Hello from the New Year

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I begin this entry with the requisite apology for not having posted in over a month. Rick and I have managed to keep ourselves quite busy, spending time in various Nicaraguan--and even Honduran--locations. We've finally made our way back to Managua, and plan to stick around, at least for the work-week.

Seeing as how I haven't written since Thanksgiving, the pool of stories and happenings I have to draw from has grown almost stiflingly vast. If only I could relay all of our amazing experiences to you as they happened. Of course, the better and more feasible option is for each of you pack a bag and come experience it with us.

Since November:

• I spent 2 weeks at Spanish immersion school in the campo (rural countryside/farmland).
  
• Rick had his first delegation visit with Witness for Peace.
  
• We took a little vacation scuba diving in Utila, Honduras, spending Christmas on a remote bay island.
  
• Rick and I rang in 2008 with the town of Lagartillo, Nicargua.
  
• Our friend Jen came to visit, and we all went to Granada together for an awesome hike/canopy tour on Volcan Mombacho.
  

Each of these experiences deserves its own blog entry, so I will only discuss my campo Spanish school here, following with other, hopefully brief entries about the subsequent experiences.

Hijos Del Maiz, Lagartillo

We first heard of Hijos del Maiz back in September when Rick headed down to Nicaragua and I was still studying for the LSAT in Redwood City. Out of chance Rick met a young woman on his flight from Miami who couldn't say enough wonderful things about this little Spanish school set in the middle of nowhere. After a little more research (and a lot more praise) we decided that I would head up there when the first WfP delegation came to town, December 1-15.

When my departure date arrived, I felt prepared for two weeks of nothing but Spanish. In my 5 weeks of classes here in Managua I had made headway, but I needed an opportunity to speak constantly, to rely on the language instead of just mumbling through 2 hours of conversation a day. We headed out early in the morning to catch an express bus to Esteli.

If someone were to point out Lagartillo's location on a map, you would probably wonder how it could take 4 hours to get there from Managua--it cant be more than 120 miles away. Then you might notice that your map doesn't have any lines connecting Lagartillo with other locations, except perhaps a blue scribble of river, or those tentative a light gray tracings that represent routes that might one day be a road, but are certainly not recommended for driving. Now picture the bus you took to school every day in 4th grade (assuming you attended between the years of 1975 and 1995), pack the inside with roughly 80 people (seats filled, people standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisles), cover the roof with luggage, canvas sacks of beans, and anywhere from 5-25 young men sitting on top. This is the bus from Esteli to Lagartillo. Depending on the terrain and whether it is ascending or descending, it travels at a pace that oscillates between Sunday jogger and brake neck downhill skier: thus the 50 km trip that takes 2 hours, that is, if the cattle herds are quick to move aside for the bus to plow through. Luckily, there were a few other people heading to Lagartillo on the same bus from Esteli (there are only 2/day). Otherwise, we would have missed it completely, not knowing to get off at the intersection with the black and red posts and walk 1 km northwest into "town".

To the untrained eye Lagartillo is nothing more than an understatement of its true grandeur. The single strip of brick, double occupancy homes, the school, and the small memorial park doesn't immediately let on that this community is home to a nationally acclaimed theater group, a home-made public water supply, six martyrs to the revolution, an internationally recognized artist, and possibly the best Spanish school in Central America. And all of this possible without electricity (save some solar lights and a small community owned diesel generator) or indoor plumbing. Needles to say I spent my two weeks learning much more than how to speak Spanish.

My Lagartillo family--the family I was placed in and return to visit regularly, the family that taught me how to make tortillas and milk cows, the family that has far more members than beds, but always manages to find room for one more--is the Osorio Perez family. Not to be confused with the Perez Osorio family, or any one of the other like-sounding Perez family extensions, because, as you may already have guessed, almost everyone in Lagartillo is related by blood or marriage. My host mother, Juana Maria Perez, unquestionably holds a place on my list of "most amazing people I have met". Juana Maria is the type of woman who has so fully embodied the role of mother, caretaker, and protector that in her presence you feel utterly provided for. She possesses the political will of an ox, and the patience and tenderness of a kindergarten teacher. Having raised ten children through two bloody wars and looming abject poverty, she has redefined my understanding of heroism, strength, and leadership. And she is just one of the ranks of true revolutionaries I met in that town.

Since those two weeks amounted to enough compelling material to fill a book (which I, incidentally, will be making) I wont even try to explain it all. I will, however, include captioned photographs, which will hopefully each stand in for the 1000 words they claim worthy to.

While in Lagartillo my Spanish improved dramatically, mostly because I desperately wanted to talk about the town's amazing history and unwavering strength of community. I am fairly comfortable categorizing my language skills as intermediate. Seeing as how my knowledge of Spanish back in September amounted to a Mexican restaurant menu, I feel pleased with my progress. And for those of you who were wondering, yes, I think I can go buy that hairbrush now.

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