' Trail

Another view of the Sutter Buttes

Capay Valley

Chickens at Full Belly Farm

Pear orchard in Winter Time

Farm-cation

2011-12-27T09:49:00.000-08:00

For the past week I've been on vacation, since the farm is closed for two weeks over the holidays. I've spent most of my break so far up in Seattle, with family and old friends. Amidst the busy holiday schedule I snuck away to my favorite Seattle food spot, Aladdin Falafel Corner, located on the 'Ave', the street I spent many hours wandering as a high school student. Aladdin is one of the few businesses left from those days in the late 90's, and anyone who has tried their falafel knows why. For those of you unfamiliar with falafel, it is a food of Middle Eastern origin made of ground chickpeas (garbanzo beans) and various spices that are formed into a ball and deep fried until the outside becomes deliciously crispy. The falafel then gets wrapped in a pita along with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, tahini sauce, red onion and at Aladdin, a dusting of red sumac powder. One can find Aladdin falafel at two outlets, the Aladdin Gyro-cery and the Aladdin Falafel Corner, both located on the 'the ave'. I am more partial to the Falafel Corner, though admittedly the Gyro-cery provides more ambiance for a falafel eating experience

Aladdin Falafel Corner, University Way, Seattle WA

Being on vacation has been a good opportunity to sleep in and slow down. The fall was a busy time for me. Adjusting to a new job takes a lot of energy, and in addition to the hours I spent at Pleasant Grove Farms, I was also participating in the local offshoot of the Occupy Wall Street Movement in Sacramento. The #OWS movement struck a chord with me because I've seen wealth inequality and the influence of money in politics as major issues in our society for a long time. The Occupy movement first appeared as something different from the usual way of left-wing politics, and initially attracted friends of mine who were not full-time activists. For me it felt really good to spend a sunny October afternoon at the occupation, holding a sign on the corner or commiserating with other working people about the problems in our country. As the months went on my commitment to the Occupy Movement began to wane and I began to question the tactics. I am not interested in writing political analysis here so instead I am including the link to this article by Marc Cooper: http://marccooper.com/occupy-what/, which articulates many of my own views. I really support what the Occupy movement is trying to do, but the reality is that I find it very difficult to participate while I work in agriculture, attempt to have some semblance of a social life and pursue educational goals not related to occupy or work. The reality is that in 2012 occupy will not be at the top of my priorities list.

Before I left for Seattle, I received an assurance for continued employment at Pleasant Grove Farms in the new year. Despite the ups and downs of my first four months there, I realize that I have a very unique thing and a very good thing going for me there. It is rare to find a farm that grows staple crops like rice, beans, corn and wheat that is so close to a city, and I really appreciate being a part of both rural and urban life. For someone with a back injury, it is great to be able to farm without having to shovel, harvest or weed all day. As someone who always had an aversion to an office job, I don't really mind spending the off season inside, because I know that during the growing season I will be outside most of the time. Farming is more of a commitment than a regular 9-5 job, especially during rice irrigation season, but it is one I am willing to make at least for the coming year. In am also continuing my study of accounting, because if I decide that after a year or two working on 3,000 acres in South Sutter County is not the thing for me, I want something to fall back on besides working in retail or education.

In these times of economic stagnation, unpredictable weather and social upheaval, I am thankful to begin the new year with a comfortable place to call home and steady employment that pays the bills and is meaningful. Farming is challenging work, and is not well compensated, but it is something I am interested in doing for the long term, and so there is much learning to be done. I wish all of you readers a Happy New Year and may 2012 bring you good health and fulfillment.

Quince

2011-12-14T21:43:00.000-08:00

On Monday of last week I finally got around to harvesting the quince tree growing along a country road in South Sutter County. I passed along this stretch of road many times on my way from one rice field to another and always found it pleasing because it is lined with walnut groves and homesteads whose yards abound with fruit trees. I noticed the quince tree but never stopped to collect the fruit until that chilly December afternoon.

Quince Tree, Striplin Road Sutter County, CA

For those of you unfamiliar with quince, it is a lumpy yellow-green fruit whose size ranges between apple and football. Unlike most contemporary fruit, whose growers and buyers prize uniformity and perfection in appearance, every quince has a unique shape and is covered with a thin fuzz. When eaten raw, quince has an astringent, mouth puckering taste, but when cooked it becomes very delicious. Quince's popularity throughout the world in countries like Turkey, England, Spain, Iran and Mexico attest to the wonderful taste and versatility of this unique fruit. I first ate quince at a family Christmas Day dinner, where my aunt pureed it with root vegetables. I enjoyed this puree, my father however, who can be quite picky about his food and very emphatic about things he doesn't like to eat, did not. In 2010 while studying at the UC Santa Cruz farm and garden, I picked quince because no one else seemed to want it, and cooked it into a tasty, rose colored jam.

On that beautiful Monday afternoon in the Sacramento Valley, I drove along Striplin Road looking for the quince tree. I parked my car on the narrow gravel shoulder next to a fall-planted alfalfa field and walked over to the bushy fruit laden tree that grew next to a drainage dish. Initially I had been concerned that the neighbors wouldn't take kindly to my picking of the quince, but seeing as it was December and a hard freeze was in the forecast, I figured no one would mind. With only the birds to keep me company, I spent a half an hour or so scouring and shaking the tree, then collecting the fruit. The setting sun bathed the countryside in a golden light and the air quickly grew cold. As I drove back to Highway 99 and then past the winter-flooded rice fields towards Sacramento I felt very glad to work in such a beautiful place.

A few days later I cooked the quince into jam, and then canned it. It took a while:

Final product--the quince turns red after cooking for a while with sugar (honey in this case)

Staples/Slowing Down

2011-12-03T17:07:00.000-08:00

Towards the end of last week, strong gusts of wind began to pummel the Sacramento Valle, clearing out the dense fog and the most of the leaves clinging to the trees on the farm. The mulberries, willows, black walnuts, figs and the majestic valley oaks that dot the landscape of rice country are transforming into their skeletal winter forms. The wind blew the thin white chaff off the corn being moved around the mill and it drifted like snow throughout the farm. Like flakes that never melt it even settled on the dusty break table inside the machine shop. I spent most of the past few days in the unheated shop, where I counted weeds in the rice samples I took from each field before harvest. The work revealed striking differences in the weed populations of the fields, but grew tedious and made me realize that I wouldn't want to do this all the time, say, as a PhD student in an agriculture-related discipline. Luckily, as the light faded over the Great Valley on Thursday, I finished counting the last strand of ricefield bullrush and now look forward to spending the next two weeks before Christmas Break analyzing yield monitor maps inside the office. Working in the office has this major benefit: at least I won't see my breath for the first three hours of each day as I did in the shop.

I survived the gusty winds and my last day of rice weed counting thanks to the steaming bowl of albondigas soup I ate for lunch at the Pleasant Grove General Store Cafe. The oregano-infused broth, loaded with carrots, potatoes and of course, the delicious rice and meat albondigas soothed my soul on that blustery day. The family who runs the cafe are friendly, and I chatted with the woman who was running the grill and serving the all-male, over 50 crowd their burgers, tamales and burritos. Maybe the fact that I was the only patron not wearing a camouflage hat and not discussing rice combines or duck hunting elicited the willingness to engage in conversation. I appreciated the chance to interact with a member of the opposite sex during a workday, because it's a rare thing in the male dominated landscape of rice country. After spending nearly four years teaching at an elementary school, where the staff was between 70 and 90 percent female, it's an enormous change working at the farm whose only female employee enters bills for five hours a month. Because the workforce at Pleasant Grove is mostly immigrants from rural Michoacan, Mexico, the lack of female employees has a lot to do with gender roles in that place of origin. I have a lot of thoughts about how an all-male workforce impacts our farming practices, but I will save that for another time and leave the reader with these two points regarding gender in agriculture. First, I am very grateful to have worked with and learned from some amazing female gardeners and farmers, including Wendy Johnson, Ana Juarez, Sally Fox and Liz Milazzo, and I could list off many more female friends and colleagues who are doing groundbreaking work in the world of agriculture and food systems. Second, I do not celebrate the near absence of women at Pleasant Grove Farms.

When I first started working at Pleasant Grove Farms, I fell into a sort of macho mindset about large scale mechanized farming. The thinking that went through my head goes something like this: those market gardens and micro farms with their arugula and zinnia flowers are nice, but it's the big operations like ours that are really feeding the world. I embraced the idea of hundred acre fields, belted tractors and combines whose tires were wider than any bed I ever double-dug at the UC Santa Cruz Farm and Garden. Filled with the arrogance of inexperience, I decided that we're doing real farming here, because of the enormous quantities of belly-filling staple crops our fields produce. A few month later, this conceit has faded like the green in the leaves growing along the irrigation canals and I've returned to a broader, more inclusive perspective about farming and about what makes a staple crop.

Combines at rest, December 2011

My first experience with farming staple crops happened during a month long trip I took to Nicaragua three years ago. I spent most of my time there studying Spanish at the Hijos del Maiz language school in the remote farming community of El Lagartillo. I had a wonderful time, in which food played a big part. The diet in Lagartillo consisted mostly of locally grown staple foods: beans, corn tortillas and a homemade farmer's cheese called cuajada. Although I didn't spend much time farming, I helped harvest beans a couple of times in the cool of the morning. This brief taste of the campesino life increased my respect for farmers and gave me a sense of how much labor it takes to grow the staple crops for that community.

Grinding corn into masa for tortillas, Lagartillo Nicaragua

Though the beans, tortillas and cuajada made up the bulk of the calories I consumed in Lagartillo, other staples had become an important part of the community's diet: wheat bread, potatoes and especially rice. When I think of Latin American cuisine, beans and rice are the first dish that comes to mind. Even though most people in Lagartillo ate a lot of gallo pinto (the Nicaraguan national dish, rice and beans), no one there grew rice. I asked around and was told that larger, more capital intensive farms in the lowlands produce most of Nicaragua's rice. Residents of corn and bean-growing highland communities like Lagartillo pay a much higher price per pound for rice than for locally grown staples. Despite the cost it's clear why rice entered the local diet: it tastes good, forms a complete protein when paired with beans, and is easy to cook. To make tortillas, corn must first be taken off the cob by hand, then boiled with cal (lime) for a few hours, then thoroughly rinsed and ground into masa, and then finally formed into tortillas and cooked on the comal. Beans need to be cleaned then cooked for many hours on a stove, which takes a lot of time and a lot of leña (firewood). Rice, on the contrary, arrives in the village, polished white in a plastic bag, fifteen minutes away from one's fork.

Gallo Pinto (rice and beans) Nicaragua's national dish

Rice, as many of you know, is not a food native to the New World. It has a long and venerable history of cultivation in Asia, where it provides the foundation of at least half of humanity's diet. In the New World, rice's connection to conquest is evident in the Cuban name for rice and beans: moros y cristianos. The moros--Moors--are the beans (black, brown or red) and the cristianos the white rice. This theme extends even to the Sacramento Valley, where rice has certainly conquered much of the landscape. Land graders, equipped with laser-leveling technology, ensure that the rice fields have a perfect gradient for water flow. A complex network of reservoirs, canals and wells ensures a steady irrigation supply during the bone-dry summer. During planting airplanes swoop down over the paddies to drop the seeds, and when mature, large combines with treads similar to those on tanks rumble through the rice fields. Though it depends on a drastic transformation of the landscape, rice production in California has a beautiful side. The presence of water in what would otherwise be a parched landscape is undeniably refreshing on blisteringly hot summer days. The paddies of an organic rice field teem with life: herons, cranes and a multitude of other waterfowl feast on the frogs, small fish and crawdads that proliferate in the shallow water. And the crop itself is a delicious, nutritious and highly versatile food.

California ricefield in September

These two stories of rice illustrate the connection between history, home consumption and scale of production both in Nicaragua and closer to home. Here in the Sacramento Valley of California, rice farming occurs at a large scale it is the only profitable way to grow a crop whose per-pound value is low when equipment is expensive and land values high. The same applies to other crops grown at Pleasant Grove Farms: popcorn, dry beans and wheat. The positive side of this highly mechanized agriculture is that it produces large volumes of important crops according to organic practices that are somewhat affordable, which cannot happen on smaller farms whose size and scale make the purchase of the needed equipment prohibitively expensive. The organic production at Pleasant Grove Farms has allowed a family-owned operation to survive and grow. At the farm, soil is viewed not as a medium in which to pump synthetic fertilizers and toxic agrochemicals, but as a vital living resource. This attitude diminishes the amount of contaminants that enter the ecosystem and provides a healthier environment for workers and neighbors. The farm owner also takes into account the needs of the semi-skilled labor force by planning crop plantings so that the employees can have steady work for most of the year. Many of the employees live rent-free on the farm and some of those who live off farm earn enough to attain that benchmark of American middle class life, home ownership.

Although many of the farm's labor and agricultural practices are radically different from those of the region it cannot escape the logic of industrial agriculture in the Central Valley. The large scale, the high level of mechanization and the use of GPS driven tractors create work that is isolating and repetitive: to create beds in a large field, I spent two twelve hour days sitting in a tractor mostly on autopilot. These tractors and other machines guzzle an enormous quantity of diesel to cover such large territories. For humans, it is simply impossible to walk over 3,000 acres of fields, so scientific techniques like analyzing crop samples and using yield monitors to document the harvest have replaced a more intimate approach common on smaller farms. The highly competitive nature of Central Valley agriculture with its' exhaustingly long growing season requires an incredibly rigorous schedule where 60 hour workweeks are the baseline minimum for most of the year. Like most farms in the Valley, Pleasant Grove farms depends on an immigrant workforce so dedicated to earning money for their families that they are willing to put in these hours.

Bean harvester at Pleasant Grove Farms

A few weeks ago, in the midst of the rice harvest, I spent a Saturday afternoon harvesting the small sweet potato patch in a backyard garden on 4th Street in Woodland (see previous posts: 'Harvest' and 'Sweet Potatoes'). This provided a much needed respite from dealing with truck tags, yield monitors and online statistics and reminded me of why I love to garden and why I became enchanted with agriculture in the first place (it was not because I love Excel Spreadsheets!). It was wonderful to be outside on a beautiful fall afternoon, in good company, with my hands in the soil. Although the harvest did not produce enough of those delicious orange and purple tubers to provide many meals, considering the scale that was not surprising. In my many years as a school garden coordinator, I frequently contemplated questions of scale, and that day spent unearthing sweet potatoes brought about much reflection on the same theme. Gardening offers much in terms of pleasurable work, community building and producing food, but it doesn't deliver the goods--the sheer volumes of rice, beans, corn, and wheat--in a way that large-scale mechanized farming does. But are there other staple foods that smaller scale agriculture can effectively produce?

Although rice, beans, corn and wheat are important crops they are not the only ones that can be considered staples. I would include sweet potatoes and regular potatoes--which can be very effectively produced on a small scale--in a list of staple foods, along with winter squash and root vegetables like turnips, parsnips and carrots. What about onions and garlic? I could live off beans and rice, but miserably so without the addition of these two alliums (hot pepper sauce falls into this category as well). During the intense summer heat, I consumed so much watermelon that it was most certainly a staple of my diet and I invite anyone who would argue otherwise to spend a few days in the Central Valley when the thermometer hits the triple digits. Things get even more complicated when dairy, eggs and meat are added to the list, though I would certainly argue that for environmental reasons, animal products shouldn't be as much of a staple in the American diet as they are today. The definition of what makes a staple food is subjective, and when that definition is expanded, one can begin to include a greater diversity of agricultural arrangements in the circle of farms that produce the staple foods we need to survive and thrive.

Both technologically advanced and subsistence farming have much to teach an aspiring farmer like myself, and I am not here to judge which one is better because they each have benefits and downsides. The ideal agriculture in my mind draws a little from both, and this is the agriculture I hope to one day practice. Though I'd like to stick around Pleasant Grove Farms for a while, I have no intention of becoming a career 'rice man' in the Sacramento Valley. I appreciate the effectiveness of machinery and of technological innovations in agriculture-especially things like soil tests-but I savor the experience of digging my hands into the soil more than staring at a computer screen. Though I understand the economies of scale that drive Pleasant Grove Farm's monoculture production, I yearn to work with a wider variety of crops and include animals in a rotation. Crop diversity, soil health, intimacy with plants, and a more socially inclusive agriculture make for a more resilient agriculture. Achieving this may mean starting a farm with friends, which is not possible in the present. For now I hold onto this vision while I work at Pleasant Grove farms and learn everything I can there. I can take advantage of the ambiguity of my current position--I am neither manager nor farm worker--to build relationships with fellow employees and find needed social interaction during break times (and maybe get some more of those boiled peanuts for snack). I also plan to take some accounting classes this spring, because regardless of scale, accounting is an important aspect of running a farm and a good skill to know in general. To keep my hands in the dirt, I tend the little garden plot behind the cozy Oak Park home where I live. And though I am burned out on the General Assemblies, I will stay involved somehow in the struggle for economic justice that the Occupy movement has reignited.

In the meantime, I'm recovering from a 24 hour flu that was more real than my recent bout with Suttercountyitis, and this has forced me to slow down for a couple days. Sadly, I missed the fence building party at Katy and Evan Vigil-McClanahan's Creekside Ranch, a wonderfully creative small farm near Esparto, but my body is telling me to stop and rest for a little while. An illness, when it's mild this one, offers a good excuse to lounge around, to watch movies and finish reading this month's issues of Permaculture Activist, which is all about growing staples.

Fog and a Recipe

2011-11-29T22:32:00.000-08:00

A thick fog has descended over the Valley this week. At night it swirls around the trees, houses and cars on the street, imparting an eerie stillness to the neighborhood. For the past few mornings, the fog hasn't lifted in South Sutter County, imparting a mental fuzziness which requires that I consume ever more coffee.

Today I took an unplanned trip to Marysville. One of the workers on the farm incurred a very painful injury on his arm while moving white corn out of the grain dryer. It was decided immediately that he needed to receive urgent care through Workers Compensation, and I was asked to drive him to the hospital in Marysville, about 20 minutes north of the farm. With my passenger in excruciating pain, we made haste and quickly passed through the fractured landscape alongside State Highway 70. Through the fog appeared walnut groves adjacent to now-flooded rice fields, then out of nowhere emerged the expanse of foreclosure ridden tract home developments at Plumas Lake. We arrived at the hospital in Marysville, and waited for a short time in the waiting room, whose walls included signs in four languages: English, Punjabi, Hmong and Spanish. After a couple of hours of consultations and x-rays at the hospital, we returned to the farm; the patient was in much less pain than when we departed and everyone was glad that he had not broken any bones.

With nearly a million pounds of white corn that needs to be moved, dried, moved, stored, moved again and stored, the pace of work hasn't slowed down any at the farm (that's a whole lot of tortillas--I haven't done the math to calculate how many one can make with that much corn). I am now convinced that this has to do mostly with the 'logic' of Central Valley farming (I will discuss idea this another time). This time around I will spare the readers any sociological or anthropological analysis. The weather is cold in the Valley and it's a good time of year to bake and make some soup. I've included a recipe below of a really tasty winter squash soup I cooked last night.

First Apple Pie I've ever baked

Fall colors on 2nd Ave, Oak Park, Sacramento

Fall Gardening Projects

The gardening never stops in the Central Valley

My roommate brought masa from LA--it made delicious tortillas

Here's the recipe for the soup I made. I adapted it from one I learned from Sandra Morales, who was the parent liason at Park Elementary School where I taught for almost four years. We cooked the soup on a family day around 3 years ago, and enjoyed it with homemade tortillas. Sandra is an excellent cook and one of the most wonderful people I've ever worked with. So here's the recipe

Ingredients needed:

one medium green kabocha squash (or similar winter squash)
one medium yellow onion
four medium carrots
four small sweet red peppers (i used some from my pepper garden in Woodland)
one or more poblano-type peppers (add more for more heat)
1 tbs olive oil (or other cooking oil)
1 tsp cumin
2 tsp chile pasilla powder
1 tsp ground black pepper
1 pinch cinammon
three cloves garlic
four medium red potatoes
one quart chicken or vegetable stock
3 cups water
fixin's: tortillas, queso fresco, avocado

Winter Squash at Let Us Farm, Oakville, WA Nov 2010

Directions

Select, wash and bake in the oven at 375 degrees until soft, one medium green kabocha squash, or other similar Winter Squash. Make sure to poke a few holes in the squash with a knife or fork.
Finely chop onion, carrot, sweet pepper and poblano pepper
Heat 1tbs olive oil at medium-low temperature in a dutch-oven type soup pot, add onion, carrots and peppers, stir occasionally to prevent burning
Finely chop garlic
After 5 minutes, add garlic, cumin and pasilla chile powder to soup pot
Saute for 1 minute, then add stock, turn heat to high
Chop potatoes into 1/4 inch cubes, add to soup pot
Once boiling, reduce to a simmer, add ground pepper and pinch of cinnamon
Remove skin and seeds from baked green kabocha and add squash 'meat' to soup
Add two cups water, simmer until squash is soft
Remove chunks of squash, carrot, potato, onion and pepper from soup and puree in blender or cuisine-art. Return to soup pot and repeat until desired smoothness is reached.
Add water until desired thickness is reached,
Add salt to taste then simmer for 10 minutes
Serve hot, add crema mexicana to individual bowl if richer soup if desired

Author's serving suggestions: get some fresh corn masa for tortillas, and make fresh tortillas. Cut up some avocado and queso fresco, wrap in warm homemade tortilla, take a bite and dip it in the soup. You won't be disappointed!

Squash soup, with some tasty fixins: avocado, queso fresco, homeade tortilla

Thanks-working

2011-11-25T22:23:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: Since I've lured you into reading my blog with pictures of sweet potatoes and churro trucks, I will be honest and say that this post contains only one photo--and it's the one above this disclaimer. What follows is more complex and convoluted than anything about pepper gardening or rice combines...so be prepared!

Even though it comes a day late, I write this blog post in keeping with the theme of Thanksgiving, so I'll mention a few of the things that I am grateful for. I am thankful to Katy and Evan Vigil-McClanahan for hosting such a wonderful Thanksgiving gathering at their farm in Esparto. This was only the second Thanksgiving in my life I've spent away from my family in Washington State, and so I really appreciated the company, conversation and the delicious food. The oven-baked turkey rivaled the bird my dad usually BBQs, and the grits and gravy were a new addition to the Thanksgiving spread (I was excited about grits and gravy because a character from Dave Chapelle's 'World Series of Dice' sketch draws his name from that delicious dish). This morning however I awoke feeling none too ready to slap some leftovers in a tupperware and hit the road at 6:30 AM for the trip up to the farm. My overindulgence in the Thanksgiving feast led to my contraction of an obscure and somewhat serious ailment called Suttercountyitis, which though poorly researched is highly curable: the patient must not cross that county's boundary line until all the symptoms have passed. I am giving myself until Monday to fully heal and recover from that illness, lest I develop more serious complications which could possibly prevent me from entering the abovementioned county for a more lengthy duration of time.

Having a day (or in my case, due to the onset of Suttercountyitis, days off) off for a major holiday is not something I take for granted working in the field of agriculture, and I am thankful to have some time for myself, to be occupying my life instead of being occupied by work. It is safe to say that few of the conventions of what once were part of the typical American working life, such as 40 hour weeks, two day weekends, major holidays off and three weeks of vacation, actually exist for farmers or farmworkers. One of the many tasks I do at Pleasant Grove farm is enter in time cards in a database, which contains information about how and where the employees spend their work days in order to account for labor costs of various crops and fields. Entering this data gets old quickly, but it opens a valuable window into agricultural labor. During the harvest season, which began in October and ended on November 20th, the crew put in an astounding number of hours. Many worked seven days a week, for at least ten hours Monday through Saturday and eight on Sunday. Some even racked up close to 90 hours in one week. That's a lot of time, but crops need to be harvested while the weather is good and the overtime pay really adds up for them. For some, the idea is to earn as much money as possible during the growing season and then take three months off; others will spend the short winter working nine hour shifts five days a week in the farm's seed cleaning mill. The farm closes for two weeks in December.

The approach of the two week farm closure, the end of harvest season, and Thanksgiving have brought up uncertainties I have about my own job at Pleasant Grove and have prompted some reflection on my own identity and the social context in which I work. This began the previous Friday, when I spent the afternoon picking up pieces of roots in the old almond orchard with a few of farm's Mexican immigrant workers. My motivations for joining in this task were straightforward. I ate a really enormous chile colorado burrito at the Pleasant Grove Store for lunch and knew that if I returned to work in the office I would enter a deep food coma and become completely unproductive. I also figured after eating such a gargantuan mass of pork, cheese, rice, beans and flour getting some exercise couldn't hurt. No one asked me to do this job, but I figured it would be fine since I have done other jobs that 'the guys' do, like driving a tractor and cutting up pieces of metal in the shop. At other farms, like Full Belly in the Capay Valley where my friend Rawley works, I've weeded flower fields and washed carrots alongside the mostly Mexican crew. I always appreciated the opportunity to converse in Spanish and learn about the lives of people who do the very important and very hard work of growing food.

A major downside of my farm job is that I spend too much of my day alone. When I was doing rice irrigation, once Mike, my supervisor and the farm's rice expert, finished training me he stayed in the office and sent me out to check the irrigation pumps and the water depths in the field. Once irrigation season ended I worked in the office and sometimes went to the fields to cut samples of rice before harvest, two tasks I performed alone. That's the nature of farming staple crops on a large scale: at Pleasant Grove farms there are less than 20 employees farming over 3,000 acres. Compare this to Full Belly, whose crew of fifty farm 300 acres of higher value crops like tomatoes, melons and flowers. I have always liked working outside and I often enjoy the solitude that farming offers. The expansive fields and vistas of the mountains offer refreshing moments to contemplate the world without having to attend to hundreds of elementary students and their boundless energy as I did at my old job. But on those days when I spend hours listening to my iPod while I count, sort and weigh rice samples, I yearn for company other than the music of Dezarie or Prometheus Brown. During my short stint pulling almond roots out of the old orchard I really appreciated the increased level of human interaction. I got to know a few of the workers, contemplated the term of address wey and developed more of a sense of community on the farm.

While I was working in the orchard, in an attempt to make conversation, I mentioned Thanksgiving, unaware that the farm owner had not yet decided whether the crew would have the day off. I assumed it would be a day off for everyone because harvest was over. Because my job is more project-based and I have more control over my own hours I planned to take Thanksgiving off. There was no reason for me to drive to Sutter County to calculate the weight of 200 rice kernels already in storage on a holiday when I could just as easily do it another time. Perhaps thinking that I was more in the know because I spend time in the office where managerial decisions take place in a language I speak fluently, some of the crew members asked me about the status of Thanksgiving on the days leading up to the holiday. On one hand, I understand that Thanksgiving is not an important holiday in Mexico and that farms need more flexibility in their labor than most other industries. On the other hand, I was going to take the day off and figured that after having worked so many hours over the last month and a half, other people might appreciate spending the day at home and getting some much deserved rest. I don't think that labor conditions are bad where I work, especially not for agriculture, which has arguably the lowest labor standards in America. I am not bringing up these things because I want to say that the farm did something wrong by not deciding the status of the Thanksgiving holiday in advance. I mention this because I feel a little uncomfortable taking a day off when others have to work.

As a student of anthropology, I am well aware that everything exists in a cultural context and the farm where I work is no exception. The world of a large-scale--albeit organic--farming operation in the Sacramento Valley of California is very different from the places I've worked and lived before. I grew up in Seattle's white upper middle class liberal culture; when I lived in the East Bay I experienced the area's vibrant activist community and worked for many years in a predominately Latino school in the working-class town of Hayward. As I imagined before I ever crossed the county line, the racial and political realities in Sutter County are very different. I am just beginning to uncover more about the community where I work and how its racial codes, gender norms and social values operate.

For many of the more progressive younger people interested in farming such as myself, finding the right community can be a real challenge. It's hard to live somewhere and feel culturally and politically isolated. I try to not let the lens of politics color how I see other people because I find it's not a very productive way to interact with people whose views differ from my own. To a large degree our politics are products of our families and the communities where we live. It the workplace, I try and leave my own political views and activities at home, and not engage in any political discussions while on the job--and this applies to all jobs I've had. However, there are good reasons why I cross back to Sacramento County every day after work: I feel much more comfortable living in a city and all it has to offer: bikeable neighborhoods, amenities like food co-ops and yoga studios and a greater diversity of people. Because of the emptiness of rice county, it is wonderful living somewhere where my chances of encountering another human being are infinitely higher.

Working in agriculture is not just about tractor implements, irrigation pumps and crop improvement. Many of the younger farmers I know and the older farmers I respect most--like Jim Swanton and the partners at Full Belly farm--are highly aware of the social context in which their farms exist. This country has a real need for talented farmers who can take on the challenges of feeding people in a just way in the face of rapidly shifting ecological, economic and cultural realities. I came to work at Pleasant Grove to see if large scale farming of staple crops is something I want to do long term and the time is coming soon to decide about my continued employment there. I've had many great learning opportunities on the farm; however, I am concerned that working full time during the winter downloading weather data will make the cramped, rarely-cleaned portable office trailer grow very small very quickly. I've realized that I am not all that interested in California rice farming and am drawn much more towards dry bean production. I wonder though that if I were to become a bean 'expert', this career might lead me to rural Kansas or Idaho's Snake River Plain, locales which I imagine lack the urban culture that I am used to.

Farming is an incredible dedication of time for little economic reward and allows scant opportunity for other pursuits, especially in a place with such a long growing season as California's Central Valley. I have many ambitions and interests beyond the boundaries of the farm, including taking more classes in practical subjects like accounting and doing some of my own gardening projects at home. As a participant in the occupy movement, I have been inspired to imagine possibilities beyond the constraints of our current economic and political order, such as horizontal management styles that involving more worker collaboration (ie worker owned cooperatives). Perhaps someday I'll join a collectively run dry bean farm...

In the meantime, I am undergoing a strict therapeutic regimen for the treatment of Suttercountyitis. Feeling very spoiled with a four day weekend (unheard of in farming), I spent Friday baking a sweet potato pie for the occupy sacramento potluck while listening to 80s dance hits. I imagine that such music is actually more commonly listened to in the big white pickup trucks that ply the roads of rice country than one might expect, though it is quickly changed to Skynyrd or Toby Keith upon approaching the tractor parts store or county bar should another person hear the driver's emotionally stirring rendition of When Doves Cry.

I'd like to return to the theme of gratitude which I began this blog post. I feel very fortunate have embarked on this journey into the world of agriculture which began nearly two years ago when I was accepted into the UCSC Farm and Garden Apprenticeship. I am thankful for the opportunity to work on a farm in the Sacramento Valley and gain some insights into its' agricultural and social realities. Regardless of how my position at Pleasant Grove Farms evolves I've come to appreciate much about this region. Finally, I want to thank those that are reading this blog. It is a sort of therapy for me to collect thoughts, experiences and emotions, to attempt to make sense and find a way to express them. I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Harvest

2011-11-19T16:46:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to report that both the sweet potato harvest from a backyard garden in Woodland, California and the rice harvest on Pleasant Grove Farms have both reached their successful conclusion. The latter involved over a month of four combines working into the night 7 days a week cutting over a thousand acres of rice. The former entailed three people digging through 12 ft garden beds for a hour in search of delicious sweet potato tubers. Both mark the end of two very different agricultural adventures (described in previous posts). I walk away from this harvest with the satisfaction of having been part of the production of food: a milk crate's worth of sweet potatoes and well over fifty 55,000 lb truck loads of rice.

Sweet potato patch before harvest

The fruits of our labor

Peppers still going strong

With harvest completed, my farming job will begin to look more like a regular 8-hour office job. I have rice samples to sort, weigh and analyze, data to enter, yield monitor maps to manipulate. It will mean lots of time in front of the computer and less time driving around South Sutter County in a white Ford Ranger pickup listening to 97.9 lunes sin commerciales. If the weather permits, I may spend a few more afternoons working with the crew removing roots from the almond orchard, as I did this past Friday afternoon. At Pleasant Grove there are few times when numbers of people work together and I really appreciated the camaraderie, the conversation and the delicious snack of boiled peanuts soaked in hot sauce. I am lucky to work with such great people on the farm, and to find beauty in the changing of seasons in California's Central Valley.

I have a lot on my mind right now and a lot of thoughts to sort through and put down on paper, but I am getting tired and I really wanted to share these pictures and recap from the harvest season. Last week was eventful of course beyond the world of rice farming: the eviction of OWS from Liberty Square and the pepper spraying of peaceful protesters at UC Davis being two of the most notable. The Occupy movement is changing and evolving and I am still paying attention. I am thinking about the importance of distribution versus production, and exploring how I might get involved in housing justice work here in the Sacramento area. I wanted to write more about all these sorts of things, but that will come later...

Sweet Potatoes

2011-11-11T22:22:00.000-08:00

Sacramento Valley Summer Garden

A major motivation behind my somewhat bizarre and masochistic decision to stick it out in the Central Valley is that I was really excited about the summertime abundance that flourishes in the intense heat. The previous summer I had spent at the UCSC Farm and Garden Apprenticeship Program in Santa Cruz, where an especially fog-cloaked, gloomy July stunted the warm weather crops, spread disease and kept us from harvesting much besides kale, carrots and lettuce. Those three vegetables are delicious in their own right, but in the summer, I want to eat summer stuff, like peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, watermelon and even some okra. Save the greens for the rest of the year, when I gladly will cook up kale, collards, broccoli raab or any other leafy vegetable and eat it with much gusto. In Santa Cruz, the problem we faced in enjoying the bounty of summer was a lack of heat and an overabundance of cool, damp weather. Out here in the Valley, what I lacked was land where I could tend the mouthwatering hot-weather crops. From an early point onward my need to find space to garden filled me with much anxiety, so I looked and asked around planted where I could.

Thanks to the generosity of friends, I found garden spaces: expert hair sheep ranchers and rare eggplant propagators Katy and Evan and I planted 200 tomatillo plants at their farm just outside Esparto (acclaimed seedsman and poison oak thrasher C. Bryan Stuart gave me over 1000 tomatillo plants). Closer to my residence-at-the-time in Woodland, my neighbor and renowned gordita de buche connoisseur Ethan Grundberg offered his backyard for gardening experiments. We dug beds and amended them with compost from the UC Davis Student Farm one Saturday afternoon in early May; in the following weeks we installed drip irrigation using second-hand tubing with more leaks than the waders I used for rice irrigation (see earlier post). Then we planted: a diversity of hot and mild peppers from Ethan's experiments and UC Davis, cantaloupe, Eel river, Casaba and water melons and sweet potatoes. I was especially excited about sweet potatoes because I had no experience growing them and because they are truly an amazing food: highly nutritious and versatile. Sweet potatoes grow from slips, which are cultured from the tissues of the tubers during the winter months. I searched the internet and eventually called a woman named Debbie who runs a business called Mericlone Labs in Merced County, the heart of California's sweet potato growing region. She was running out of her slips, so I got nervous and ordered way too many of them. They arrived, and I frantically tried to find homes for them. I ended up planting two 15 foot beds of them in Ethan's backyard and the experiment began.

Sweet potato planting happened on a warm evening in early May. The hot weather had just began, a prelude for what I expected to be a scorching summer and hoped would be a good growing conditions for the sweet potatoes. In the good company of a 16 oz can of Mickey's, some chips and salsa, Ethan's cat Sig and the sounds from kids playing the alleyway behind Ethan's house, I planted the sweet potato slips into the soft, recently worked soil and hoped for the best. I also daydreamed of all the ways I planned to prepare the harvest: pies, baked in the oven, boiled and mashed, or added to pancakes, biscuits and even curry.

With the sweet potatoes came a flyer with instructions on how to grow them, which I read many times but only partially absorbed. Since I like to worry about things I cannot control, I constantly checked the weather to see if the night time temperature was supposed to drop below 45, which according to the information from Mericlone Labs might damage their tender tissues. Sweet potatoes are originally from the Caribbean, and are not cold-hardy in the least. To set the record straight, they are different from yams. True yams hail from Africa and the island parts of Southeast Asia. The cannot be not grown in the US except possibly in a greenhouse and can only be found in specialty stores from those parts of the world. I have never seen or eaten a true yam. The 'candied yams' served at holiday dinners are made with sweet potatoes, not yams. There is a lot of confusion because of color, but sweet potatoes come in orange, white and purple and probably other colors as well.

Sweet potato vines in August, Woodland

The sweet potatoes had an inauspicious beginning. The weather that May was far from tropical: cool nights, more rain than average, and daytime temperatures not encouraging to the tomato, pepper and melon crops that local farmers had put in the ground.When Ethan announced that he was moving to Massachusetts in June I worried about what would happen to my nascent garden projects, whose fruits were still months away from enjoyment. I hoped that the new tenants would be amenable to continuing the garden and possibly allow me to harvest some of its' bounty. As is most often the case, it turned out that my worries were in vain: the new tenants were very excited about the garden and taking on its' care. When I returned to Woodland from a two week trip to visit my sister in Idaho (where there are no sweet potatoes growing) the garden had entered its bountiful stage, abundant with peppers and melons. But the sweet potato vines looked sad; I hadn't watered them nearly enough (partly due to leaks in the drip irrigation I didn't fix) and they succumbed to an aphid infestation because of their poor health. Luckily the garden's new stewards nursed them back to health.

Peppers of 4th St, and bermuda grass Aug 2011

Sweet potatoes have a long growing season, especially when the gardener (myself) neglects them at important early stages of their growth. By early November frosts have already arrived here in the Valley and most summer crops are dying out. At Pleasant Grove Farms where I work the rice harvest is nearly complete and out of the other crops, only one 100 acre field of white corn (for tortillas) remains to be cut. But the sweet potatoes are still there just across the river from where I now live in Sacramento, and it's time to head to Woodland and dig them out before the fall rains saturate the ground. Tomorrow at 1 PM myself, Maris and Sacha, the caretakers of the garden, along with a few friends will engage in a great unearthing of what I hope to be a hidden abundance. We've poked around in the soil a little bit but I must say that I have no idea how many tubers will be lurking in that good Yolo County earth. That's the excitement of growing a crop whose edible part hides underground. Stay posted for photos and an update about the harvest...and trip to the churros stand before I return to Sacramento for my usual weekend activity of occupying Cesar Chavez Park.

And yes, because I can't stray too far from politics, I must say I am pleased about some good news:

Russell Pearce, the architect of Arizona's harsh anti-migrant law, lost his recall election.

The White House postponed a decision on the Keystone XL (tar sands) pipeline until 2013.

Ohio's anti public employee union law was overturned.

And ff the harvest is good, there's reason to celebrate.

The highly acclaimed Churros stand, Woodland Nov 2011

From the cab of a John Deere 8410

2011-11-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

Ready for another day of field work

Spending long days in the cab of a John Deere 8410 belted tractor gives me a lot of alone time. When I'm not staring at the sheaths of earth left tossed up by the powerful steel disks in tow behind the tractor, I watch the rice trucks on Highway 99, which runs next to the field, or I observe the chickens, cranes and the crows as they feast on insects unearthed by cultivation. And I wonder how of all things I ended up driving a tractor on a farm in South Sutter County. It is because I spent these recent days alone on the tractor--and because Fall is the season for remembering and for contemplation of life and death-- that I have resurrected up this blog yet again.

Sutter County Mornings

I could go back years, trying to figure out how I ended up where I am, but a good starting point would be the Summer of 2009, when I began my fourth year as the Nutrition Education Site Coordinator, aka 'Garden Teacher' at Park Elementary School in Hayward, CA. Despite the relationships I had built with students and members of the school community, I was ready to move on from the job. When I first started at Park I approached the work in such an unsustainable way that I had set myself up for a burnout, and that fall, I was a smoldering remnant struggling to decide what to do next with my life. My interests have always ranged widely: I studied anthropology and archaeology in college, participated in various sorts of activism in my free time and worked for five years at the intersection of gardening and education. As the school year progressed, I had a serious back injury and felt myself worn increasingly thin. I needed to do something postive and replenishing. Some friends who had been apprentices at the Center for Agroecology and Sustainable Food Systems at UC Santa Cruz sung the praises of this program, so I looked into this, applied and was accepted. Despite my back still in recovery, I decided to enroll and spent a wonderful sixth months at the UCSC Farm and Garden. I gardened while gazing awestruck across the Monterey Bay, learned all about plants (I am a huge plant nerd), ate and cooked delicious farm fresh meals and played lots of soccer and basketball, all in the company of amazing people. Those six months flew by and when I left Santa Cruz, I felt renewed, replenished and inspired. I had no plans though, but plenty of ideas to try on: farm in my home state of Washington, start an edible landscaping company, run an educational garden program for older students, or perhaps even take my nascent rhyme slangin' on the road...

I headed to where I grew up--Pacific Northwest--where the incessant rains and growing darkness grew oppressive, then back to California. I ended up in Yolo County in January 2011, and no longer living at my parents' house in Seattle, needed a steady income so I got a part-time job tutoring kids after school in the farming town of Woodland. My friend Rawley connected me with a free place to live in a travel trailer on a sheep, wheat and cotton farm in the Capay Valley whose owner, Sally Fox, used to breed organic and colored cotton varieties. One rainy February day I accompanied Sally on a trip to pick up her wheat from a cleaning mill at a farm north of Sacramento called Pleasant Grove Farm. Not many people know about Pleasant Grove, a 3,000 acre organic farm, because they don't do much direct marketing of the products they grow. Despite the near-torrential rain that day something about the farm appealed to me, a no-nonsense kind of operation that produces staple foods like rice, beans, popcorn and wheat (some people might not think of popcorn as a staple crop, but my Uncle Marc would beg to differ--he often eats it plain for lunch). Crops like flowers, melons, hot peppers, and yes, broccoli raab, are all wonderful and make us happy but they don't keep us full like arroz y frijoles do. And for someone with a bad back, I knew that growing staple crops involves much less stoop labor than picking strawberries or green beans, two farm tasks I hope to never perform again.

Almonds in bloom in the Capay Valley, Northern California Feb. 2011

I eventually sent a resume to Pleasant Grove Farms and heard back from them in August, two days before I was planning to leave for a cross country road trip to Washington DC to protest the proposed Keystone XL Tar Sands Pipeline. I've been involved in activism of one sort or another from joining the anti-WTO protest in Seattle as a high school senior to college antiwar and labor justice activism. When I lived in the East Bay I volunteered with Causa Justa/Just Cause, a really great housing justice and civil rights organization that builds power in Black and Latino communities in San Francisco and Oakland. Before going to the UCSC Farm and Garden, I spent a month herding sheep and living with a Dineh family in the disputed Black Mesa area, as a way to help support a community resisting coal mining. Because of my conviction for climate justice, I felt compelled to join this protest against the pipeline, but I got a job instead and figured, it's always better to work, gain experience and earn some money, so off I went to help do rice irrigation and research at Pleasant Grove Farm.

View of the farm across a rice field, Sept 2011

I was hired initially at Pleasant Grove to assist rice expert Mike, who grew up on a rice farm in Louisiana before getting a PhD in Weed Sciences and Ecology with rice irrigation and research. Rice as some of you may know most often grown partially submerged in water. In California rice production, a field is first laser-leveled to achieve a perfect gradient, then a number of smaller check levees are put in, which control water flow across the field. Each check is about three inches lower than the one above it, and usually has two boxes on either end where the water flows through. In organic rice production, water management becomes more complex, but in all rice production the water is used to suppress weed growth. Rice farmers flood their fields in May, then the rice is seeded by airplane, and the water usually remains until September, about a month prior to harvest. The job of a rice irrigator is to maintain good water depth in each check in each field--this is done by adding or removing boards of various sizes from the boxes between the checks, or by changing the amount of water entering the field from the well or irrigation ditch. Occasionally one of the levees surrounds the field springs a leak, usually the result of the mischievious crawfish; the solution is to shovel like crazy, then install a plastic tarp, then shovel more dirt and hope the crawfish each back on their voraciousness.

Rice stubble in a flooded field on a neighboring farm, Nov 2011

Work progressed as such with rice irrigation and some data entry for a month; I found the work interesting though often the intense Central Valley heat proved challenging. Because the of the mud and water in the fields, a rice irrigator usually wears waist high rubber waders, and on days when temperatures soared the high 90s or even triple digits, my legs felt as were enclosed in portable saunas. I struggled to stay hydrated during the day and frequently gorged myself on watermelon after returning home to Sacramento. The final day of rice irrigation work was the most arduous: it involved hauling truckloads of waterlogged, slimy boards out of the fields for over 10 hours.

Field after disk-bedding

The week after rice irrigation ended rain and cool weather arrived, I struggled with a cold while something far beyond Sutter County began to grow and spread: Occupy Wall Street. Thanks to friends in NYC and other cities, I learned more and more about this movement and I liked what I was hearing. As someone who has always been passionate about social justice and has been involved in various activism over the years, the Occupy Movement rekindled a fire that had been smoldering for a while during the previous months spent living in Woodland and the rural Capay Valley. I felt inspired to join, and so I headed to Occupy Sacramento with increasing frequency. My work schedule went down to a 40-hour week, so I had time to attend general assemblies, teach-ins, marches, and bring an occasional pot of beans (I get beans on discount from where I work but not rice--the rice gets sent off site for processing). But since I began driving tractor driving last week, I've worked 10-12 hour days. I am farming, but I am not doing much else.

Stormy skies over the Sacramento Valley, Nov 2011

My week of tractor driving had its' challenges. On those 12 hour days spent mostly in the cab of the John Deere, breathing dusty air scented with diesel and cigarette buts, I thought about things I'd rather be doing, mostly that is, other places I'd rather be occupying. Hours after I turned off the engine and the GPS I still felt the rocking motion from so many hours in the tractor. On the upside, I was successful in my first ever operation of heavy equipment--I did not knock over any high voltage power lines, or destroy the tractor, the implement, myself or anyone else. I walked away from the green machine last Friday feeling much more confident about my ability to use machinery. I am certain as well that I won't be spending the next six months in that tractor, and the long workdays will end in a few weeks. For farm work especially, I've mostly had it easy, meaning few twelve hour days and only a couple weekend days spent working. In the winter months, should they want me to continue my employment, the work will resemble more of an 8 hour office job.

September Rice

One of the best things about the job at Pleasant Grove Farms is that I don't really know how I'll spend each day when I show up in the morning. Sometimes, I am mostly in the office, downloading data about the rice harvest, entering in time cards, itemizing expenses for each field or making maps from GPS data. Other days I am outside cutting 2X2 quadrats of rice by hand for research, or taking samples of popcorn and beans and testing their moisture. A lot of the tasks I do would be boring if I had to do only one of them day in day out, but because in farming everything always is in flux, so is the work, and for the most part I find it satisfying and rarely stressful. On days when my work involves interacting with the other people on the farm, I find it especially rewarding: I really like the other folks at Pleasant Grove and as the days go on it feels more like a community. Farming is an important job even if small farmers and more so, farm workers are not well compensated or well respected for their labor. And it is an honest job, producing the most essential necessities of life.

Rainbow over rice

It's hard to find a job or career that satisfies all of my interests and desires. I am grateful to have a job where I am learning new things every day and where I feel respected and appreciated. I like working in agriculture but the Occupy movement and my participation in it have inspired me and renewed my conviction that people power can indeed create positive change in the world. I am hoping that after harvest winds down at the end of November, I can continue to myself occupy both the fields of South Sutter County and Cesar Chavez plaza in Sacramento, because rice, beans and social change are all very needed in this world where we live. This may sound crazy but thanks to coffee it just might be possible.

If you've gotten this far, please leave a comment, even if it's just a 'hi'--also if you are ever in this corner of the Great Central Valley on a cold day, I will treat you a churro and a champurrado from the cart in Woodland. And if you have a blog, send me the link and I'll read it...

Thinking of you, Oakland

2011-10-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

Oakland has been on my mind of late. Last week I sat in shock as I watched as the police attack on Occupy Oakland unfolded, appalled by the brutality of the OPD but inspired by the the people resisting. As this evening draws to a close, I am grateful to the people of Oakland, the East Bay and the world for taking a stand and exposing the inequality and exploitation in our system. And props for those who took part in shutting down the port, I am jealous I wasn't there to help hold the line. Instead, I spent a long day disc-bedding the better part of a 100 acre field on the farm where I work in South Sutter County, about 15 miles north of Sacramento. It was my third day on the tractor--this isn't grandpa's old farmall, but a beast of a belted John Deere machine, with an air conditioned cabin and a GPS-guided autopilot to make sure those rows are all so very straight. It's boring work, and lonely; the radio is my connection to the larger world, although I heard too much about Herman Cain and too little about Oakland. I only encounter the world beyond the farm during the hours of darkness because I arrive there before the sun rises and depart after it sets behind the oak trees that line the feather river levee. The morning times are the most beautiful, the cold air has a bite to it, the dust from previous days' work has long settled and I can see the pink creeping across the sky above the dark silouette of the mountains and the Sutter Buttes in the distance. There's nary another soul to be seen, the occasional car or the sight of a harvester or truck in the distance. A landscape of industrial farming.

Fall is my favorite time of the year in California. In the Central Valley, the 100 and 90 degree days are a thing of the past, nights are cold and the air--at least in the morning--is clear. It's not so different from the Bay Area, where fall marks the end of the sometimes depressing summer fog and usually a brings a stretch of sunny, warm days. The first rains wash away the dust that builds up during the dry months, and everything seems, more clear, more sharp and in focus. To me, it makes sense that holidays like Dia de Los Muertos happen during the fall, because it is a good time for remembering. I usually find more clarity of mind during the fall than at other times of the year. I have been remembering too, thinking about Oakland, my home base for a good chunk of my time, and I am missing the city and the wonderful people I know there. It's been a good sojourn out here in the Central Valley, I've met some wonderful people and experienced a different side of life in California. I love my cozy house in the Oak Park neighborhood of Sacramento, and this city and the surrounding countryside have much to offer: laid back pace of life, affordability, easy access to farmland, and just across the river in Woodland, the most delicious churros I've ever tasted. But I can't help thinking about Oakland and the East Bay.

I am not sure what course my life will take from here. It will not be as straight as the beds that the autopilot GPS tractor makes. I don't view the tractor driving as some kind of cool and nifty thing, I over wanting to do things like trucking, welding and tractor driving, as if they would disguise the reality that I am an over-educated, over-priviledged urbanite who never learned to change the oil on his own car. I am not sure how many more days on the tractor I can handle. At least I am getting some overtime, although ag overtime only starts after 10 hours, something this once student labor activist is becoming increasingly agitated about. I am doubting more and more whether I want to stay working in farming. A 9-5 office job is looking more and more appealing, as long as I can tend some peppers in the summer and do some activism in my free time.

The Occupy Movement has really inspired me lately. To see people gather together against the overwhelming forces of apathy, corporate greed, corruption and consumerism to discuss the downsides of our system and try and come up with solutions is heartening. In the time when I am not up in Sutter County, I try to go down to Occupy Sacramento, to bring a pot of beans to share with the occupiers and get to know some of the folks there at Chavez Park. It's been the other side of the coin, the antidote for the isolation I often feel up in rice country, and it's been inspiring and is making me contemplate what I really want to do in my life.

Mornings come early and it's hard to get up in the darkness, so it's time to call it a night. I am praying for rain as a respite from more hours on the John Deere. I guess I just wanted to say thank you, Oakland, I like what you all are doing there. I miss you, more than a little bit. I am not sure whether I'll go back or stay out here in the Central Valley, I have to see how the rest of the farm season goes and then take it from there. But I am thinking of all of you on this day, and tonight I am proud of the city where I used to live.

Photos from California

2011-01-19T13:44:00.000-08:00

It's been nearly three weeks here in California, with many adventures taking place. I have a lot on my mind as I try and figure out work, life and all the rest, but I'd rather just share some pictures I've taken so far. Check them out on my picasa site:

The first set (some repeats from previous post):

https://picasaweb.google.com/rfadam/CaliforniaEnRouteSantaCruz#

More recent ones from Davis, Capay Valley:

https://picasaweb.google.com/rfadam/BackInCalifornia#

That's it for now.

A New Year in California

2011-01-08T17:20:00.003-08:00

Happy 2011 readers! I've been in California for the past week or so, I have a lot to write about but instead am just going to share some photos from my time so far.

On Wednesday, December 29, my Dad and I set off for California. We left on a dark evening after dinner, with clear skies over Seattle. Around Kent (15 miles south of Seattle) we ran into a snowstorm, complete with lightening. The snow turned to hail in Tacoma, after that it was clear sailing all the way to Longview.

The next day we continued our journey, enjoying a savory breakfast at a Denny's outside Portland, pie and coffee at Peggy's in Rice Hill, Oregon and this beautiful evening light on Mt. Shasta after crossing the Siskiyou Mountains:

More Mt. Shasta

We stayed in a Travelodge in Red Bluff and continued south the next day.

A chilly morning at the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge, near Willows, CA

Snow geese at the Sacramento NWR

I celebrated the new year in good company, in a karaoke booth in San Francisco with some friends. I spent a couple days in the city, then a night in Oakland, then down to Santa Cruz. Winter pruning in the Chadwick garden with Orin, the 2nd year apprentices and various other folks on a sunny, warm January afternoon was a real pleasure:

This is not how the 'up' garden looked when I began the apprenticeship last April.

All in all, it's been good to be back in California, my absence making me appreciate places and people I had taken for granted, and prompting new reflections about my own course. I am glad I was able to spend the afternoon enjoying the oak tree collection at the UC Davis Arboretum amidst news of pesticide poisoned bees:

http://animals.change.org/blog/view/wikileaks_uncovers_government_bee_killing_conspiracy

And some incredibly tragic new from Arizona:

http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2011/01/murder-in-arizona-live-blogging.html

Hope the New Year is treating you well.

Dreams and Hot Soup

2010-12-18T15:14:00.000-08:00

It's a typical December afternoon in Seattle--gray skies, rain falling in a steady drizzle, light already fading a little after four o'clock. I am at my parents' house, looking after the place while they are away for the weekend. The last time I recall doing this was during the summer before college, back in 2000. They went camping, I had to work, some mischief occurred, won't get into that story now...except that the results are never good when 18 year olds finish off a bottle of cheap 160 proof 'white lightning' liquor from China. All that matters is that we didn't destroy ourselves or the house, and that this time around--ten years later--the house will be quiet.

I awoke this morning and checked the news, and was disheartened to read that the DREAM act had failed in the senate. For the past few days, I had been calling elected officials, doing my part to try and get this important bill to pass. The DREAM act would've allowed undocumented minors who've serve in the military or pursue higher education a path to citizenship. Why do I care? For over three years I taught in a predominately-Latino school in Hayward, where undoubtedly some of the students did not have legal status here in the United States. I never asked about immigration status--it's not the business of school employees to do so--but many students told me their stories. I still care deeply about those students, and was really devastated to hear that the DREAM act had failed, effectively closing the door for undocumented students to pursue their dreams here in the United States. It's yet another of many examples lately on how our elected officials are making decisions that continue to take our country in the wrong direction, one that will ultimately be to the detriment of all of us, not just the undocumented.

The strong emotions I experienced during and after the debate over the DREAM act reminded me of how much I care about issues of immigration and racial and economic justice. More than anything related to organic farming or food, this is ultimately more important to me because it's about human rights--especially the rights of youth to pursue a life of dignity in their home country. As a white male 'citizen' (really, us white folks are the true illegal immigrants), it's possible to escape or ignore these sorts of racial injustices. Especially with my passion for farming and the natural world, I've been tempted to move somewhere where the I can feel farther removed from the wrongs in the world. Indeed, my life at the UCSC Farm and Garden was a little like this. Now that I am contemplating--and now, taking--my next steps, it's important for me to choose a place and occupation where I can still feel engaged with issues of racial and economic injustice.

As a postscript, 'don't ask, don't tell' was repealed, so not all news is bad news.

Lately, I've been feeling a bit down. My post Santa Cruz optimism and energy has waned, and the plans I concocted on the farm are coming up against tough realities. For the most part, it's been good staying here with my parents, getting to spend time with family, see some old friends, experience what mostly has been a beautiful fall in the Northwest. I had originally come up here with the intention of finding a farm in Washington to work on next season, and I embraced this task with great enthusiasm. I am rethinking that plan, realizing that my ties to this area aren't as strong as I'd imagined, and that there are other places I'd be just as happy working and living. Now the name of the game is finding work, meaningful work that is related to farming and education, work that I can earn a living doing. I have also decided to return to Northern California after Christmas. Absence has indeed made this heart grow fonder, and made me realize that while I don't necessarily intend to return to the Bay Area for good, I miss a lot of folks down that way.

It's easy to get caught up in all this--negativity in the world, feeling unsure about where I want to be and what the future holds. During moments like these, sometimes I make the wise decision and turn to meditation, the cultivation of mindfulness. In my attempt to pause, focus on my breathing, and quiet my mind, all those pressing concerns far and near don't seem quite as intense, and I can regain a sense of composure and presence. I've been meditating sporadically since I was sixteen, and it always amazes me after a long time of not sitting, how valuable the practice can be to my life. It also takes being disciplined, something I'm not always so good at.

I want to feel the tranquility of this place (Japanese garden in Portland, Oregon)

Another thing that helps is to cook a delicious and healthy meal. I biked to the U-District Farmers' Market today, where I purchased a variety of veggies. I cooked a tasty soup for lunch: first, sauteed leeks, garlic and ginger in some peanut oil, then added chicken stock and a pinch of Chinese 5 spice and set to simmer. Meanwhile, I cut up carrots, daikon radish and bok choi. I added the roots first, then half a package of buckwheat soba noodles, then the bok choi, and finally, a couple of eggs. And here's the result...

I served myself a steaming bowl, and added a splash of sesame oil, brown rice vinegar and tamari, along with some shredded raw daikon I'd set aside.

Some of my favorite ingredients in the kitchen:

I enjoyed the meal with a piping hot cup of reishi mushroom tea, a little honey added to take away the bitterness. I got the reishi came from my cousin Emmett, forager and man of the wilds extraordinaire, who found it in the woods of Vancouver Island, Canada last year. The whole fungus, currently residing in my aunt and uncles' kitchen on Bainbridge Island, is mostly still intact and quite impressive, more so than this little slice I brought back a few weeks ago:

I tried to practice mindfulness while eating the soup: really focusing on the taste, the bite of the brassicas (bok choi and daikon), the subtle presence of the five spice, the richness of the leeks and sesame oil, the tang of rice vinegar, the sweetness of the carrots, the pungent bites of ginger that all managed to sink to the bottom. I thought back to an important book I'd finished a few weeks ago, One Straw Revolution. While I don't agree with the author on everything, I think the way I cooked and consumed the soup have much in common with the his sentiments towards eating.

Sure, the world is still rife with injustices, but at least there are things we can do in our own lives to keep healthy and sane.

I am not sure if anyone reads this, given how irregularly I post. Please leave me a comment if you do.

Life after Farm Camp: Carrots, Politics and wisdom of 'One Straw'

2010-11-06T16:36:00.001-07:00

Aunt Nancy and Uncle Marc's Garden, Bainbridge Island WA

Carrots, my dad and I learned last Monday, have the most complex flavor of any vegetables, and the third most of any food, after chocolate and coffee. This was one of many nuggets of carrot knowledge we learned from John Navazio, a PhD and seed breeder who works for the Organic Seed Alliance. That organization sponsored the event, a chance for farmers, gardeners and anyone else to learn about carrot seed breeding and trials at Nash's Produce in the Dungeness Valley of Washington's Olympic Peninsula. The seed trials were sponsored by NOVIC, a collaborative that aims to develop seeds for organic farmers in the northern tier of the US, who need to produce a yield from fields that are often too wet or too cold. It wasn't too cold or rainy that day at Nash's, but the fields peered across were muddy from previous days' rain. We stood in our mud boots gazing across acres of carrot tops and pondering this contraption designed to harvest those delicious orange roots:

John Navazio and Scott, a field manager at Nash's, explained to us the goals of carrot seed trials: to get a carrot that will hold in the sometimes frozen, nearly always waterlogged soil at the farm through the winter into the spring and will still taste good after harvest. After looking at the bolero carrots, checking for any white fungus growing in the tops and discussing varietal differences, we headed inside to taste some of the recently-harvested bounty from the fields. With 10 varieties present, it quickly became clear that not all carrots taste the same.

After more than enough carrots to ensure our daily dose of Vitamin A and a delicious winter squash soup, we headed back to Bainbridge Island, where we'd spent the night before with my Uncle Marc and Aunt Nancy. We had just enough time to finish off the previous nights' dessert--chocolate mousse--and catch the ferry back to Seattle so we could watch what was the last game of the world series. Although I really enjoyed the games in the series, my introduction back to the world of advertisements after nearly six months of TV-free living at the Farm and Garden was not always a pleasant one. I am reminded of the consumer-driven reality that many people spend much of their lives immersed in.

I can't recount the events of the past week without mentioning the elections. Elections are a reality check, a reminder that lots of people out there in America have values much different from mine. Fortunately, many of the things I voted for (or against) in California were successful. Still, on the national level, the results of Tuesday don't give me much hope that the federal government will solve any of our pressing issues: economic stagnation, ongoing foreclosure crisis, a broken immigration system, global climate change. It's up to us, but I don't have many answers at the moment, except that I will continue to 'till the land' for whatever that is worth. I used to get all bent out of shape about politics, too emotionally involved. Back in 2008 the election in 2008 was all I could think about for weeks leading up to the contest. I even had to take the day of the election off (I ended up phone banking) because I was so distracted and couldn't get anything done at work. I vowed to not let this happened and swung into apathy while I was in Santa Cruz. I am trying to forge a new route: not feeling the weight of the world's problems on my shoulders all the time, but not trying to escape or avoid all the pressing issues of our country and the world. A kind of middle path.

Wednesday was a beautiful, sunny day in the Puget Sound, and I took a glorious walk through the Nisqually Delta on my way to Olympia. These sights were enough to revive any post-election blues:

View of the Olympic Mountains to the west, across the sound

I was reminded just how beautiful of a place the Pacific Northwest is. I had dinner and spent the evening with my aunt, uncle and cousins at their house in Olympia and left the next morning for Let Us Farm, a small family run place in the Chehalis Valley about 45 minutes south of town. Fog and dew clung to the meadows and forestlands as I headed south on 1-5, then exited and headed west through Rochester and Oakville, two small towns in the flood-prone Chehalis River plain. I finally reached the farm, which is just west of Oakville, and joined in helping Cecelia wash parsnips. Later, Steve drove me around past the vegetables and into the expansive acreage planted in various cover crops. The couple had bought the 88 acre property--a defunct dairy-- eight years ago or so and had converted it to a successful organic farm that produces all sorts of delicious veggies. It's a beautiful spot, a rural, green valley surrounded by the gently sloping forests (albeit a bit clearcut, but hey, it's Gray's Harbor County).

I spent two days working on the farm: harvesting beets and winter squash, washing greens and lettuce, pulling up rutabagas, sorting potatoes, packing the van for the trip to the U-District Farmers' Market on Saturday. It was a great opportunity to do some real hard farm work, meet some knowledgeable farmers and get out of the city for a couple days. Most of all, I was reminded of the humbling experience of farming, and that as a beginner, I have much work to do and much learning. Sure, I took the cucurbits class and the irrigation class (I fell asleep during the soil nutrition class) and made some bouquets at CASFS, but I was reminded of the shortcomings of that program and that the reality of work on a production farm is much different from how I've spent the past six months. I was reminded yet again of the lesson I learned at Black Mesa the previous winter: that for people making a living off the land, actions often speak louder than words and fast-talking isn't usually welcome. This is a refreshing change from how the rest of society operates, and is humbling for me, a graduate of elite schools who could flash credentials around but prefers to let the work I do speak for itself.

The 'silo' at Let Us Farm; the rest of the winter squash we pulled from the fields on a sunny November afternoon in the Chehalis Valley.

Recently, I've dug into Masanobu Fukuoka's classic treatise on 'Natural Farming', the One Straw Revolution. It's a great book, documenting Fukuyoka's transformation from plant pathology expert working for the government to farmer of grains and citrus. Fukuyoka's work is inspiring because it presents an ideal of farming that I strive for: one that uses no off-farm fertility inputs, tillage or chemical sprays and fertilizers and conserves water and energy. It also connects the simple life of farming and living and eating close to the land with Zen Buddhism, a philosophy that's long influenced my own life. I am reminded of Shunryu Suzuki's Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, and that as an aspiring farmer, I am most definitely a beginner. One thing that appeals to me about farming is that one can never know it all: organic agriculture is incredibly complex and presents a lifetime of learning.

So I turn away from the world of politics, with it's rhetoric and deciet, knowing full well that it shapes all our lives and it is not something we can escape from by fleeing to a bucolic setting and avoiding the people we disagree with. It is easy to begrudge those who do things that we view as stupid, ignorant or cruel and to want to change their attitudes. I am not sure how to do this, but instead of going down this path of frustration, futility and anger, I turn towards the self, and how I can continue to cultivate my own person, not in a self-absorbed, self-indulgent way, but so that I can continue to learn and grow and perhaps be a positive influence in the world. I choose to work with hands and body, focus my mind on observing and learning, realizing I don't know all that much in the grand scheme of things and that there is much beauty and mystery in this world around us, however terrible that place can appear at times. And maybe eat a few carrots and a kabocha squash or two while I'm at it.

Departures

2010-10-21T10:09:00.000-07:00

Another attempt to revive this blog yet again, complete with a new title and all. After a sometimes frenetic summer at the Farm and Garden, I find the fall lending itself to reflection and writing. As usual, the intent is to use this blog to stay in touch with folks I don't see everyday, and also to practice self-expression through writing and sometimes photos. So here I go again...

It's been two weeks since I graduated from the Apprenticeship in Ecological Horticulture at UC Santa Cruz, and my hands show the passing of time since I left the farm. While at CASFS, dirt clung to the undersides of my fingernails and any cracks it could work its way into. It was always there, a pleasant reassurance of the joy of laboring in the soil. Now, having spent most of my post-farm time in cities, it is gone. But not for long.

On the last day to move off the farm, Sunday October 17th, rain fell steadily from a gray sky, the first of its' kind we'd seen since June. It was a fitting end: when we arrived in mid-April, we experienced similar weather during the move-in. This dramatic shift of weather mirrored the shifts occuring in all our lives, and the inevitable changes that occur during the course of time spent on a farm. Everything always in flux, always in transition. Towards the end of the day, the rain subsided, and I took a last trip to the Chadwick Garden to glean some apples and wander that unique, sometimes mystical place. Mists swirled in the Redwood forests that tower over the garden like guardians, water droplets clung to the leaves of the apple trees. In some places, the yellows, reds and browns of fallen fruits covered the orchard floor. I selected those 'grounders' not too far gone with rot or mushiness and loaded as many as I could into a duffel bag. I was happy to have a lot of russeted ones in the mix. All those apples made for great snacks and gifts to share as I left the bountiful world of the farm, always abundant in delicious fruits and vegetables, for the urban world, where freshly harvested things can be a little harder to come by.

Last week involved not one but two departures: the first, leaving my fellow apprentices. We had had become close over the past six months and it was hard to see our little community fragment; saying goodbye to those folks whose homes lay in other countries and coasts was especially tough. The second, a departure from the Bay Area: finally moving my stuff out of storage and taking it up to Washington. In reality, my farewell from the Bay began long before then, even before I left my job in Hayward last February, first for Black Mesa then Santa Cruz. Of all the places one could choose to live, the Bay Area has so many assets: rich diverse cultures, beautiful weather, fascinating landscapes urban and natural, dynamic, funky people, great restaurants and a cornucopia of year-round produce. But for some reason I never totally felt at home there. Often considering going elsewhere at times, I remained loyal to my job and the Park School Community, despite the ups and downs of evictions (I had to leave a place not of my own volition three times in five years!) and frequent illnesses acquired from those adorable germ-bombs I worked with in Hayward (There is much more to this than that, I just don't feel like opening that can of worms at the moment). The opportunity to participate in the apprenticeship proved a blessing in many ways: a great learning experience, a fresh new group of folks to hang with and finally, the kick in the pants that finally got me up and out of the rut I saw myself stuck in. During my time in Santa Cruz, I grew disconnected with the East Bay and no longer viewed it as my home to return to after finishing the program. When it came time to move out of my tent cabin, I had made up my mind about returning to Washington State. I moved quickly, needing to arrive in Seattle the following weekend. After leaving Santa Cruz, I spent a couple days in Berkeley seeing a few friends, taking a bike ride down around Lake Merritt and out to the old neighborhood, Fruitvale, where I felt as out of place as ever. By my departure time, I managed to squeeze my stuff into my car: kombucha jar, ceramics, tinctures, butternut squash and all.

Of course, I couldn't stay away from farms too long, and made a brief but pleasant stop on my northward journey at Full Belly Farm in the beautiful Capay Valley, where Rawley has been working since January. This was my fourth visit to that farm, the first being that previous March, when rains still fell and the hills remained green. By July, the temperatures had reached 100 F, but Cache Creek still ran full and cool and the farm abounded with summer produce that remained elusive to us in fog-cloaked Santa Cruz. This time around, the air was cool, the leaves on the plums browning and the fields devoid of melons and tomatoes. We did enjoy some delicious recently-dug sweet potatoes along with newly returned greens and some remaining okra. Being at Full Belly--a highly mechanized 300 acre operation--has always sparked questions about the issues of scale and sustainability. But in the end, the farm is a beautiful place, full of wonderful people and delicious produce. It was a good place to spend what will be my last night in California for a while.

I proceeded with haste in order to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday, which I did, catching her in the basement and causing her to fall back onto the dryer. She was a bit shocked, but of course glad I had made it. It may be the last surprise we do for my parents though. Now, a week later, here I am, sitting in the house where I grew up, a place that for many years I vowed never to live in again, full of half-baked notions about what it means to be a 'mature adult'. I am not planning to be here for months on end, rather, I am taking this time as a gift, to be able to think about what I want to do, read, write, go over what I learned at CASFS instead of having to throw myself into a wage job, commute and rental house again. The transition from farm life to home life isn't always easy, but by the end of the sixth month apprenticeship, I often yearned some more quiet time. Still, it's hard to leave behind such great people and memories, and I am eternally grateful for all those incredible farm center meals, the lively sunday b-ball games , evening jam sessions singing 'Harder they Come' on the porch and countless other things. I am moving on from farm life as that's what I need to do, though I still drink lemon balm tea in the evening (OK, it's the dried stuff, not as good as the fresh leaves picked straight out of the young apple orchard). My plan is to find a farm up here in Washington to work at for next season, and I've started making contacts and planning work-visits in the coming weeks. I feel that after my time at CASFS, the best thing for me to do is to find a farm to work on and put what I've learned into practice, while getting the experience of being on a commercial farm instead of at an educational institution. I've got some other fun things planned too: on Monday, my Dad, my Uncle Marc and I are heading to Nash's Farm in Sequim to learn about NOVIC (Northern Organic Vegetable Improvement Collaborative) and local trials on beet and carrot varieties. Then in mid November I am attending the Washington Tilth Conference, a gathering of many of the state's organic producers. In the process, I hope to learn about the sustainable agriculture scene up here--which seems to be flourishing, not surprisingly--and find the right farm to work on for next season.

Sure, part of my wonders what I am doing here, leaving behind sunny California with its' breathtaking landscapes, persimmons and olive groves, for the gray skies and shortening days of fall in the Pacific Northwest. I contemplate going elsewhere: the Southwest, with its' tunas, dried chiles and blue corn, or the East Coast, where I have many close friends and which would be a place that truly offers a different farming experience from the West. But for now, I am here in the Northwest, happily so though I miss the beauty of the farm and the people there (as well as Bay Area friends and people from the Park School community), making a go of it as best I can. When I feel a little down about it, I brighten at the sight of the reds, oranges and yellows of the fall colors (no, it's not New England but we do have a real fall up here) and the rare glimpse of snow-capped Mt. Ranier or Mount Baker. I've long contemplated living here again; it's an experiment and an adventure like all of life...

Spring Time

2010-05-03T16:17:00.000-07:00

It's a sunny afternoon here in Santa Cruz, and again I am here in the laundry room not far from the farm. I think I should rename my blog 'Notes from the Laundry Room' or something in that vein. Anyhow, though it is Monday, today is a day off at the farm because Saturday and Sunday we had our big plant sale and all of us were working during at least part of that time. The plant sale was a success, but that's not so much what I want to write about today.

I must admit, I wish I were a little more clear-headed as I sit to collect my thoughts. It's a hot afternoon, and I am feeling a bit dehydrated still from my bike ride up the long hill back to the UCSC campus a few hours ago. After running errands, which included a trip to a mall to get my glasses fixed, I appreciate being able to return to my wonderful, green, secluded home, full of verdant life and good people.

On the farm there is always work, always something to do. This is less of a burden and more of a pleasure. When I returned this afternoon, I checked the compost pile that fellow apprentices and I had built two weeks prior. It was a nice, hot 142 degrees F. On my way back from the pile, I noticed that one of the gopher traps that Christopher, a second year apprentice and I had placed in the garden had sprung, so I checked to see if we had caught one of those pesky critters. Gopher trapping has been an activity I've done daily recently. In the lower garden, where I've spent the most time working recently, gophers can be a plague, damaging crops, especially the tubers and some of the annual flowers. They can be a serious problem and cause severe crop loss if left unchecked. Part of working and being close to the land is coming to understand the role of humans on the landscape. Here on the farm, we are in competition over the land with the gophers: if they succeed, we will have reduced crops which means less to eat and sell and ultimately less revenue for our program. Food bills will rise, but more importantly, we will not have the satisfaction of harvesting and eating the food we worked so hard to grow. So despite reservations about killing animals, we trap the gophers. Although I don't relish the death of a small animals, I find trapping to be a satisfying activity. I head out into the garden, either alone or with another person, with a bucket of traps and a digging tool and search for signs of recent gopher activity. This means looking more closely at the soil, observing any recently created lumps or mounds that might conceal a gopher hole beneath. When I discover one, I dig out the plug that the gopher filled the end of the hole with, make sure the burrow is still active and not collapsed or buried, and set the trap. If all goes correctly, the gopher will notice light entering its' burrow, and will come investigate and then, bam, the trap will close, quickly snapping the small animals' neck. If this sounds brutal, I understand, but in nature that's how things can be. Whether we have a moral right to be on this land or not, I am not going to get into. But if you eat crops grown somewhere, there is a good chance that a gopher or two may have been killed in the process.

Not all is competition and death here at the farm. Yesterday morning after setting traps, I remembered the sapote tree. Sapotes are a type of fruit native to Mexico and Central America, and this particular variety we grow here at the CASFS farm is a while sapote. It seems to do well here, and produces small, unappealing-looking fruit that hang from the spreading branches of the nearly 40 ft tree in various stages of ripeness. A ripe sapote is delicious: when the skin is removed, a delicious creamy flesh is revealed, a consistency that is sort of like pear and avocado mixed, and a sweet, delicious taste with a hint of caramel. I enjoyed climbing the tree and knocking the fruit down to another apprentice waiting below to catch them nearly as much as I enjoyed eating our harvest. One thing I love about this place is the incongrous juxtaposition of vegetation: the sapote tree, with its' tropical origins, grows next to a stand of alder, a tree I associate with the Pacific Northwest. Wonderful.

On my return from the compost pile, I discovered a swarm of bees on the branch of one of the apple trees. Recently, we've discovered a number of honeybee swarms on the farm and nearby and have 'caught' them with varying degrees of success. The act of 'catching' the bees is much different from trapping the gophers, and the relationship between gophers and humans vs. bees and humans is much different: one of competition vs. one of cooperative dependence. I will hopefully learn for myself how to catch a swarm of bees and start a new hive in just a few hours...

After three weeks plus a day or two, this place feels like home. We are all in the routine of doing our chores (this is my last week of break baking), and have taken over cooking our meals. Another apprentice Jane and myself cooked breakfast on Wednesday (the second years cooked the rest of the days' meals because we were in class), we had limited ingredients--no eggs, flour and few veggies--because our ordering system is not running completely smooth at the moment--but put together a nice concoction of vegan 'sausage' patties (made of beans and rice), along with hot quinoa cereal and cooked greens gleaned from the field. It worked out well as served as a good warm-up for our full day of cooking coming up the week after this. The days spent working the land in the company of others pass quickly and the tasks impart a deep sense of satisfaction, which I think will only grow as newly planted crops take root and grow into maturity. Farm center life unfolds, with its' shared meals, cups of coffee (fair trade Nicaraguan) in the mornings and lemon balm tea in the evenings and the occasional party with beer, live music and even sometimes dancing. It is a good life here.

As I enter my fourth week on the farm, I realize that the time here will pass quickly. October is still a long way off, and I am still processing my departure from Park School, my time on Black Mesa and in the deserts and more so, my arrival and new life here at the CASFS farm. What I am finding here is that I have a sense of optimism and of possibilities that was often missing during the months leading up to my departure from Hayward Unified. Sometimes, visitors and others will ask me--what will I do in October? I have many ideas, but for now, I am trying to ground myself in this place, appreciate the community of those I live and work with and learn all I can from them and this land. That and an occasional sapote or an evening cup of tea made from fresh garden herbs fill me with a great sense of contentment, and I begin and end each day with a sense of gratitude for this experience.

Down on the Farm

2010-04-25T11:45:00.001-07:00

Hi Folks,

It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Santa Cruz, the sun is shining and a nice ocean breeze blowing up the hill. I am doing some laundry though, trying to expel layers of dust, manure, flour and dishwashing grime out of my farm clothes. I don't mind missing a little sunshine time though since I am outside a lot working, eating, hanging out and brushing my teeth even.

So far, things on the farm are great. Time seems to operate on two levels here. On one hand, it seems to be speeding past, the two weeks I've been here feel like a blink. But on the other hand, life is so full of new people and experiences that hilling leeks, which I did on Friday, seems like ages ago. The farm is also quickly becoming its' own little world. I rarely leave, especially during the week, and since I am without a car, everything feels that much farther away. It's really a wonderful experience being able to live, eat, work, shower, sleep and socialize all in the same place, a drastic shift from the long bike and BART rides that were a big part of my life in the East Bay. Also refreshing is to be able gaze across a verdant green sea of cover crop and then the blue waters of the Monterey Bay beyond every time I walk from my lovely tent cabin to the farm center. It's also wonderful to take an outdoor solar shower after dark and listen to the sounds of the frogs croaking nearby. I am fully aware that I am living in a bubble here on the farm, a world away from the panhandlers and gun shots that were a fact of life in Oakland, especially when I lived in the Fruitvale district, but after being in a place like that, I don't mind being in this bubble, and feeling that much farther from the troubles of the world.

It's been a wet spring here on the Central Coast, which means that everything is a little greener but also that our soils are still too waterlogged to cultivate. The cover crop, which is usually turned in earlier in the spring or even in late winter, still stands tall on the six acres that comprise the 'field', the site where most row crops are cultivated for our CSA program. This means we've been able to concentrate on building compost, feeding and mulching the myriad fruit trees that grow here and doing other smaller tasks that often don't get completed during the frenzied time of spring planting. It also means that when things finally dry up enough, such as on last Monday before the most recent rains swept in, we really hustle to cultivate and plant the beds. Our food supply depends on it.

Slowly, us new apprentices have been taking over the running of our daily lives on the farm. Last week, we started chores. I was lucky to be put on bread baking, which means my partner and I bake ten loaves of bread twice a week. Luckily, I did a lot of baking the weekend before coming here to the farm, and my fellow bread baker Meredith is more experienced than me and has guided me through the ins and outs of producing a delicious, crusty loaf. Next week us apprentices start cooking. So far, we've had guest chefs, mostly former apprentices who kindly give up a long day of their time to come and prepare delectable and hearty farm fare for us, three meals in a day. Cooking on the farm is no joke: breakfast served at 6:45 AM, then lunch at noon and finally dinner at 6:30. The two cooks do it all. I am both excited and scared when my turn to cook rolls around. I am starting out small and cooking breakfast this Wednesday; the second years are responsible for the rest of that day's meals.

Sometimes, all of this can be a bit daunting. Mostly, it is the transition of living a more solitary life to one that is very communal. I acknowledge that this is a good thing for me, and it is really an incredible opportunity to be able to work, eat, bake bread, sing and brush teeth in the company of a fascinating array of individuals with whom I share the love of plants and growing food. But sometimes it can be overwhelming too and as my time proceeds, I will have to forge a balance between wanting to be around others with the need to spend some time alone.

I will update this post soon with some photos of the farm...

Santa Cruz

2010-04-10T20:35:00.000-07:00

Well folks, I am here at the farm at UC Santa Cruz, listening to chirping frogs outside the library. It's been an eventful past couple of months meandering and adventuring since I left Park School. I'm tired from all this moving around so I'm not going to write too much tonight.

After my trip to the Mojave and Eastern Sierra, I returned briefly to the Bay Area, but finding the urbanity of it strange and unfamiliar after so much empty space, I quickly departed, heading north to Full Belly farm, where my friend Rawley Johnson is working as an intern. My two days there were eventful, full of all kinds of experiences from digging holes and planting fruit trees until my hands and muscles ached to milking cows and goats to cooking a farm lunch. I savored the taste of fresh goat milk and the beautiful greens of springtime in the Capay. I also appreciated being able to work alongside some of the crew, speaking in Spanish and sharing a difficult job that is a reality of farm work (digging holes in hard soil).

From the Capay, it was a long, boring drive to Olympia, where I stopped to visit relatives for a few hours, trading tales of animals (they raise chickens and have a menagierie of cats, pet rats, a dog and even a hedgehog) and admiring my cousins beautiful ceramics (her work after half a year is better than mine after four). Then, a late night drive to Seattle with a broken headlight, and more family time. The highlight of being in Seattle was checking out the boat my cousin Emmett and three friends of his are working on. Check out their blog:

http://libertatiavoyagingproject.wordpress.com/

Even though boats are a bit foreign to me, especially after weeks in the high desert, their enthusiasm and excitement as well as their skill and organization are impressive.

Last weekend found me in Moscow, ID a small college town set in the beautiful rolling hills of the Palouse region along the Washington-Idaho border. My sister and brother in law had moved there last August. Despite the sometimes harsh weather: strong winds and snow--the area really grew on me. Moscow is a great small town with cafes, restaurants and a wonderful food co-op, and despite the wintry weather, we still made it out to enjoy the beauty of the region. Little green shoots of wheat were beginning to cover the hills in green, and the yellow flowers of arrowleaf balsam and buscuitroot were emerging underneath the ponderosa pines on the south-facing slopes of a steptoe butte. After four days, it was hard to leave family and a region whose charms were slowly revealing themselves to me.

Now I am here in Santa Cruz, and after all this traveling, it will take a while for it to sink in that this is where I will be for the next six months. It's all very exciting: a new place, new people, new things to learn, new fun to be had. I don't want to loose sight of the Bay and the world beyond and hope that folks will come visit me here. It's a beautiful place.

Lost in the Mojave

2010-03-23T20:33:00.001-07:00

For someone who grew up in one of the more damp, green corners of the world (Seattle, WA), I've always loved deserts. When I was a kid, I would go with my dad to Ernst Hardware Store in the University Village (back when the U Village had stores that actually sold useful stuff) in Seattle. Sometimes, if I was lucky, he would buy me a cactus or a little plant. The old man's beard cactus still sits on a desk in my parents' house, not much taller than when I bought it at least twenty years ago. So for me, deserts are pretty cool places, especially if they have cacti.

After leaving Flagstaff last Wednesday, I planned to spend a few days drifting back to the Bay Area through the deserts of Eastern California. I am glad I did. I turned off I-40 a bit further west than Needles, CA and didn't get back on the interstate until I reached Stockton yesterday night. So what did I find out there in the desert? Solitude, for one thing. Having spent the past three weeks on Black Mesa in a housing situation with little privacy that sometimes very socially intense, it was good to have some space. I had a lot of space in the Mojave. An empty, austere landscape opened before me: jagged mountains rose above sweeping plains full of Chapparal (Cresote Bush). Chapparal is a really cool plant, maybe not as exciting to look at as other vegetation in the Movaje, but it is medicinally very useful and is the oldest plant in the world. I've read that a specimen near Barstow was dated to be older that 11,000 years. Not as impressive in size as a Redwood or other ancient tree, Chaparral is a desert plant, a survivor of the extremes of temperature and wind. Speaking of wind...I spent my first night on the road at a campground in Mojave National Preserve. It was a beautiful spot: full of all kinds of cool plants like Yucca, various cacti, ephedra (another cool, ancient medicinal plant) and all kinds of little green sprouts bursting forth from recent rains. I cooked my macaroni, went to bed not long after sunset. Then the wind came: the tent flapped all night, the wind was so powerful that I didn't dare leave to pee out of fear that all my stuff would tumble away and the tent would lodge itself against one of the desert's many spiny plants. So dear reader, I must admit, I used the pee bottle that night. In the morning, as I attempted to take my stuff out of the tent, it literally blew over me while I was still in it. I left the scene, drove on, and found a less windy spot: a sheltered valley in the mountains full of joshua trees (amazing) barrel cacti and cool looking rock formations. I hunkered down in a wash to cook my oatmeal and make tea, then after breakfast rambled around the rock formations, admiring the vegetation and trying not to get stuck on an acacia or beavertail cactus. I had the whole place to myself: the plants near at hand, the expansive views across mountains, chaparral flats and sand dunes. I headed for the visitor center, where I satisfied my coffee addiction (thanks to the Dineh sheepherder who brewed huge urns of coffee during my last few days on Black Mesa, I am hooked again) and since it was my 28th birthday that day, I treated myself to a slice of pie. I drove on, north through Baker, more desolate, beautiful country of mountains, basins, salt flats, dunes, more chaparral.

That afternoon I reached Tecopa, a parched hot springs town located in an almost lunar landscape of salt pans, mud hills and multicolored mountains, just south of Death Valley. Tecopa has a number of ramshackle hot springs 'resorts' where many elderly people park their RVs and seem to spend their time either soaking in the various pools or riding their bikes between the hot springs. It's a trip. The hot springs used to be owned by the county (Inyo County--the coolest county in the world) and used to be free, but now belongs to a private company that charges $7 for an all day pass. The hot springs are gender-divided, and everyone goes nude. This is no hippy spot: average age must be 70, and an evangelical Korean immigrant from LA gave testament to me while I worked out my aches and pains in the baths. After nodding politely and thanking the man for sharing his story, I left the springs and headed to the date farm, which according to a billboard, was located somewhere a few miles south. The date farm was a real life, legit oasis. To get there, I drove down a one lane dirt road that wound through a wash between gray, lifeless hills. All of a sudden a splash of green opened before me. As I drove past newly leafing cottonwoods, willows and acacias, I spotted the rows of date palms. I imagined myself at some Saharan or Arabian oasis and I wouldn't have been surprised to see a bedouin caravan appear atop one of the surrounding hills. I treated myself to a date milkshake and bought some dates to bring back to my mom, who loves them. I'd never seen date palms before, so I spent some time wandering amongst them, reading the signs about the origins of the different varieties.

That night, because I hadn't slept well in the windstorm, I splurged on a bed in a hostel in Tecopa, where I cooked dinner inside, the first dinner I'd cooked in a kitchen with running water: how luxurious. Lentils and bulgur with some carrots and onion thrown in.

The next day: Death Valley. Past the lowest point in the US, then up into the Panamint Range where I camped at a very mediochre but free campsite in the Park and spent the afternoon hiking up a 9,000 ft peak. The lowest point in the US looks pretty darm low from 9,000 ft. It was freezing up there too, I mean, windy and freezing, but a few prickly pear cacti and ephedra hung on up there. The vegetation near the train reminded me of black mesa: lots of snow, sagebrush, pinon, juniper. It would've been a good place for the sheep, I think.

The following morning I drove down into the Panamint Valley, just to the west of Death Valley, pulled over and spent some time hiking around some hills, checking out the plants (of course), the expansive views of multicolored mountains, many still cloaked with snow, salt flats, more mountains, more plains full of chaparral. I spent a while looking down, admiring nature's artistry in the braiding channels of a dry wash below. That's one of the best part of the desert: the landscape offers itself up to exploration, to panoramas, wide vistas, solitude, a sense of the fleeting nature of human life amidst a land where the pace of geologic time dominates.

At the Panamint Springs general store, I found out about a nearby hike to a waterfall. Yes, a waterfall in the driest place in the US. I drove on a road a little too bumpy for my car to handle (I drove it anyways) then hiked a ways up a gradually narrowing canyon, a dry wash. Suddenly, all kinds of greenery appeared, nourished by running water: willows, various herbs and tons of watercress. I hiked on , the canyon narrowed and I reached the waterfall: a 6 foot drop of water into a pool. Cold, clear spring water, plenty of it. I spent time contemplating the landscape and life, and just as I left, a stream of other people arrived. This was a national park, after all.

I drove on, entering the sweeping owens valley, and the towering, snow-clad High Sierra rising above the arid plain. This is where LA gets (I mean, steals) its water. It's also where 10,000 Japanese Americans were interned at the Manzanar camp during WWII. I stopped to take pause and reflect on this unpleasant, shameful episode of our history. Only a gymnasium, now a museum, two sentry posts build by one camp resident who was an architect and builder and remnants of Japanese style gardens remain. The latter bear witness to the craftsmanship and care than many of the camps residents used to transform the landscape where they were imprisoned.

My last night I stopped at Bishop, the last relatively low (4,000 ft), relatively warm (it only got down to 35 instead of 20 at night) spot on my journey. I camped besides the rushing waters of the owens river, destined not for Owens Lake, but for showerheads and dishwashers in SoCal.

The long drive...I got an early start, so I could stop at one of the many hot springs in the Longs Valley Caldera, just south of Mammoth Hot Springs. After driving down the road a few times, looking for the steam rising in that sub-freezing high altitude morning, I eventually found my spot. Some loving and caring people had built a tub out of rock and concrete and contrived a plumbing system with a valve that sends very hot water into the tub. I mean, very hot. If one leaves the valve on too long, a person can literally cook like a crab. Maybe it was the spot they call the crab cooker...Either way, it was simply magnificent: frigid air, a wide vista of snowy peaks, hot water. After that, the rest of the day didn't really compare, even though it was pretty good: driving through the beautiful, wintry mountainous country near Mono Lake and Bridgeport, descending into the Carson Valley, then crossing the Sierras at Carson Pass, admiring the impressive banks of snow that is money in the bank for California's water supply. After spending many weeks in cold, dry country, the Central Valley seemed lush, verdant, decadent almost. Too much green for my eyes, almost. Back in the Bay, the air feels damp, heavy and flowers fill gardens, medians, vacant lots. It's beautiful being here in the spring.

I still think of Black Mesa. If you, dear reader, made it this far, you may have noticed the lack of pictures. My camera stopped working after I left the reservation. I believe this was punishment for taking a few too many shots of goats eating pinon boughs during those brief moments of sheepherding when I actually got bored. The family was OK with me taking pictures of their house and livestock, but I got a little carried away. The land can give its' punishment to those who have perhaps done wrong: Dineh and Hopi elders attribute the collapse of Lehmann Brothers to it's acquisition a few years before of Peabody Coal, the firm that operated the Black Mesa mine. Though I'm not a coal company or investment firm, perhaps I deserved my own punishment for excesses committed in a sacred place. That's my theory, maybe the folks at the camera shop will have other ideas....

I miss the bleat of the newborn lambs, the ringing of the bell tied around the goat's neck. I miss the exhuberant tail shaking of the puppy, who, when she was hungry, literally moved sideways like a sidewinder snake, almost causing me, the viewer to become motion sick. I miss the hearing the sounds of the Navajo language, me listening intently for a word I knew and reading the non-verbal cues for what was being discussed. I miss the simplicity of living in one place, and the land, which I developed a different kind of awareness of through sheepherding. But I am now looking forward to the next phases of my journey: Full Belly Farm, my family in the NW, then the UCSC farm. Thanks for reading!

Return from a Rugged Land

2010-03-18T07:44:00.001-07:00

Ok so it's been a while since I've done any blogging. But I am on the move and have much to write about, so here I go again. About a month ago, back in February, I left my job teaching Nutrition and Garden at Park Elementary in Hayward, CA. It was a sad farewell, and I will miss many students, parents and staff there, but I was ready to move on and experience new challenges, adventures and opportunities to grow, learn and have fun. I packed up my stuff in boxes, loaded my car with supplies and headed east for the high deserts of the Navajo Nation, specifically the contested partition lands of Black Mesa.

The history of the Hopi-Navajo land dispute and it's relationship to the coal interests is a complicated one. At the center of it lies Black Mesa, a rolling plateau of sagebrush and pinon and juniper forests, the traditional home of many Dine (Navajo) sheepherding families. Under their lands lie some of the largest coal deposits in the U.S. For decades, the coal interests, specifically Peabody Coal, has tried to force these Dine off their land, mostly by exploiting the Hopi tribal council, which claims these lands as Hopi. At least, that's my take on it, and one of my motivations to come to the land was to support a Dine family in resisting relocation and mining. That's a very short version of the politics and I leave much out, but don't really feel like writing pages and pages about this. If you're more interested, check out Black Mesa Indigenous Support blackmesais.org for more information.

I first heard about the struggle at Black Mesa from my cousin Emmett Adam, who had planned to go out to the land but didn't end up doing it. He sparked my interest, I looked into things a little more, did some background reading and contacted Black Mesa Indigenous Support, an organization that places supporters like myself with a family on Black Mesa who needs a little extra support. They connected me with an extended family, whose matriarch is a Dine elder who lives on the contested lands of Black Mesa. One of the daughters drove me from Kayenta to Black Mesa on a Tuesday evening in February. As we neared the house, the road became horrendous, a slurry of mud resulting from a recent snowfall. When we arrived, I was greeted by two eager puppies and had my first Black Mesa meal: blood sausage (from sheep) on flatbread along with various reheated canned foods.

The main thing I did on Black Mesa was herd sheep. The family had about 30 head, including three goats. There was another supporter staying there, so for the first few days, we hearded sheep together. On my first day out, it snowed nearly the entire day, adding to the already thick snowpack that covered most of the land. The land is beautiful, it is not spectacular like some of the national parks and canyonlands of the southwest, but has it's particular beauty, especially with winter snow. I got to know the ins and outs of the lands: the woods where the sheep loved to eat juniper berries and the goats munched on pinon needles, the washes where the sheep most often tried to get lost, and the best saltbrush flats where the sheep could graze for hours without trying to run away. On my last day herding sheep, I lost about 12 of them, and returned with those I had feeling pretty terrible. I went back to hunt for them, but to no avail. Fortunately, the sheep and I ran into each other on our way home late in the afternoon.

Life on the mesa is difficult, and I should've given myself a couple of days rest before heading out there. There is no electricity or water, though the wooden stove makes the house quite cozy (sometimes even sweaty) at night. Chores include herding sheep for 6-8 hours daily, which sometimes proved difficult, hauling wood, chopping wood, tending the stoves, cooking, filling buckets of snow to melt for additional water, taking care of newborn lambs (many were born during my stay) and cooking (did I already say that--I did a lot of cooking, sometimes more successfully than others). There were particular ways to do certain tasks that it was important to follow properly. Various family members came and went from the house, but usually there were four of us staying there at any time. Much of the conversation between residents happened in Navajo, and I learned a few key words: courtesies, plants in the local environment and some foods. It's not an easy language with many sounds unfamiliar to the tongues of non-Navajo.

I spent three weeks on Black Mesa, having left mid-day yesterday with the family for a visit to Kayenta, which included a stop at the bustling Wednesday flea market. The flea market was a highlight of my time on the Navajo nation, it's a place where people from scattered communities (Navajoland is huge but sparsely populated because it's a harsh place) come to buy and sell various goods: plastic knick-knacks and cheap clothes, turquoise beads, local herbs, pinon nuts and corn meal, jewelry, and local cuisine: roast mutton, corn stew, fry bread, blue corn mush, navajo tea. It's quite an experience.

So now I am here in Flagstaff, Arizona. There is much more I have to write about this experience in Black Mesa, about the challenges and the beautiful moments, like stepping out at first light and breathing in the frigid morning air, or smelling the incense-like smoke from burning juniper logs in the wood stove after returning from sheepherding. Or trying to catch 15 lambs in the morning, or keeping a rather intimidating ram from eating my lunch while herding sheep. Or sharing mutton stew and frybread with an extended family. Yesterday, I took my first shower in three weeks, washing away layers of dust, grease, sunscreen and that sheep smell. It was a little anticlimactic, as returning to the things missed after being away from them can often be (did I miss cell phones and internet up there? not too much). I even find myself wanting to listen to the cheesy advertisements and overplayed country hits on the local radio station, KTNN, the voice of the Navajo Nation, that was much listened to in the household. But for now, I would probably be more sad to leave if I didn't have much to look forward to ahead: a short trip to the deserts of Eastern Calfornia awaits, me, then up the the NW to visit family and in not so long, Santa Cruz and the farm. As I conclude one thing I am grateful though for the chance to have been able to visit Black Mesa and spend time in a rugged land helping people who have been struggling for many years against forces much more powerful than them. I appreciate the people I met and I hope that their herd continues to grow and thrive in the coming months and years.

Summer in the Garden

2009-07-28T21:46:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-03T07:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-26T09:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

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...

The Edge of Heaven

2009-04-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

The other night, I had the pleasure to watch an excellent movie called 'The Edge of Heaven'. The film that takes place in Germany and Turkey; I bring it up not because I want to write a review, but because the movie got me thinking about a past life I once had. From September 2002 until August 2003, I lived, studied and traveled in Turkey. I spent most of my time in Istanbul, a beautiful, ancient, crowded, intense, and overwhelming city. In my daily life here in U.S., I don't often think of my year in Turkey, and my time there holds this strange place in the chronology of my life. That time is strangely disconnected with the rest of my life: I never speak Turkish (I've forgotten most of what I learned there) and rarely meet Turks and there is no one from that experience that I encounter in my daily life.

Since watching the film, memories from my life in Turkey have flooded back into my mind. I think about catching a bus on a cold fall night on my way back home from Sariyer, or walking through decaying neighborhoods near the city wall, or drinking a cay with friends on the bench at Bogazici. When I first returned to the states, my time in Turkey cast a big shadow over my life, because my time in Istanbul was so different, so intense and most importantly, so full of wonderful people. Not that my life in the states isn't, but in Turkey I spent so many hours socializing, more than I ever have here in the states. Hours passed by in tea shops and benches, where I would sit with a friend or two, watching people go by, talking about the troubles of the world or just joking around. I will always miss this aspect of Turkish culture that provided the venue to become friends with so many fantastic people.

I feel a bit sad both because I haven't seen all those friends in years and also because I've tried not to think about my life in Turkey much since then. Not that it didn't matter to me, but rather the opposite, it mattered too much. When I returned, I struggled so deeply with the challenge of re-acquainting myself with life in the U.S. and also facing the stress of graduating from college and figuring out what to do next. I tried to live my life in the here and now instead of being caught up in an endless rerun of memories from my life abroad. When I moved to the East Bay, I threw myself into life in Oakland, trying to establish for myself a real home to make up for the rootlessness I felt upon my return to the United States.

Five years later I am still caught up in the ups and downs of everyday life, perhaps it would be wise of me to look back a little more, not just at Turkey but at the other years that have passed in my adult life. I am still here in Oakland, feeling at home but still a bit rootless--at this point, I've come to terms with it and realize that it's not always a bad thing to not be so tied down with everything. Despite the passing of many years since I was in Istanbul, those memories still carry with them strong emotions, ones that have not faded with time. I know if I return, I will find a city that is changed and will be looking upon it with different eyes. I don't plan to live there again. I am torn, since part of me wishes to find a place to settle and never travel again (see previous post about climate change) while another acknowledges that I am a product of many people and places and I shouldn't be in such denial of this. When it comes down to it, I must decide whether the long flight and all the carbon emissions is worth it.

This is kind of a ramble, and I hope any friends of mine from my life in Turkey that read it will know that I miss all of you, I hold you near to my heart and I hope to see you again.

Fire and Rain: Reflections on a Warming World

2009-03-29T20:08:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I was going to write something about rain. On Saturday night and early Sunday morning, we had some rain here in the Bay Area. What began as a reflection about rain's significance in a time of drought became a much wider inquiry into climate change, the future of humanity and the planet, and our role in the current crises we face.

I like to think of myself as someone who works on the land. I coordinate a school garden program and grow food with inquisitive, sometimes exhausting but ultimately inspiring elementary age kids. I've been doing this work for over four years, and since then, I've become more and more in tune with the workings of nature. Farmers, many have written, are on the front lines of climate change. Across the world, those of us who grow food from the land are facing changing weather patterns which is making agriculture more difficult. Unlike most farmers, I don't rely on what I grow either for sustenance, like the campesinos I had the privilege to study with in Nicaragua, or for income like the farmers I know here in the United States. They are the first to feel directly the impacts of climate change, especially the millions of subsistence farmers in the Global South whose ability to feed their families and produce a little extra for income remains tenuously tied to the vagaries of climate. Those of us whose incomes come from grants, or who sit in offices, are not immune, either, though we may feel removed and therefore less aware of the problem. We all must eat. The increasing prevalence of drought and flooding is putting our food security at risk, and this is a direct result of climate change. The facts, at this point, are indisputable.

Last night at a dinner party, I found myself staring for a moment, mesmorized with the burning coals in a barbeque pit. I have always loved fire: on camping trips as a youngster, I used to put sticks into the heart of the flames, then pull them out and wave them around--a sure way to raise any parent's blood pressure. Our love of fire is one of the things that makes us human. Humankind's use of fire as a tool is one of the most important features that distinguishes us humans from the rest of the animal kingdom and has allowed us to create technologically sophisticated civilizations. We have become very good at making fires. Power plants burn coal and natural gas to produce electricity, and cars combust gasoline to drive engines. But burning things releases carbon dioxide, and our myriad ways of combusting things is raising atmospheric CO2 concentrations to alarming levels. At the current rate, we will essentially set the world on fire by the end of this century. Many of the experts agree that large swaths of the planet will dry out, turning former forests into tinder. Last summer, I remember waking up to the smell of smoke coming in from outside the house. I assumed that something in the neighborhood had was ablaze, but it was smoke from the large fires that eventually scorched thousands of acres in Big Sur, the Santa Cruz Mountains, and Mendocino County. All but the most hardened pyromaniac should be alarmed at the prospect of such large blazes which I fear are a harbinger of what's to come in the next century if we are unable to come to terms with our love of fossil fuel combustion.

The situation is clear, and somewhat dire. We must change our carbon-releasing ways if we wish to have a planet humans can continue to live on. The effects of climate change are accelerating and the time to act is now. I take hope in our new president, Barack Obama, who seems to understand the grave threat that climate change poses to humanity. I think it is possible for us to have an energy revolution that frees us from the bondage of a carbon economy. This must happen soon. But we--especially us Americans--must acknowledge that we're a major cause of climate change. America is no longer the world's largest CO2 emitter--China now holds that dubious distinction. Per capita, the Chinese release one fourth of the carbon of the average American. Furthermore, the Chinese and the Indians are attempting to industrialize and lift millions out of poverty. It is a bit hypocritical for us to tell them to cut back while us Americans continue to burn so much carbon. Our greatest shame as Americans--and I most certainly include myself in this group--is that we consume too much and feel entitled to that, that it is somehow our right to drive a humvee, live in a house with a five car garage, eat steak every night and take a plane flight to a tropical land (yes, I am guilty of this one especially). Can Americans really admit to and begin to curb our outrageous consumption? Will we ever be able to understand how arrogant and misguided it is for us to use so many resources while millions in the Global South (and here in the US) live in poverty? I have hope, but I am also not deluded with the belief in happy endings that so many of my fellow Americans hold, that somehow, 'everything will work out fine' and we can just keep on doing what we've done over the past fourty years.

Many thinkers and commentators--especially Thomas Friedman, who has written some excellent articles on the subject--have reflected on the connection between the current recession and the reality of climate change. I want to explore the connection between these crises as well, especially in light of recent comments by Brazil's leftist President, Luiz Ignacio Lula de Silva. Lula de Silva blamed the current banking crisis on 'white skinned, blue eyed people' who run the financial system. He is basically right. The financial world may be a bit more colorful, racially speaking, than it was 20 years ago, but it is an anglo institution and a descendant, I believe, of 500 years of white racist imperialism. Lula stated as well that it was not 'blacks or indigenous people' that created this problem, and he is right. The current recession is a crisis of the neoliberal project which has pushed blind faith in unfettered free markets above all else. Like all models that attempt to explain the complex world of humans and perscribe a system we must live under, neoliberalsm has failed in many important aspects. Housing, agriculture and the enviroment are three striking examples. Unfortunately, it is predominately people of color, women, indigenous people and the poor who are suffering most from the ravages of the neoliberal system, throughout the world and in the U.S. I spent a few hours yesterday doing outreach to families in foreclosure in a predominately Black and Brown neighborhood in East Oakland. It is communities such of these whom banks took advantage of and who have been hit hardest by the housing crisis. Lula's comments could have easily have applied to the climate change crisis, for which neoliberalism is in part responsible. Like the current economic crisis, climate change's first victims are not the ones who are primarily responsible for causing the problem. Bangladesh, a populous, low-lying nation that has one of the lowest per capita carbon emissions in the world is not the source of the rising sea levels and increasingly vicious cyclones which are wreaking havoc across much of that country. It is people like me--white skinned people--who are responsible for causing this problem which brown people in South Asia and Black folks in New Orleans are now having to deal with. We as white folks especially must face up to the racial dimension of this injustice, as well as our own hypocrisy.

It is easy to become despondant in the face of the magnitude of global climate change. I myself have come a bit late into this game; many intelligent thinkers and activists of all shades have been working on solutions and have been campaiging ceaselessly about this issue for many years. I have been aware of the problem for years but somehow have not totally come to terms with the actually reality and immediacy of a warming planet. Climate change always seemed either too late to solve, or somehow too distant in the future to really take seriously. As a consequence of this denial, I continue to live in many unsustainable ways. I travel, often by plane, and I am not looking for someone to say 'oh, it's OK'. I am not looking for sympathy or someone to make me feel better about all this. I am a sinner: an overconsumer who has taken many privelges for granted over the years, who is coming to terms with the realities in the world around me, who is making a confession and who is looking for redemption. I don't want to be ignorant of either the magnitude or the complexity of climate change and issues of poverty and race.

I am thinking of ways to move forward. I believe that our overconsumption, our drive to ever-insulate ourselves and our lives lived in fear are not healthy for ourselves or for our planet. We have a chance to re-make ourselves and the world we live in at a variety of levels. I am going to eat lower on the food change, local, vegetarian and vegan as much as possible. I am going to drive less and bike more (I must admit, the coming of Spring to the Bay Area makes this a much easier prospect) and I am considering giving up a car all together. I have some plane trips already booked and paid for, but in the future, I will travel by train, bike and carpool when I go long distances to visit family and friends. I will continue to explore the priviledges I carry with me and how they relate to climate change and inequality. I will find ways to take meaningul action that address the root causes of these problems. I will savor the beauty of the world around me, especially that which is close to home, and the moments spent in the company of people I care about.

Thanks to anyone who has read all this, please leave your comments.

Victory in El Salvador

2009-03-16T21:16:00.000-07:00

I felt a surprising surge of emotion when I read yesterday evening that the leftist FMLN Party in El Salvador had claimed victory in that country's presidential election. Why should I care about an election in a tiny little Central American country? My interest in El Salvador--and in Central America as a region--goes beyond just its' pupusas and fine coffee. For many years, I knew little about El Salvador, but in the years I've spent working in the East Bay, I've met many Salvadorans and became interested in their stories and the history of their small nation. When I decided to travel to Central America a little over a year ago, I had my sights set on spending some time in El Salvador, so I delved into a few books about the history of that country's civil war. It became clear to me that the FMLN had waged a just guerilla war against a brutal, repressive right-wing regime for nearly a decade. It always seemed sad to me that after the Peace Accords in 1992?, the FMLN could not gain power over ARENA, the right wing party whose leaders had orchestrated countless death squads and murders. After nearly twenty years of ARENA rule the FMLN has finally gained victory over a system that has long favored El Salvador's oligarchy at the expense of the country's poor. Alas, I am no expert on El Salvador, and many others have written better pieces on the election

(http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marc-cooper/leftist-victory-in-el-sal_b_175174.html)

but I know enough that the victory of the FMLN in El Salvador is something worth celebrating.

The Leaves on a Tree

2009-03-14T17:39:00.001-07:00

It's a windy, cold afternoon here in Oakland, and I am looking out my not-so-clean window at the vacant yard that once belonged to my neighbors. Yet another victim of foreclosure, they moved out a few weeks ago, taking with them their assorted vehicles, weight set and junk that once crowded the small, concrete back patio. Sometimes loud and raucous, always lively, I will miss them and the little piece of Central America they brought to the neighborhood. I recall one summer afternoon when I dozed off in my backyard to the soothing sounds of their Guatemalan marimba music. Now, it's just an empty space, one of many in this city.

Bad news is not hard to find these days. Sixteen teachers at the elementary school where I work got pink slips yesterday. Families and staff are concerned what will happen to the school. Many of the dedicated educators who have served there now find their future uncertain. I am lucky that the grant money that supports my position as a school garden teacher remains intact, at least for now, and I have a job for the time being. It is sometimes a stressful one, given the current atmosphere in our district.

What keeps me going is working with some amazing students, families and fellow staff, as well as being able to grow plants. When I am rushing around trying to set up lessons for the day, or understand yet another change in our paperwork protocol, I can stop for a moment and contemplate the new growth on the little avocado tree. The tree survived a defoliating vandalism a year ago, and I had given it up for dead, when a few months later, some small branches and leaves burst forth. It has grown slowly but surely since then and I keep a special eye on it. Many years off from producing avocados, it one of my connections with the cycle of agriculture.

I haven't been so great about updating this blog since I've come back from Nicaragua, mostly because I wasn't sure what I had to say was very interesting (I'll let you, my readers, be the judge of that) compared with when I was traveling. To my pleasant surprise, a couple people have found the blog and it has been a source of information for them while planning a visit to Lagartillo. I am glad to be able to share my experiences and promote the language school, Hijos del Maiz. It's been more than two months since I got back and I am most certainly back into the routine of my life here. My work with the garden project as well as conversations with people planning a trip to Lagartillo keeps me connected with that little community tucked deep in the folded northern mountains of Nicaragua.

After a long week at work and a tiring workout at King Boxing Gym, I came home to a pleasant surprise. The box of donated seeds from Seed Savers Exchange had arrived and I excitedly explored the contents: many wondrous varieties of peppers, melons, beans, lettuce, tomatoes and eggplants. Some of the seeds will stay here in the Bay Area at my school in Hayward, others will make the trip to Nicaragua where hopefully they will flourish in the tropical climate there. In difficult times, it gives me a sense of profound pleasure to think of the possibility of cultivating these amazing and nourishing varieties of fruits and vegetables.

I will post pictures from my school and home gardens soon...

Support the Lagartillo School Garden Initiative

2009-02-21T12:33:00.000-08:00

As I spend a quiet Saturday reading, writing and cooking beans, my mind drifts back to the month I spent in Nicaragua. I've lost track of how much time it's been since I returned from Central America, but I know I've been back for well over a month. At work, people are counting down the weeks before our spring break--four more to go. I am thinking ahead of projects to do in the school garden where I work once spring arrives, which here in the Bay Area will be soon.

I am also thinking of another school garden project--the one in Lagartillo, the community in Nicaragua where I spent a month studying Spanish this past winter vacation. When I was in Lagartillo, some of the community elders spoke of starting a garden project at the school. A nonprofit organization that supports initiatives for women and children in Nicaragua, Project Sonrisas (http://www.projectsonrisas.org/) is working with the community in Lagartillo to help make the project a reality. To quote the Project Sonrisas summary of the project:

"This project is a community garden initiative that aims to provide food and health security for the children attending school in Lagartillo, educate youth about organic sustainable agricultural methods, and build a more ecologically healthy relationship with the environment.

The garden's design has been planned according to traditional Nicaraguan and other organic sustainable agricultural techniques. The garden will be a mix of perennial and annual plants, that will supply fruit, vegetables, and medicinal herbs for the community. The majority of food grown will go to the daily lunches at the school, with any surplus going to families in need.

Included in the design of the garden are both composting and irrigation systems. This will be an integral part of providing a sustainable method of growing the food for the school's meals and a valuable tool for environmental education within the community."

I am working with Project Sonrisas to raise awareness and funds for this project and also to support its' implementation. I plan to return to Nicaragua some time this year to both help with the school garden as well as learn more about traditional Nicaraguan farming and gardening techniques. As a fundraiser for the Lagartillo School Garden Project, I am raffling off a beautiful carved stone statuette that I purchased in Nicaragua. The statuette was hand-carved in the community of San Juan de Limay, famous throughout Nicaragua for its' stonework. Here are some pictures:

I am selling raffle tickets for a minimum donation of $15. If you would like to enter the raffle and support a good cause, please write a check to Project Sonrisas and mail it to:

Reed Adam
2324 27th Avenue
Oakland, CA 94601

Cash will be accepted as well. Your donation is tax-deductable and you will recieve a brochure and tax information from Project Sonrisas after we receive your donation. I will be drawing the winner some time during April, or sooner if I receive a lot of interest. Please consider making a donation--this is a chance to win a beautiful piece of artwork and support a good cause at the same time.

If you can't talk, write

2009-02-13T10:56:00.000-08:00

I have laryngitis and can't talk today. I had to take a sick day since if I can't talk, I can't teach, especially to large groups of sixth graders. Which is disappointing, since I really did want to work today...

Since I can't talk, I figure I can write. It's been a while since I've posted anything on this blog. It's been a few weeks since I returned from Nicaragua and I've slid back into my routine here: work, King's Boxing Gym, cooking, hanging out. After a January that was more like April in terms of weather, winter is back, and I'm feeling the cold here in my drafty, unheated house on 27th Avenue. We're getting rain though, so I can't really complain, and the plants are happy.

The news here is of recession, of course, and it's usually not positive. I think we would all like it if things were easier. But here we are, and perhaps we can find something good in all this. Hard times inevitably draw people together, with less, we rely on each other more. Or at least, we have the potential to. Also, I have become much less likely to complain about petty things. I don't like something about my job? At least I have a job, and I am grateful for that. In times of difficulty, there are also opportunities. This is the time to make investments in oil free energy, because for certain, as soon as the economy recovers, so will oil prices, which will stifle any kind of recovery. We have a chance to create new elements in our economy--can we begin to create an infrastructure for a society that is less dependent on cars and oil?

Recently, I've become alarmed, horrified and shocked by the actions of a certain Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Pheonix, Arizona. If you're read this far, please visit the website :

http://americasvoiceonline.org/page/content/sheriff

to find out more about Sheriff Joe and the little gulag state he is trying to run in Maricopa county. Take action if you feel that what he is doing is wrong.

Thanks!

Back in Oakland

2009-01-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks,

I'm back in Oakland, I arrived late last night. I'm tired.

I posted photos on my Picasa photo page. Come take a look:

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

Last time I posted, I was about to leave for the Las Penitas beach not far from Leon. The short trip turned into more of an adventure than I had imagined. I took a bus from the centro near my hostel to a small mercado in the Subtiava barrio, where I boarded the bus to Las Penitas. There was a really annoying drunk on the bus--at 10 AM in the morning, he and his two buddies were already out of the minds from cheap aguardiente. He kept asking me over and over whether I was going to surf at the beach, so eventually I started ignoring him. The road to Las Penitas, like most roads in Nicaragua, is undergoing repairs and improvements, and on one of the spots under construction, our bus broke an axel. We all got off and waited for the next bus, which came, already full, in about ten minutes. Everyone from the broke-down bus somehow managed to squeeze into the other bus for the 20 minutes (felt much longer) that remained left on the trip. I eventually made it to Las Penitas, wandered the beach and contemplated a swim, then headed to the Barca de Oro, a hotel and restaurant whose owner is a friend of Lagartillo and employs a few guys from Lagartillo. I ran into the guys drinking beer at a table, we chatted for a while, then I stashed everything but my towel and glasses case and headed for the beach (this turned out to be a very good move). I met some friendly Nicaraguan folks and chatted with them for a while while we bobbed in the warm waters of the Pacific. Every once in a while, a large wave came rolling in, and one was large enough to soak all of our stuff. I was lucky that my towel, shirt and glasses didn't wash away, they just became saturated with salt water and sand. After a while, I headed back to the Barca de Oro, drank beer and ate fish (my first seafood meal in Nicaragua-it was delicious) and contemplated the beauty of the tropical lagoon. In the late afternoon I got on the bus headed back to Leon. I ran into two older Nica women and their nephews that were on the bus in the morning, and we ended up spending the hour long trip in the packed and sweaty school bus chatting and joking about what had happened that morning. I find that the Nica sense of humor is very similar to my own and it's very easy to engage with others by joking around. Often, this amounts to making preposterous statements in a serious tone, which is basically my sense of humor. On the cab ride back to the center of Leon, we exchanged numbers and hopefully will stay in touch. I was a little sad since I didn't have time to hang out with my new friends before leaving Nicaragua, but it's one more reason to come back, and now, I'll have a place to stay in Leon besides the hostal (which has been nice). The rest of time in Leon that everning and the next day involved eating Nica tacos, which are not as good as Mexican ones, drinking refrescoes, searching for a decent cup of coffee, hanging out with Marcos and Norma and buying rum, t-shirts, bowls made from jicara shells, cheese, sweets and stone carvings.

I had my last meal from the same comedor at the mercado central where I had eaten a month ago when I first arrived. It was as delicious as ever. Even though Nica food lacks the spice and sophistication of other cuisines such as Mexican, Thai or Indian food, I've grown quite fond of many Nica dishes. I especially love the staples of the diet in Lagartillo--beans, tortillas and cuajada cheese--all of which are so delicious partly because they are all produced so locally. There are so many different ways to prepare beans that I can never really get tired of eating them: bean soup, fried beans, beans over rice, beans fried with rice...Even though I enjoy the myriad of eating opportunities in the Bay Area, I don't think I would really mind eating the staple foods of Lagartillo for an extended period of time if I had too. Other Lagartillo favorites include anything that involves plantains or guineo (a type of banana), ayote squash and eggs scrambled with tomatoes, beans or rice. What I didn't always love were the cuts of fatty beef that wound up in the soup, and I never really acquired a real fondness for the starchy roots--malanga, quequisque and yucca--that are an important part of the diet as well. The meals in Lagartillo sometimes lacked vegetables, but the presence of bananas, papayas, oranges, and sometimes melons and granadillas made up for that. We often consumed our fruit in refrescoes, drinks made by adding water and copious amounts of sugar to the fruit.

Nica cuisine in the cities is a bit different, and I can't say I'm as familiar with it. Foods from the comedores, like the one I frequented at the Leon market, included gallo pinto (beans and rice fried together, fried plantain and cheese for breakfast, and beans and rice (cooked separately) with some kind of stew for lunch. Both meals also come with tortillas and a cabbage salad. I like this kind of food, as well as the quesillo, which I've described in previous posts, but can't say I'm as fond of the fried foods prevalent at many eateries in the cities. The Nica fondness for deep frying various items isn't something I'm quite as wild about.

Anyhow, enough about food. I headed back to the hostel to pack, and as I was leaving, I ran into Yomar, my friend from Lagartillo who had come to study in Leon. He was supposed to come Sunday but didn't make it because he had too much fun at the fiesta in Achuapa on Saturday night. I was glad I got to see him, because he's one of my closest friends from my stay in Lagartillo. We spent many early mornings together harvesting beans and corn, took trips to the waterfalls and spent evenings talking about girls (what else do two guys talk about). I said a sad farewell and headed for the terminal, where I caught a minibus to Managua.

Managua. Managua is a place I have only passed through, and my experience of Nicaragua's capital via it's roads has not enticed me to visit the city. Nicaragua is a poor country, it is said, the Western Hemisphere's second poorest, after Haiti. The desperate situation of many Nicas becomes readily apparent on a trip through Managua. Apparently, Managua was once a nice city, but much of it was destroyed during an earthquake in the 1970's and never really rebuilt (Somoza, in power at the time, siphoned the relief money into his personal coffers, an action which helped to aid the Sandinista cause and bring about the fall of the dictatorship in 1979). Supermarkets stand in fields overgrown with vegetation and monuments preside over chaotic intersections. There seems to be no order to the city: the strange cathedral, what looks like a cross between a beehive and a mosque, stands amidst vacant lots, and government complexes abut shantytowns. Families squeeze into tiny houses, trash and filth clog drainage ditches, and hawkers selling water, belts and other items stream into the roadways when traffic halts. Nearly all Nicaraguans I spoke with who live outside of Managua don't speak favorably of the capital: poverty, scams and gang violence are frequent themes in discussions about that city. I was glad when my taxi finally made it the airport, even though I was sad about leaving Nicaragua. The airport was pretty quiet, and I had a few cordobas to spare on a quesillo, which turned out to be pretty good. Our plane left for San Salvador as the sun set over the land of lakes and volcanoes.

A major cause of concern for me when planning this trip to Nicaragua was how I was going to handle the re-entry to my life in the states. The reason for this is, and this is probably apparent to those of you who knew me back in 2003, that I had a hard time re-adjusting to life in the states after returning from Turkey. It's too soon to say how I will cope with this challenge here, but there are already some differences. One thing is that I am still in Latin America, for the most part. I can speak Spanish with my Guatemalan neighbors, and I had my first breakfast at a Mexican restaurant in Fruitvale (I really enjoyed the chile and salsa especially). I am still on the same continent as Nicaragua; the sun sets over the same ocean, and as night set over Central America, I could see the lights of houses on streets build according to the same grid pattern that many communities in the US share. I realized today that I should have bought an Adventura CD in Nicaragua. Adventura is a Dominican-American bachata group from the Bronx that is widely popular in the Americas. However, I can always pick up a CD from the sidewalk in Fruitvale or the Mission, or at the weekend pulga at Laney College. I am also looking forward to speaking Spanish with parents, kids and co-workers tomorrow when I return to Park.

The weather is sunny and unseasonably warm and dry here in Oakland, which makes it easy to re-adjust but is also cause for concern since we are in year three of a drought and I don't want to have to irrigate the Park garden in January yet again. But for now, I appreciate the fact that I don't have to heat my room, and can walk outside in a t-shirt to pick oranges in my back yard (and yes, they are sweeter and juicier than the oranges in Nicaragua). A large pile of laundry and a trip to the grocery store await...

It is impossible to come up with some kind of concluding remarks about this past month I've spent in Nicaragua. I had a wonderful experience in that country, and I must admit that I have already comtemplated plans for a possible return.

Despedida

2009-01-11T06:24:00.001-08:00

Hi Folks.

I´m back in Leon, where I am hoping to spend my last full day in Nicaragua at the beach, enjoying the warm weather before I head back to that ice box of a house where I live in Oakland tomorrow night. It´s plenty hot here so I need to enjoy the sun and sweat while I can.

I left Lagartillo yesterday afternoon. It was not easy to leave. I had a wonderful week relaxing, working and exploring. On Monday, I returned to Lagartillo from Leon, the bus was empty compared with the day before, and I made sure to appreciate the spectacular mountain scenery along the way. On Monday afternoon, I went with Willa (the long term student who has been in Lagartillo for three months, I think), her professora Lizbeth, Lizbeth´s husband and their little boy Gaby to watch the sunset. We went to a large rock with a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside and the volcanoes in the distance to the west. After having spent a few weeks in Lagartillo, I´ve become more familiar with the lay of the land around the community, and with that familiarity I´ve really come to appreciate the beauty of the area. I´ll post photos later...

The next couple of days I spent doing a little work in the campo, mostly harvesting corn, which is much easier than harvesting beans. Once the sun came up the heat set in hard, so I didn´t last long out there. I also bought some pancake mix in Esteli which we tried making one morning. I mistakenly tried using the clay comal (a large circular pan used for cooking tortillos) to make pancakes, and ended up messing it up a little bit. We switched to an iron pot which wasn´t ideal but worked much better. Luckily, later that day Jahaira managed to get the oil and burned pancake mix off the comal so we could make some tortillas.

Lagartillo has a pretty good water system. On the 31st, I started drinking the local water unfiltered and haven´t had any ill effects. Unfortunately, there is a crack in the pila, the community water tank, and so there is some concern that the community will run out of water before the rainy season begins in April. On Tuesday, there was a talk about water, especially aimed at the kids, who haven´t experienced the difficulties with water that the community experienced in the past when the water system wasn´t as good as it is today. As is typical with most meetings in Lagatillo, we sat in a crowded hot room in the afternoon while people shared their feelings and toddlers ran around. The other reason for the event was to give out some gifts to the kids that the Department of Leon (in which Lagartillo is located) donated, and also to do a pinata. The kids had a lot of fun with the pìnata, and each kid recieved a gift. Unfortunately, many of the kids recieved squirt guns, which wasn´t the ideal choice given the nature of the meeting. For the next few days, water wars ensued, not exactly in keeping with the idea of water conservation in the community. It was fun, though, and I can´t say that I didn´t enjoy running around having a water fight with a bunch of kids. I got pretty soaked, which wasn´t bad since we had some hot weather this week.

Friday was supposed to be my last day in Lagartillo, and we planned a trip with my family and some friends to the waterfall at Las Brisas. Jahaira prepared an excellent picnic lunch of rice, beans, sardines salad, platanos and cabbage salad, which we brought along on the hike and ate at the waterfall. The owner has become a little irritable because some young guys from one of the community damaged his water hose that supplies his house when they were playing around at the water fall, so we had to ask his permission. We sent the two prettiest, chavalas (como muchachas) along with some bananas and cookies, and fortunately, he let us pass. We had about 15 people in our group, including our wonderful neighbor Deysi and her thre children Carolina, Eneyda and Mario, who hadn´t been to the waterfall before, along with the usual suspects Maria Jose (Monchitos aunt) and Fernando who seems to come along on every trip that involves swimming. I brought my therm a rest pad and took monchito on a tour of the pool while he layed on top of the pad (he can´t swim very well). I spent a little too long in the water though and managed to get a little cold, since the mountan water is pretty chilly. After our swim, we went to a relative´s house nearby in the beautiful ravine for coffee and arroz con leche before hiking back to Lagartillo.

That night, to my suprise, my family, some of the language school teachers and some friends organized a despedida (farewell party) for me. It was really touching that they did this for me, and a bunch of folks from Lagartillo came to our house to enjoy tajadas de guineo (fried banana strips), refried beans and tomato salad. Eddy and Chango (from the local group Rusticos del Norte) played guitar and people sang. Later, Marcellino, one of the community´s elder´s, stopped by and played too (he´s the one who taught the others how to play guitar). The music in Lagartillo includes revolutionary themes and also themes from the misa campesina (liberation theology) and some songs about the area and about love and friendship. People also shared their feelings about having me in the community. I felt really appreciated and it nearly brings tears to my eyes writing about this. Even though I was only in Lagartillo for a month, I made some great friends and felt very comfortable with many of the people. The routines of daily life, such as grinding corn, looking for wood and bathing from the bucket became normal for me. During my last week, I felt as if I´d been in Lagartillo for much longer because I felt as though I´d known many of the people for years. I am grateful for the opportunity to have been able to spend some time there and really get to know the people, their lives, their stories, their food and their work. When many of the distractions of consumer culture and the anxieties of the industrialized world fade away, I find that the more real elements of life come to the fore-friendship, work, appreciation of simple pleasures, tranquility and the relationship with nature. Even though the lifestyle is much different from that in Oakland and even that in Leon or other Nica cities, I felt I shared much with the people of Lagartillo and it was never difficult to find common ground. On the other hand, it also felt comfortable just to sit somewhere alone or with others-silence didn´t seem awkward in the least in the campesino culture. At the despedida, Don Fermin (father of Juan Ramon and many other friends in Lagartillo), said I would make a good campesino, which is the best compiment I´ve ever recieved (even though, realistically, I can only be a good campesino for a couple hours in the morning before it gets hot). The party ended around 9-30 or so (late for Lagartillo) and we said our farewells as people went home for the night.

Saturday morning I planned to leave on the 9 oclock bus for Achuapa and El Sauce (to the west), where I would continue on to Leon and eventually the nearby Pacific beach of Las Penitas. But for the first time since I had arrived in Lagartillo, the bus did not make the trip to the village bus stop (which is right next to our house), and so I missed the bus. I wasn´t sure what to do, but to my good fortune, a pick up truck from Leon had come to Lagartillo for a meeting and I was able to secure a ride in the back of the truck. I was feeling a little under the weather on Saturday from too much time spent swimming, so I spent the morning resting. This weekend is the big festival of the year in the nearby town of Achuapa (6 km along a terrible road), so many people from Lagartillo weren´t around. I felt like a ghost (since I had already said many farewells and I don´t like goodbyes so I didn´t feel like saying them again) in a ghost town, and felt the need to leave. I really didn´t want to leave Lagatillo (I would stay for months if I could) but I need to return to my work and my life in the states. The camionetta (truck) left around 230, and I crowded into the small tina (truck bed) along with some other folks going to the festival. We stopped in Achuapa and planned to spend an hour at the festival, which, thanks to a few beers and a plate of baho (beef stew), turned into two hours. We eventually left Achuapa around 5. I rode in the back along with two chavalas headed to Leon. The first part of the ride was along a dirt road-I loved the scenery and the cool evening breeze but not the choking dust which ended up coating pretty much everything in the truck bed. We stopped briefly in el sauce and then drove the remaining 1 and a half hours in darkness along a paved road. It was a magical trip. The girls slept while I huddled in the back of the truck, trying to keep the wind from blowing off my glasses while I watched the full moon on the landscape. Houses, pulperias, motorcycles, bicycles, the occasional trash fire, fields, trees and eventually the volcanoes of Leon passed by. Around 8 we entered Leon, dropped people off, and I eventually made it to Hostal La Clinica, where I had stayed a month ago before heading to Lagartillo. It feels strange being away from Lagartillo, but it´s good for me to be in a city for a couple of days so I can get used to the urban life before heading back to Oakland.

I head back to Oakland with mixed feelings. All things considered, I´ve had a wonderful experience in Nicaragua, which doesn´t always make leaving easy, but I´d rather have it this way. If I had only spent two weeks here, I wouln´t have an appreciation of the campesino life or had the opportunity to really get to know people or get in depth with my Spanish. I would have left with a much different experience and perspective than I have now. I am not looking forward to exchanging the peace and tranquility of Lagartillo with the stress and car alarms of Oakland. I am looking forward to seeing all of you back in the states (Oakland people sooner, other people later) and getting back to work this week. Being abroad has given me a different perspective on life and the direction that I may go in the future. Although a month in Nicaragua has given me great Spanish practice and the opportunity to get to know a community and it´s people, I would really like to spend more time down here. I am especially interested in learning more about tropical farming, and the agricultural economy in general.

As my time here winds down, there is a lot more I could say about what this experience in Nicaragua has meant to me. When I return to the states, I will post some more photos.

Thanks to everyone who has been following this trip. I miss all of you and look forward to hearing from you and seeing you all soon.

Waterfalls and Murals

2009-01-04T15:22:00.000-08:00

Finally, some photos for those of you who´ve been following my blog... (they´re backwards, but who really cares...)

Las Brisas Waterfall

The Mural at the Lagartillo school finished

The Mural in progress

Monchito and Roniel at the Las Lajas Waterfall

This Sunday finds me again in Esteli, I came to buy coffee to take back to the states, to use the net and eat a quesillo (like a quesadilla but not only with cheese, but also cream and spicy onions...mmm). I had originally planned to leave Lagartillo for good this weekend, but I am returning to the community tomorrow for the rest of the week. My plan was to travel and see other places in Nicaragua, but there´s so much to do in Lagartillo (not to mention so many wonderful people to hang out with), that I don´t really feel like leaving. So I changed my plans and will probably stay there until next Saturday. What are plans for besides to change them anyways. If I had known how bad the bus ride today was going to be, I might not have come. But oh well, here I am. The bus was packed with people who had spent the holidays in the countryside around Lagartillo who are now returning back to their homes in Nicaragua´s cities. Usually, people get on and off throughout the trip, and I don´t usually have trouble finding a seat. But this time the bus was already full by the time I got on, and just got more crowded along the way. As usual, I got a nice coating of dust from the road along the way. One thing I don´t really understand, is that most people in Nicaragua put on their best clothes and seem all fresh when they get on the bus, only to sit in a cramped, dusty seat for hours, thus getting the clothes all dirty and sweaty. Oh well.

This last week in Lagartillo was full of all kinds of excitement. A group of young folks from Massachusetts who do some work supporting projects in Lagartillo arrived to spend a week painting a mural with the children of the community. Although I wasn´t really involved in organizing or managing the project in any way, it was really incredible to watch the process unfold. First, the kids (of all ages) made paintings on paper of things they think are important. The adults then used the drawings as an inspiration for the final project, the mural seemed to flow right from the kids work. There is really a lot of artistic talent in Lagartillo and I was amazed to see the final result. The mural is on one wall of the school and will be something the kids and the community can be proud of and hopefully expand on in the future. It made me want to do a mural in Hayward at Park School but the situation there is much more complicated and I would worry about the mural getting tagged up, something that won´t happen in Lagartillo. On New Year´s day, there was an inaguaration ceremony for the mural where people from the community spoke about the project and the cooperation between the sonrisas foundation (projectsonrisas.org) and Lagartillo. It´s always really inspring to go to a community event because so many people show up (and not just because of the food and the refrescos, I think) and participate in orchestrating the life of Lagartillo. There was a background comedy act that accompanied the much more serious ceremony, that of toddlers running wild and dogs fighting and chewing their fleas. At one point, three dogs were fighting, and one of the toddlers picked up a big piece of bamboo and whacked the dogs. These are not your pampered purebreads, as you might imagine.

December 31st is one of the most important days in Lagartillo. On that day in 1984, not long after the community´s foundation, the contras attacked, killing six people and forcing the families to flee along a difficult path 6 km to the nearby town of Achuapa. To commemorate th event, the community hosts a number of events. The first is the caminata, a reenactment of the route that the families of Lagartillo took to escape from the contras. About sixty of us went, including some children, along the sometimes difficult descent to Achuapa. It was sobering to think of having to flee from 200 armed militiamen with little children along an arduous path. The journey was not all doom and gloom, we ate some delicious fruits, homeade wheat bread and cheese along the way, and the kids swam in the stream. Our destination was the cemetary in Achuapa where the six heroes and martyrs of Lagartillo are buried. We had a small ceremony there where people spoke and sang some songs. Then, we crammed into the back of a pickup truck for the rough ride back up to Lagartillo. When I got back, we ate some breakfast, but I forgot to drink coffee and by the late afternoon, I had a rip roaring caffeine headache that distracted me from fully appreciating the days events. The main event of the 31st included a mass given by the padre from Achuapa (who has liberation theology tendencies), as well as speeches by some FSLN politicians and cultural performances including dancing, music and theatre. The theatre was the highlight of the day, the Grupo Capullo of Lagartillo (which includes both Jahaira and Juan Ramon, along with many others), presented a montage of short pieces touching on many controversial themes, especially gender relations in Lagartillo and the community.

Not long after began the rest of that very long day. Rejuvinated by a cup of the always delicious Lagartillo beans, I headed over to the house of Alcides (one of the language school teachers), to have some dinner with his family. Jahaira, Juan Ramon, Monchito and some others from Lagartillo went to Achuapa to the Evangelical Church for singing, I decided to stay in Lagartillo to celebrate the New Year in other, not so religious ways. After dinner, the evening unfolded into a wonderful night of sitting around while people played guitars and sang (many songs in Lagartillo have revolutionary themes), sipped rum and beer. I hung out with some different people, got to know new folks, danced a lot with some of the younger folks (the usual mix of reggaeton and cumbias), and managed to stay somewhat sane despite a large slug of the strong and not so delicious liquor called Caballito. We set off some fireworks and danced some more to bring in the new year, I ended up going to bed around one.

As usual, the morning began early with someone coming to the pulperia wanting to buy some bread. But everyone else slept in, and we didn´t end up getting up till 9 or 10, which is very late for Lagartillo. No one works on 1 de enero, and a bunch of us went to the Las Lajas waterfall (see photo above), to spend the first day 0f 2009 swimming and relaxing in the sun. Jahaira was kind enough to pack me a delicious lunch of platanos, frijoles and cuajada (the local cheese that is a staple of Lagartillo cuisine). I couldn´t have imagined a better way to spend the day.

Since then, I´ve been spending a little more time working out in the campo. Yomar (Juan Ramon´s younger brother) and I went to Juan Ramon´s bean field to harvest his crop (Juan Ramon is still recovering from his appendix removal). Picking beans is an activity best done in the early morning, when the chilly highland air makes work much easier. We listened to some rancheras on the portable radio, worked and chatted, nearly completing the harvest. We didn´t have the right equipment (a tarp, a bag and a horse) to thrash the beans, and ended up doing a little work yesterday, too. Yesterday we also spent some time just checking out the wonderful fruit trees and picking papayas, oranges and sweet lemons. Unfortunately, the avocadoes and mangos are a long ways off from being ripe, which gives me another reason to come back to Nicaragua and Lagartillo another time. We came back in time to make a trip to the Las Brisas waterfall, where we spent another relaxing afternoon swimming in the refreshingly cool water and playing around.

Sounds idyllic? Lagartillo is blessed with some spots of incredible beauty, including two waterfalls and a beautiful range of pine clad mountains behind. The community has hosted many foreigners throughout the year, including those of us who have come to study Spanish and learn the life of the campo. Now that I´ve been there three weeks, I am comfortable around many people there, and if Jahaira and Juan Ramon aren´t around, I can go to any number of houses to sit and chat (and sometimes drink coffee), with any number of people. Despite the constant ebb and flow of extranjeros, most people in Lagartillo are willing to chat and get to know you, but it takes a little effort. There are so many interesting people in the community with all kinds of experiences that it´s wonderful just to hang out and chat. The antics of the children always provide entertainment and amusement. I´ve also found my Spanish has progressed enough to joke around with people (I don´t get the jokes half the time, but it´s not like that doesn´t happen to me in English) and have found that we share a similar sense of humor. Unlike many other places that recieve foreign visitors, Lagartillo is not commercialized. The small pulperia serves the community and does not especially cater to foreigners. I think there is an unspoken understanding among locals and visitors that foreigners are not to go to a house and pay for a meal, for example, or a cup of coffee. The lifestyle in Lagartillo also remains primarily one of subsistence agriculture, with much of the labor done without the help of mechanized tools (picking beans, for example). Most families raise corn, beans and sorghum and keep cattle to provide the third stample of Lagartillo food, cuajada cheese. Many also have fruit trees and chickens, and some grow hard shell squash. Most of the food grown in Lagartillo is consumed in the community, which means that the people don´t make much money from their agriculture. This way of life has it´s benefits and it´s problems, and I spoke with Fermin, the father of Juan Ramon, Yomar, among others, at length about the community´s agriculture while we milked cows and repaired fencing this morning (more like he worked while I watched and occasionally pitched in when he needed my help). But I am rambling on and need to eat a quesillo soon and buy some syrup to go with the pancake mix I bought earlier at the super.

At this point, I have gotten used to Nicaraguan life and am feeling content and comfortable here. I like the sense of familiarity I have in Lagartillo and Esteli, as well (its nice to come here for a night or two now and then). The downside of that is that it will make coming back to the states a little harder (especially dealing with a chilly house). But I´d rather have it that way than be unhappy here and thinking about leaving early, a though which crossed my mind during some of the down times I´ve had here. Being abroad is not all excitement and wonder, and can be challenging at times. But that´s pretty cliched. I have also realized that I would much rather stay in Lagartillo among people I know than spend a week traveling alone and staying in hotels. The community is small but there is much more to experience there. I must admit that I´d really like to spend a couple more months here, and I contemplate future plans to return to Central America, Nicaragua and Lagartillo. One thing I look forward to back in the states (besides eating food with more spice and seasoning) is speaking Spanish with folks at Park and practicing all the stuff I´m trying to learn here. This week, I decided not to take classes in Lagartillo. I´ve really enjoyed the language school, but can´t fit much more into my brain at this point (I spent pretty much all of November cramming for the GRE), and want to just kick back with a flexible schedule.

I may or may not post again when I am in Leon and at the Las Penitas beach next week, but thanks to all of you who´ve been reading and especially I´ve enjoyed reading your comments. Best wishes for 2009!

Barb Wire Clothes Line

2008-12-26T15:37:00.000-08:00

Hi People!

This Friday evening finds me again in the city of Esteli, where I arrived to check email and do some other things I can't do in the village of Lagartillo. Let's see, it goes without saying that a lot has happened since last week. I returned to Lagatillo in the school bus and arrived sometime on Saturday. I was worn out since I over-did it my first week and needed a little more down time in Esteli. I was also confused about the promotion (graduation) that happened on Sunday. Turned out it wasn't Jahaira's (my host-mother, as they say) graduation, but the preschool graduation. She is the pre-school teacher, so it's a big deal, and one of her sisters has a son in preschool, so they came to stay with us, along with Jahaira's mother and brother. The house was a little crowded and full of activity, all kinds of cooking going on, especially on Sunday. The promotion was a bit long, but OK, it's good to have events like that because they motivate the students. Education, as I've mentioned before, is a big deal in Lagartillo and it seems, in Nicaragua in general. Part of this stems from the Sandinistas, who instituted a major literacy campaign after the revolution that brought education to much of the country that hadn't recieved it before. After the promotion, we went to a few other houses to eat (meat and vegetables with rice and a tortilla).

On Sunday night, a band called Las Calderones came to Lagartillo complete with a sound system to play music for the community. People sold cold beer too, and a lot of chabalos (young men) showed up from other communities to check in out. I was pretty excited for the event but it turned out to be a bit of a let down. The music was alright, but the atmosphere reminiscint of a middle school dance (I don't want to describe it, it was kind of an awkward situation for a lot of reasons). I also felt kind of ill so went home early and turned on my iPod for the first time I've been in Nicaragua. By Monday, I felt fine, and pretty much back to normal. On Tuesday, we visited a lovely waterfall about 45 minutes walk from Lagartillo. We meaning myself, my Spanish teacher, and the three other foreign students and their Spanish teacher, along with Monchito (my Nicaraguan 'brother', one might say) and the sons of one of the Spanish teachers. The kids arrived at the waterfall much faster and were already playing around in the water by the time we arrived. I took a nice swim in the seemingly clean water, which was refreshing but not too cold. The waterfall is really the gem of this beautiful mountainous countryside, a patchwork of fields and forests under a tropical blue sky.

As the week went on, I felt more settled in Lagartillo and familiar with many of the people. But at the same time, some of the effects of tiredness became more apparent. As most of you know, this ain't no vacation. I'm not exactly sitting on a chase drinking some coctail with a little paper umbrella. I have class four hours a day plus studying time, and I like to help out with some of the chores around the house: washing dishes, grinding corn for tortillas and collecting wood. I am not trying to complain, in fact, I prefer this kind of traveling to any other. I just have a tendency to push myself too hard and sometimes it comes back at me. So this time in Esteli I'm just relaxing in the quiet house, not trying to run a million errands and rush back to Lagartillo.

Anyhow, Christmas was an interesting holiday in Lagartillo. Juan Ramon really wanted to eat meat on Christmas eve, which was fine by me. What I didn't realize, is that by eating meat, he meant meat for three meals. First was breakfast: beans tortilla and pork then a very fatty beef soup for lunch, followed by roast pork for dinner (not exactly the leanest cuts of meat). For someone who is not exactly a meat enthusiast, this was alittle much, and I didn't feel too good on Thursday. However, I did enjoy a very nice Christmas Eve at one of the houses in Lagartillo, whose owners, Luis and Ermelinda, organize singing for the kids and then give them some really nice homeade gifts. It was great hearing Spanish Christmas songs, and the atmosphere very pleasant and warm. The gifts were quite nice, and it was really wonderful that Luis, Ermelinda and their kids took the time and care to make them for some of the kids. Other than that celebration, Christmas wasn't really a big deal in Lagartillo, and I found myself missing the Adam family Christmas Eve a little bit. Christmas was a really laid back day in Lagartillo. I didn't feel so great, so I just ate some bread, tortillas and spaghetti, but by the afternoon, I was fine. No one was working outside the home, though for the women, who do most of the housework in Lagartillo, it wasn't really much of a break. There was no bus service, so it meant fewer people visiting the pulperia. I don't know if I mentioned much about this, but Juan Ramon and Jahaira have a pulperia (small store) in their home. They live next to the bus stop, which is good for business. I've been helping out with the tienda a bit and learning the prices. The pulperia means extra money for the family, but also extra work. Juan Ramon is often gone, which means Jahaira has to attend to the customers, who usually come while she's in the middle of washing laundry, cleaning or cooking. Juan Ramon is a real character--he's also an actor and his group has toured Switzerland--who has a zeal for business. One night last week we walked 20 minutes to the empalme (intersection), where cell phones get reception. I admired the beautiful views of the sunset while he bought meat over the cell phone. Juan Ramon is very dramatic, while Jahaira is mostly calm and collected. They are wonderful people to stay with, I appreciate Juan Ramon's jokes and honesty, while Jahaira, Monchito and I often chat in the kitchen before bedtime, which is usually between 8 or 9 PM. Last night I started reading Matilda in Spanish with Monchito and Eneyda and Marito, who live nearby. Eneyda is 10 so she and I traded reading the story. Hopefully we can finish it in the next week before I leave Lagartillo.

Oh yeah, about the title of the post. When I arrived at Jahaira and Juan Ramon's, I was suprised to see that the clothes lines in the back yard were barbed wire. But then I realized the multiple uses of this fencing material on Tuesday when it came time to hang my wash. Lagartillo is really windy, and without clothes pins (which no one seems to have), the clothes would take off. The barbs help to secure the clothes, and to my suprise, don't actually cut the clothes much at all. It's another ingenious trick that the people of Lagartillo use to do many things with little resources.

This morning began very early. I woke up at 5 AM to meet up with Jomar, Juan Ramon's younger brother. In the early morning light, we walked to Juan Ramon's bean field to harvest beans. Juan Ramon came down with appendicitis a few months ago and had to have his appendix removed in November. He is still recovering from the operation and can't do much physical work, so his brother Jomar is helping him harvest his beans. Bean harvesting is hard work: we have to bend over and pull of the plants, when we have enough, we make a bundle. There's a lot more to it, but that's what I did for a couple hours before returning for breakfast: tortillas, cuajada and frijoles, followed by Spanish classes. I feel like my Spanish has come a long way and I am really happy with the language school. When I started studying Spanish around 4 years ago, I had this arrogant preconception that somehow it was an 'easy' language, that I would 'pick up' living in a city like Oakland with a large Spanish speaking community. However, it's been a challenge--one that I've enjoyed--and I've realized that there are some big holes in my peacemeal aquisition of the language. Being here has certainly helped to patch some of those gaps and I am starting to feel a bit more fluent--I've even made some jokes around the house that people have actually got and found funny (and I don't think they're just pretending). Certainly after this trip I'll speak better Spanish, but I really need more time to really GET the language. It's not exactly easy for me to just somehow 'pick up' the subjunctive perfect verb tense and it's uses.

Anyhow, I am planning to return to Lagartillo tomorrow evening or Sunday morning for my third and final week in the community. I wish I was staying for longer, but there are also some things I miss about the states and hopefully I will be returning to Lagartillo and Nicaragua again in the near future. But for now, I still have more than two weeks down here, and a little time to see some other places, depending on how things shape up. And in Lagartillo, there's a lot to do: more work in the campo, visiting some of the scenic spots in the countryside, and hanging out with the many wonderful people who live (and visit) the community.

Best wishes for 2009!

Reed

Lagartillo

2008-12-19T09:56:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks,

So it's been a while since I updated. I've been in Nicaragua a week. I spent last Friday and Saturday in Leon, an interesting but very hot city in NW Nicaragua. I did a few errands and got used to being in the country. Then, on Sunday, I took a minibus to a smaller town near the mountains called El Sauce (and no, that doesn't mean 'the sauce' in Spanish), and caught a bus that took me two hours into the mountains along a dirt road to Lagartillo. The buses in Nicaragua are old school buses from the USA that are outfitted to carry all kinds of stuff and are the lifeline for rural communities, bringing in goods from the outside and taking out products from the campo (countryside). When I arrived in Lagartillo, I went to the small store near the bus stop, which happens to be the place where I'm staying. I'm living with a wonderful family, a young couple Juan Ramon and Jahaira, and their 6 year old son that we call Monchito (short for Juan Ramon). The life in Lagartillo is isolated and rustic, but it's a really interesting community with a lot going on. I'm having a fantastic experience there studying Spanish with a local teacher, playing games with the kids, exploring the countryside, getting to know people, and learning about all kinds of plants that grow in the tropics. Yesterday we harvested some coffee then ran it through a grinder (by hand) to remove the outer covering (the red part). People in Lagartillo drink and appreciate good coffee, which I've definitely been enjoying with breakfast and sometimes after lunch. We eat a lot of tortillas, which are made from scratch every day, along with beans and a local cheese called cuajada. There's also been spaghetti, potatoes, tomatoes and onions, that aren't grown in Lagartillo, along with a local winter squash that people call ayote. When I first arrived in Lagartillo, a cow had injured its mouth and couldn't eat, so they had to slaughter it. I got to watch the butchering, then we took home some meat for soup the next day. Normally though people don't eat much meat, since there's not exactly a butcher shop in the area.

Lagartillo is a community founded after the Revolution in Nicaragua in 1984. The land used to belong to one person, but the Sandinsta government bought it and distributed it to locals who supported the guerillas in the struggle to overthrow the brutal Somoza dictatorship. Until 1990, the people in Lagartillo operated as a cooperative, but that's no longer the case. The community was attacked by the contras in 1984, who killed six people, including some children. The commemoration of that event is coming up this December 31st. Understandably, people in Lagartillo tend to be left leaning and the community is well organized. Even though its isolated, people travel a lot and there are some foreigners that have married into the community. Education is very important, and the school is the center of town. A few days ago, Juan Ramon (I'm staying at his house) practiced theatre with some local kids for a few hours. Since there's no electricity and hence no television, people create their own entertainment and there's a creative spirit in the community.

Of course, I've only been in Lagartillo a week and there's much more to learn and explore in the area. There's some waterfalls I hope to check out and I'm planning to spend a few mornings herding cattle out in the fields. In Lagartillo, it's easy to wake up early since there's a lot of animal noises in the morning and we don't usually stay up too late. At first, I was a little bored but with some effort I've gotten out of the house more and gotten to know other people. I've enjoyed being around the house though and helping out with chores and cooking. We painted some of the doors a couple days ago with a mix of achiote (a local red pigment from a fruit), varnish and gasoline. The achiote stains have been hard to get off my hands.

This feels like a lot to catch up on! I came to Esteli (a city in Northern Nicaragua) today to check internet and buy some produce at the organic market that happens Friday morning. The journey took about two hours in a bus full of frijoles and people, and I was too involved with checking out the countryside to sleep, but getting up at 530 AM is starting to catch up with me. There are some errands I need to do here too. In Lagartillo, people don't grow much produce, so I'm bringing back a lot because Jahaira is celebrating her promotion from secondary on Sunday and we're going to cook a bunch of food tomorrow.

This time of year there are a lot of festivals in Lagartillo and it's a good time to be here. Here in the mountains, it's sunny but not too hot and cool at night. I've been feeling really healthy and must say I haven't had any stomache problems in Nicaragua.

Anyhow, I'm not sure when I'll be able to access the internet next, but best wishes to everyone whose reading this and have a happy holidays next week for folks who celebrate these holidays.

Adios!

Reed

Leon

2008-12-12T15:32:00.000-08:00

Well, I am here in Leon, Nicaragua. I left SFO last night at 12:30 AM and took a flight to San Salvador. I had gotten myself a first-class ticket for not much more than the regular price when I bought the flight, so I traveled in style. We arrived in San Salvador in the morning, then I transferred to another flight to Managua, which was only 30 mins. I got to Managua, got my bearings, then took a taxi through town to a bus station. There, I hopped in a crowded van that drove us to Leon, a smaller city about an hour and a half north of Managua. Managua didn´t seem all too appealing to me, but Leon has been great so far. On a friend´s recommendation, I found a great inexpensive little hostel that´s family run not far from the center of town. I had lunch in Leon´s central market, which is full of all kinds of little stands selling delicious food like beans, rice, stews, soups, tortillas. I´m a little worn out from traveling, and it´s a little overwhelming here--a lot to take in. There´s all kinds of Nicaraguan versions of Christmas music playing out on the noisy street, and it´s hot here--a nice break from the frigid mornings in my unheated house in Oakland. My plan is to stay a couple nights here, then head to Lagartillo, the village where the language school I am going to is located. Should be an adventure. I also had to get my glasses fixed, since the frame broke about 15 minutes before I had to leave last night. That was easy though.

Nicaragua next week

2008-12-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've written anything on this blog, but I figure it might be a good way to keep people posted on what I'm doing while I'm traveling in Nicaragua. I'm leaving this Thursday night to spend a month in that Central American country; I plan to be at a language school for three weeks or so, then travel around the country a little bit.

Before leaving, I've been trying to avoid eating a lot of beans and rice, but have found it difficult given that I live in Fruitvale and work in Hayward. But, Mexican food is much different from Nica food... I'm sure I'll have much more to say about food and many other aspects of life in Nicaragua soon enough...

This trip has been a long time in the planning. I've thought about going to Latin America to study Spanish for a few years now, but didn't have the money to do it until more recently. I've been planning this particular excursion for almost a year, and am thrilled that my departure is now less than a week away. It's strange to think that one day I'll be at Park Elementary, and the next day I'll be trying to navigate a Managua bus station. I have no idea what it's going to be like, but that's OK. That's part of the beauty of traveling: not having everything planned out exactly, and not having too many expectations or assumptions about how it's going to be.

Plums and Fleas

2008-07-03T21:16:00.000-07:00

Clothes on the line, my backywardThe plum tree

Plums!

In my earlier post, I was lamenting the fact that I was in Oakland instead of out on a wilderness trail. Now, a few weeks later, I am still sitting here in Oakland, this time listening to the various firecrackers and other incendiary devices the neighbors are igniting in preparation for July 4th. I am getting ready to leave on a camping trip tomorrow morning. I am excited to get out of town, but overall, have been very content to be in the Bay Area during what amounts to a five week pseudo-vacation from the elementary children.

In the past few weeks, I've been working at the Park Elementary garden in Hayward two to three times a week, usually for four to six hours. I've also helped out with the high school program as well at Tennyson in Hayward. On my sometimes lengthy lunch breaks, I've been savoring the tastes of Hayward: Mexican hoagies, and burritos and aguas frescas from Chavez Market.

On my other days, I go into San Francisco for a Geography class I am taking at San Francisco State. The class as well as being in the city has given me the chance to get together with old friends and meet some new folks new as well.

An important part of my life recently has revolved around sprawling, long-unpruned plum tree growing in the backyard of my house in Fruitvale. It's called Fruitvale for a reason, one of my neighbors pointed out to me after we met while picking plums (a few branches reach across into the neighbor's yard). Until a few days ago, I had been waiting for the plums to get ripe. It seems that the hot weather we had here in the Bay Area a few weeks ago did the trick, and they have come on strong. The plums are what plums should be: plentiful, purple, juicy, and sweet with tartness in the skin and the part of the flesh next to the pit. Picking the plums and distributing them to various friends and co-workers has become a real pastime recently. The plum tree, especially during the heat wave, has provided a great shelter from the summer sun. I can sit in its' shade and read or talk on the phone, and maybe even catch a breeze. It's a nice nice place to be, enough greenery and peace to provide an oasis amidst this urban life I've come to appreciate much more these past few weeks.

Last Sunday I made a semi-annual trip to the Nor-Cal swap meet, a flea market that sprawls across the Laney College Parking lot and under the 880 Freeway here in Oakland once a week. It's always a bustling place, mostly a Latino crowd with a few Asians, Blacks, Middle Easterners, hipsters and any other folks that reside here in the 'Town and elsewhere in the Bay Area. One can find anything from a used drill to a spider-man backpack for your kindergardener, or a CD case full of Dave Matthews and Jon Mayer (neither artist is well-played in the East Bay, fortunately), most likely lifted from some college student's dorm room. I seek out the Mach 3 Gillette Razors, which are a rip off at a drug store but always come half-price at the pulga. The flea market is Oakland at its best, a convergence of all kinds of people, a chance for ordinary working folks to earn a little extra money selling anything and everything under the sun (never mind the legality of some of it). Like most of Oakland, the flea market is not a tourist destination, the prices are low and there are no arty or crafty items, save an old Al Green record or a towel painting or two. One can make an excursion out of it, as there are numerous stands selling hot dogs, tamales and pupusas.

When I step out and away from my work and routine, I discover all kinds of overlooked and under appreciated elements of life and find I don't really need to go too far to have a very satisfying vacation.

Rae Lakes Revisited

2008-06-15T00:26:00.000-07:00

This time last year, instead of sitting here in Oakland listening to car alarms and subwoofers, I was savoring the high country of Kings Canyon National Park. My friend and co-adventurer Tom and I set off for a week long loop trip through the Rae Lakes Basin, a 40 mile trip with a 7,000 foot elevation game. The backpacking odyssey took us up one river valley, over a 12,000 foot pass (the highest altitude I've ever reached), then down into the Rae Lakes Basin: a string of beautiful mountain lakes surrounded by craggy peaks and full of mosquitoes. We enjoyed our time at the lakes immensely, but were relieved to find a bug-free campsite on our last night by the Kings River. An experience as this is best seen through the pictures, which of course can't really do justice to the magnificence of the mountain wilderness I had the good fortune to pass through. The photos are arranged in chronological order, so the viewer can get a sense of the progress of the journey. One part of the trip is missing, however: our stop at Tacos Al Rico in Fresno, where Tom and I washed down six tacos each with enormous tubs of horchata. Being in the back country for five nights makes one appreciate the amenities of the civilized world. This will be the first of many posts looking back at my trip through the American West last summer. Enjoy!

"The Sea Runners"

2008-04-13T21:56:00.001-07:00

Fog and Seastack, Olympic National Park, Washington CoastPelicans near mouth of Hoh River, Oil City, Washington

Rounding a headland north of Oil City

Recently, I read an excellent book, Ivan Doig's "The Sea Runners". It's a sort of historical fiction, following four indentured servants who escape from the Russian outpost of New Archangel (now Sitka, Alaska) in a canoe and travel down the coast towards Astoria, Oregon. Doig tells the story wonderfully, making it difficult to put the book down, and bringing the perils that the four men face to life. The book also invokes the Pacific coastline of the northwest, a place I love and know well. For most of my childhood, we went camping out on the beach on the Washington Coast in Olympic National Park. We played on the sand, roasted hot dogs and tried to keep raccoons and bears away from our food. We also endured hailstorms in July, caught a glimpse a rare gray whale breaching right off a rocky point, and dodged waves while rounding craggy headlands. The Northwest Coast is a perilous place, and the waters of the Pacific always inspired awe and fear, even during summer from the safe vantage point of (mostly) dry land. One of the most striking aspects of Doig's adventurers is that they travel during the winter months, when fierce storms often pound the coast. "The Sea Runners" was in fact based on a real escape made out of Sitka, and its' characters based on real men who fled bondage in Russian America for freedom in the United States. A recommended read for anyone, and especially for me, the book brought to life a coastline that holds a special place in my life.

NYC

2008-04-08T21:20:00.000-07:00

Central Park

At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, not the aquarium

H and H Bagels, Manhattan

Under the 7 Line, Roosevelt Ave, Jackson Heights

View from Morningside Park across Harlem towards midtown.

Last week was my first time in New York City. The place overwhelmed me with its' towering buildings, masses of people and richness of cultural attractions. As the arguable center of capitalism, the NYC is full of the contradictions of globalization. In Manhattan, some of the richest people in the world live in some of the most expensively priced real estate and shop at some of the most expensive stores, while service workers toil away at minimum wage jobs. If they are lucky, the working class in NYC can receive some sort of subsidized housing or rent control, if not, I have no idea how anyone on anything less than a moderate income ($50,000 or s0) can afford housing there. The widening gap between rich and poor seems to be one of global capitalism's most dismal failures.

But not everything was doom and gloom in New York City. The same globalization that creates such inequality drives many of us humans from all over the world to migrate in search of a better life, for better or worse. Migration--internal and international--has given New York City an incredible energy. People from all corners of the globe and all walks of life are packed into a city so dense it's like nowhere else in America. All of these cultures have given New York some excellent food, and the search for and enjoyment of this food was the highlight of my time in the city (this shouldn't surprise anyone whose ever eaten with me). I have a fascination with street food (sometimes leading to ill results in the stomache) that I was able to indulge plenty in New York city. It also took me off the beaten path and into neighborhoods where tourists such as myself don't often stray. My first foray was up to 181st Street in Washington Heights, where I sampled some Dominican habichuelas con dulce (sweet bean and root soup) and empanadas in a crowded, gritty working-class setting. I wanted to take some pictures of the street life, but didn't think the guys hanging out on the stoop of an abandoned building near the soup stand would really appreciate my being such an obvious tourist in their barrio.

I had read some articles about the cultural diversity of Queens, and since it seemed a good place to eat, I headed out there. While waiting for Freddie, my friend and freshman roommate from college with whom I stayed in NYC, I found some delicious bites to eat in Jackson Heights. Stepping off the subway (which in that part of the city is an elevated train), I found myself in a melting pot world: one street full of South Asian commerce, another Latino while a third was Korean. I headed into South Asia, where I snacked on samosas and drank some hot chai. When Freddie arrived, we explored the neighborhood a bit, taking in the bustling atmosphere that was still very New York but a very different place than Midtown Manhattan. We marveled at the variety of cultures in Jackson Heights: Indian, Bangladeshi, Tibetan, Korean, Colombian, Mexican, Ecuadorian, Peruvian to name a few, before heading into Astoria. There, we went searching for a section of that Queens neighborhood called Little Egypt, but got lost due to my bad directions. Instead, we found an Ecuadorian restaurant and enjoyed catfish soup, delicious fresh-squeezed juice and the biggest hominy kernels I've ever seen.

Of course, I must give credit to some of the mainstays of the New York diet: pizza and bagels. Thanks to a friend's recommendation, I found great bagels at H and H in the Upper West Side and large, greasy slices of pizza at Koronet, not far from Morningside Heights, where I stayed while in NYC. Since I was in New York for only a few days, I am sure there is plenty of excellent food I missed out on, and plenty more eating adventures. Something to look forward to should I ever return to New York.

I came to Cambridge, MA for a night before heading back to Oakland. Cambridge is a very walkable little city with plenty of bookstores, coffee shops and inexpensive, delicious restaurants, and felt much more relaxed after New York. In many ways, I was glad to leave NYC behind: such a crowded, sprawling city was much more stressful for me than most other places where I spend time (especially the farm up in Hoopa where I was the first week of my break). As the Chinatown bus I was on headed out past the high-rises of the Bronx and into Connecticut, the place that is New York has become surreal in my memory, a world so different than what I am used to that I still have trouble believing I was there. Images of busy streets lined with tall, brick apartments and crowded subway lines flicker through my dreams at night...

Back on the West Coast, I know I am home, I can breathe easier out here. I grew up in Seattle and have never lived in the East Coast. I did live in a crowded city for a year, in Istanbul, Turkey, and that experience was the only one that provided some point of comparison to my time in New York. I love the energy and the dynamism of big cities, but I need the open spaces and wide landscapes of the West.

Spring Break: Farm and City

2008-03-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

One of the nice perks about working at a school is that I get a spring break--two weeks, in fact, since I am at a year-round school. I had the good fortune to get invited along to a farm in the Hoopa Valley of Northern California for most of last week with a group of friends and fellow garden teachers. The experience was wonderful and rewarding: working the land and enjoying farm fresh meals in great company. The life felt very wholesome and rewarding, and I felt refreshed and re-energized after only a couple of days away. The previous three months of work and life had really worn me down for a variety of reasons, and being on the farm and traveling with friends really did the trick. Although I have spent nearly all of my life in cities, rural life has a strong pull on me: the idea of living close to the land, growing food, being attuned to the rhythms of nature and the seasons. It's hard, back-breaking work at time, and I wonder if I'm up for it.

Only a few days later, I find myself in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It's part of a trip I'm taking to the East Coast to visit friends and also see New York City for the first time. Needless to say, it's a real contrast from the few days I spent on Greenfire Farm. It's cold out here too, but it was cold in Humboldt County, too. Both places make me appreciate the real, changing weather that the Bay Area lacks.

I am sure I'll have more thoughts and observations to ramble on about as this spring break trip proceeds...

For those who have read thus far, here's another action for racial justice that we can take, also from the organization Color of Change. It also fits in with one of the major themes of 'The Wire', and I'm sure those who have seen the show, or perhaps even suffered these injustices, can attest to the importance of making our drug laws more fair.

Dear Friends,
The so-called "war on drugs" has created a national disaster: 1 in 9 young Black men in America are now behind bars. It's not because they commit more crime but because of unfair sentencing rules that treat 5 grams of crack cocaine, the kind found in poor Black communities, the same as 500 grams of powder cocaine the kind found in White and wealthier communities.
These sentencing laws are destroying communities across the country and have done almost nothing to reduce the level of drug use and crime.
Senator Joe Biden is one of the original creators of these laws and is now trying to fix the problem. But some of his colleagues on the Senate Judiciary Committee are standing in the way. I've signed on with ColorOfChange.org to tell them to stand with Joe Biden and undo this disaster once and for all. Will you join me? It just takes a moment and you can start by clicking on the link below:
http://www.colorofchange.org/crackpowder/?id=1969-121790
Thanks.
Please spread the word. Also, if you read this blog, let me know what you think. I want to help promote causes such as a fair drug policy, but am wondering if this is an effective place to do my bit to spread information.

Political Plug--Bring Justice to the Angola 3

2008-03-18T20:08:00.001-07:00

These are some pictures from New Orleans, LA, where I spent a week two years ago doing relief work through Common Ground relief. Though the intent was there, due to the busyness of my life, my involvement with New Orleans gradually fell away. I have not returned to the Crescent City, and I remain shamefully unware on current conditions there. My memories from a week there remain strong--it was certainly the most intense experience I've had in the past few years, full of hope amidst an overwhelmingly tragic situation.

Well, I got this forward through color of change. It's an action letter about the Angola 3, victims of an incredibly unjust 'correctional' system in Louisiana. Read and take action if you decide so...

Dear Friend,

For 35 years, Jim Crow justice in Louisiana has kept Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox locked in solitary confinement for a crime everyone knows they didn't commit.

Despite overwhelming evidence of their innocence, the "Angola 3", spend 23 hours each day in a 6x9 cell on the site of a former plantation. Prison officials - and the state officials who could intervene - won't end the terrible sentence. They've locked them up and thrown away the key because they challenged a system that deals an uneven hand based on the color of one's skin and tortures those who assert their humanity.

We can help turn things around by making it a political liability for the authorities at Angola to continue the racist status quo, and by forcing federal and state authorities to intervene. I've signed on with ColorOfChange.org to demand an investigation into this clear case of unequal justice. Will you join us?

http://www.colorofchange.org/angola3/?id=1969-121790

When ColorOfChange.org spoke up about the Jena 6, it was about more than helping six Black youth in a small town called Jena. It was about standing up against a system of unequal justice that deals an uneven hand based on the color of one's skin. That broken system is at work again and ColorOfChange.org is joining The Innocence Project and Amnesty International to challenge it in the case of the Angola 3.

"Angola", sits on 18,000 acres of former plantation land in Louisiana and is estimated to be one of the largest prisons in the United States. Angola's history is telling: once considered one of the most violent, racially segregated prison in America, almost a prisoner a day was stabbed, shot or raped. Prisoners were often put in inhumane extreme punishment camps for small infractions. The Angola 3 - Herman, Albert and Robert - organized hunger and work strikes within the prison in the 70's to protest continued segregation, corruption and horrific abuse facing the largely Black prisoner population.

Shortly after they spoke out, the Angola 3 were convicted of murdering a prison guard by an all-white jury. It is now clear that these men were framed to silence their peaceful revolt against inhumane treatment. Since then, they have spent every day for 35 years in 6x9 foot cells for a crime they didn't commit.

Herman and Albert are not saints. They are the first to admit they've committed crimes. But, everyone agrees that their debts to society for various robbery convictions were paid long ago.

NBC News/Dateline just aired a piece this week about the plight of the Angola 3. And it's time to finally get some justice for Herman and Albert. For far too long, court officials have stalled and refused to review their cases. Evidence of prosecutorial misconduct and constitutional violations have not swayed them.

It's now time for the Governor of Louisiana and the United States Congress, which provides the funding for federal prisons like Angola, to step in and say enough is enough. Please join us in calling for Governor Bobby Jindal and your Congressperson to initiate an immediate and full investigation into the case of the Angola 3.

http://www.colorofchange.org/angola3/?id=1969-121790

Thanks.

A storm, The Wire

2008-03-15T21:07:00.001-07:00

Photo: A rare Bay Area thundercloud, sour orange tree in my backyard in the foreground.

Sometimes, when I become engrossed in a particular work of fiction, I feel as though my reality is somehow merging with the fantasy world being presented on film, paper or television. This has become the case with the HBO television series, The Wire. Recommended to me by a friend and former co-worker, The Wire came highly regarded, a must-watch. And so it has become for me, as I near the end of Season 4. Recently, The Wire concluded its final episode of Season 5; since I don't have HBO, I wasn't able to watch Season 5 as it aired on television. This may have been for the best, since I haven't made it through Season 4, and The Wire is certainly not the show where you can skip seasons or even episodes. I've watched every episode, from Season 1, in order.

When I seek entertainment, like many other people, I am often looking for an escape, to leave my reality and enter into another. The Wire does indeed accomplish both. After almost four seasons, I feel like I really know many of the characters as people, that they are more than just actors from a TV show. I could imagine running into them at the corner store, the halls of a school, seeing them pass by in a patrol car, or an SUV with tinted windows. The Wire portrays a world that is both very similar and very different from my own. I have very little experience with police or the drug trade--the two main themes of the show--but the setting in the gritty streets of Baltimore bears some similarity with the sights and sounds of the neighborhoods in the East Bay where I live, work and pass through. The central dilemma that The Wire delves into--the role of individuals in institutions--is painfully real. As a teacher, this last season has come a little too close to many of the issues I am grappling with in my own work life. Though my students in Hayward don't experience nearly the same levels of violence and poverty as the students in West Baltimore, they still face many obstacles to their education. Although it is a bit exaggerated in its portrayal in The Wire, the standardized testing of the No Child Left Behind Act has been a real blow to providing a quality education to students. As Prezblutsky (sp?) negotiates the world of education, he finds that world doing the same kind of 'jukin' the stats' that bothered him when he was policing. As I consider my own potential departure from the world of education, what kind of 'jukin the stats' that bothers me so much about teaching to the test will I find in the next field? The Wire so aptly and painfully displays the ethical dilemmas that we individuals face within the institutions we work for. Even though the Baltimore that the show depicts is a departure from my own reality, it is the decisions that the characters must face that seem more and more like my own.

Even though The Wire presents a pessimistic point of view when it comes to institutional change--a point of view that my own experiences more and more validate--it is really the humanity of the characters that keeps me coming back to the show. Omar, someone whom society would pin as a cold-blooded killer, becomes a real human being that I find myself rooting for. We sympathize with drug dealers because we can see the constraints of their lives and the difficult choices they must make. We may hold politicians like Clay Davis in disgust, but understand that he's no exception. We see characters change while we hope for change in our own lives and in the world, even though we see that the barriers to that change are difficult to surmount. The Wire has so beautifully presented a world where everything is in shades of gray, and where we can move beyond labels and boundaries to better understand the humanity of people from all occupations and walks of life.

In short, I love The Wire, even though entering its' world for a few hours is less of an escape and more of a stark reminder of the realities we are trying to leave behind through entertainment.

Food, Books, Hikes, Politics

2008-03-10T22:05:00.000-07:00

I realize it's been a while since I've posted, so I thought I'd fill in those of you who read this on some snippets from my life of late...

Books: I just finished a fantastic book called Lost City Radio, by Daniel Alarcón, a Peruvian-born author who now resides in Oakland (and from his description of the neighborhood, probably not far from me). I'm not really in the game of writing literary reviews, but I would say the book is an excellent, though at times, difficult read. The story is set in a fictional South American country that bears many similarities with Peru: a dry coastal capital city, a mountain region and a jungle area. The book delves into the violence and disappearances that tore the country apart during a civil war. Of note, the author does an incredible job weaving recollections into the storyline. I highly recommend reading in; in fact, I bought the book, so if you're in the area, you're welcome to borrow it.

Hikes: I've spent some time during the past two weekends exploring the beautiful Mount Tamalpais region. It's a great place to hike and camp.

Food: In search of the best pupusa. For those of you who've never tried one, a pupusa is a Salvadoran specialty that is basically a thick, handmade, stuffed tortilla made of masa and cooked on a griddle. Its' contents can include some combination of beans, cheese, chicharrón (fried pork skin) or loroco, a Salvadoran vegetable with a taste somewhat akin to asparagus. I almost always get my pupusas with loroco, queso y frijol, since I'm not a big fan of pork skin. Pupusas are served with a delicious side of curtido--a mildly fermented cabbage salad that often includes carrots, onions, oregano and chili flakes--as well as a usually mild tomato sauce (Salvadoran food does not seem as heavy on the chilis as Mexican cuisine). One can find a pupusa at a pupuseria, of which there are many in the Bay Area, especially in San Francisco, Oakland, Richmond and Hayward. I had my first pupusa at a place called Los Guanacos, located on Mission Street in the Excelsior district of San Francisco, and have also enjoyed many a pupusa at Panchita's restaurant on 16th between Mission and Valencia. Since I don't live in SF, I've dined at more pupuserias in the East Bay, my favorite of which is Los Cocos, located on Fruitvale Avenue near International. In Fruitvale, there is also a Pupuseria Mi Lupita on Foothill that is decent, and a Pupuseria y Tamales Lupita truck in the parking lot next to the aforementioned restaurant that is actually a separate business. Other good spots include Taqueria La Bamba where San Pablo Ave. goes under 1-80 Richmond. There are two in Hayward, both on Mission: one that has a long name I can't remember right now and another one near the Cheese Steak place on Industrial called Los Cocos that is not related to the one in Oakland (I asked the owners). So, dearest readers, go out and enjoy a pupusa, and let me know what you think.

Politics: Frustration over the primary campaigns. Can't Hillary just drop out and save us all the anguish?

For those who have read this far, here are some assorted photos from my house and its' surroundings and from hiking (it should be easy to tell what is what).

7 Courses of Beef

2008-02-24T09:51:00.001-08:00

This weekend, we've had a rain storm, so I've taken the opportunity to rest up after another long week. Unfortunately, that means there will be no chance to take pictures, though.

I was lucky last week to have my friend Chris visit from Boston. About three years ago, Chris, Anthony and I did some exploring in Oakland. I had just moved here from the Peninsula, and didn't know the city well. For some reason, we ended up heading east on International Blvd. looking for a place to eat. The only one open at that time in the evening (it wasn't really late, maybe around 7:30 PM) was a restaurant called "7 Courses of Beef", which was the only English phrase on the sign, at least. Not the most fortunate finding, since the three of us were nominal beef eaters and each ended up ordering the only item not containing beef on the menu, which if I remember right, was Pho with chicken. The food was fine, the restaurant was an experience of decor, plants and fish tanks, which, in my three years in Oakland, I haven't made it back to. Chris and I looked for it last week, but I mistakenly thought it was on 12th Street, so we didn't find it. I was on my way to class at Laney College though on Thursday evening, when I passed the 7 courses of Beef. It lives on, for those who feel that they really need 7 full courses of beef, which I'm sure is delicious, but that seems like a lot of beef.

In the beginning of April, I will be visiting the East Coast, so stay tuned for pictures and stories from New York, Boston and possibly, Baltimore.

Tired...

2008-02-17T20:21:00.000-08:00

The fatigue of moving and too much going on at work has worn me down. Luckily, it's a three-day weekend, and I have tomorrow off. During the last three-day weekend, our school garden was badly vandalized; it was especially painful that a few of the fruit trees we planted in November were destroyed or very badly damaged. This--combined with getting used to a new living situation--made last week the most challenging of my working life. Fortunately, some of the staff members and many of the students provided needed support, and by Friday, I felt better than I had in weeks.

The new living situation has had its' ups and downs, but seems like it will work out. I've had respiratory problems--already bad because of the cat at my old place--probably from the new carpet. The 'off-gassing' I have learned from internet searches, is the release of nasty chemicals from a new carpet. How wonderful. Luckily, the smell fades, I've put in a lot of work cleaning the house, and the surrounding area is becoming more familiar. After a few restless nights, I'm sleeping like a rock. This area is full of all kinds of city noises: subwoofers in passing cars, barking dogs, children playing, sirens in the distance, BART, the neighbors' music. It's not the kind of area to take a stroll around late at night--even the next block over has a more, shall we say, gritty feel to it. But it's where I'll be for the next half-year before I head to Central America and Mexico late next Fall.

Unfortunately, I haven't had any more time to take pictures around the area...I'll save that for the coming weeks. Stay posted!

Chayote Vines

2008-02-09T13:33:00.000-08:00

This may be my last post for a few days. Since moving to my current house, I've been plagued with allergy symptoms from the resident cat(s). Treatment has been ineffective, so I've chosen to move to a new locale. I found a room in a house on 27th Avenue, not far from the Fruitvale District of Oakland. One of the features of the new place is its' fine backyard garden, which includes a trellis covered with now withered chayote vines. This has provided the inspiration for the title of this blog: Under the Chayote Vines. I'm sure there will be plenty of other things to write about in the new neighborhood...as soon as I get the internet hooked up.

Super Tuesday Reflections: Immigration

2008-02-07T13:53:00.000-08:00

Due to a lack of sleep as well as many other factors, I took a sick day today and am not at Park School today, which gives me the chance to do a little writing while I rest. After a suspenseful Tuesday evening, I've managed to gather some thoughts about the election, especially in regards to immigration, an issue I care deeply about. I'm pleased that Barack Obama did well, but disappointed that he wasn't as successful as I'd hoped in my 'home' state of California. It seems strange that Latinos--who heavily supported Clinton--voted for her, given that Obama's stance on immigration is more progressive (he supports driver's licenses for undocumented immigrants--a position I agree with). Immigration is one of the issues that matters to me most this election year, though my position differs greatly from the supposedly all powerful 'deport the illegals' camp. I work in Hayward, a community with many immigrants--some of whom certainly are undocumented--and this has given me a personal understanding of how our immigration policy impact real people's lives. A few weeks ago, I hired a day laborer from the Hayward Day Laborer Center to help me move. This hardworking, thoughtful man of Central American origin has been in the U.S.--without papers--for seven years. He has two kids, and lives with his parents, who are legal immigrants that have been in Hayward for nearly 20 years. As an undocumented immigrant, his life is lived under the constant threat of arrest or deportation. His crime? Wanting to join his parents here in the U.S., work hard and make a better life for his family. This story is similar to those of many other immigrants whom I know as friends and community members. We need a candidate who will tackle immigration reform in 2009. The undocumented population, the vast majority of whom are hard working and law abiding, need the opportunity to become a part of the nation they already live in. But we do need a secure border and a way to allow for increased legal immigration to provide needed labor, without exploitation (the current situation is VERY exploitative and dangerous). Fortunately, I think we have a good shot at it, and this election has shown us that the 'deport the illegals' camp isn't so all-powerful. Even though McCain now espouses a stricter policy against undocumented immigrants that he did when he helped co-sponsor a realistic, human immigration reform bill in the senate last year, he seems to be more moderate on the issue than Mitt Romney. Romney's stance doesn't seem to have helped him much in terms of getting the Republican nomination. Romney seems to me like some evil automaton, unlike McCain, whom I still have some respect for, even though he has sold his soul to the Republican Party.

So I guess it will be a while longer before the Republican and Democratic candidates are decided. Hopefully my home state of Washington will do the right thing and support Barack on Saturday.

One of the reasons I wanted to start this blog was because of my strong views on immigration that I've developed from working in a Latino community. I want to hear and network with others who share this view so that I can become better informed and more involved in supporting undocumented immigrants rights'.

Oakland Stroll

2008-02-04T21:15:00.000-08:00

February 4, 2008:
Nervous about Super Tuesday, but hopeful that Obama can pull it off and eventually get the nomination. Slightly pleased that the somewhat more respectable McCain is leading over the deplorable Romney (even though I don't have much love for Republicans).
Current Book: "China Road", Rob Gifford
Current Song: "SF Anthem" Traxamillion and San Quinn

First in an installment. I hope to explore East Bay neighborhoods and take pictures. I'm not attempting to interview people to get the pulse of an area, but rather capture the images that strike me and hopefully create a visual sense of the community. I plan to do this a couple times of month. Let me know what you think.

This being one of the few sunny, rainless days we've had of late, I decided to spend part of my day off walking through some Oakland neighborhoods instead of doing housework or studying. I live near High Street and 580, in Maxwell Park. I headed west, along Brookdale Avenue, then to Coolidge, up to MacAurthur and back home, via the Laurel shopping district. In the three years I've lived in the East Bay, I've bounced around like a pinball, from North Oakland to the Laurel District, to Eastlake, then down to the Hayward Hills, and now back up to East Oakland's Maxwell Park neighborhood. I have a great love for Oakland, but it's an ambivalent one. I often still feel like a tourist and I wonder where I fit in. As a white male on a modest income, yet coming from a priveledged background, I feel out of place often in a working-class city that's 70% people of color. My income level means that eating at the taquerias or bahn mi shops is in my budget. However, as much as I love to buy Pan Dulce from Pena's bakery, I'm not exactly congruous with the day laborers and tree trimmers getting their morning coffee. What I do love most about Oakland though are the small things: the local, independent businesses and the vibrancy of the city's diverse neighborhoods, especially along the 580 corridor, which is a real confluence zone of blacks, whites, Latinos and Asians of all classes. The area provided plenty of quiet, tree lines streets to walk along and a few things to snap pictures of. Here are some of the photos: