My addiction with Nic

 

I went on a trip to Nicaragua for two weeks.

It’s been hard to write about because, as is my constant struggle, I feel like my words are inadequate, unequal and never enough. The day after I got back, I couldn’t do anything. My pajamas and I watched Harry Potter all day while thinking about how we should actually be doing something that needed to get done, like homework. Talking to me that day was not fun, I apologize dad, sister, host family, Harry Potter…

I took pictures in Nicaragua with my film cameras. I probably won’t get them developed until I go back to the States for lack of funds and Spanish vocabulary in the photo development process. But, what I do have are two postcards I bought at a craft sale of photographs from the revolution and a poem written by my own humble hands.

If Nicaragua were a place, it would be a boxing ring. 
This place, it’s in your face, it’s exciting and interesting
you want to watch what happens next but at the same time there’s something wrong with that 
and you get disgusted with yourself.

This poem is written next to my grocery list

I will buy these things at Pali this afternoon

An Avocado, Tomato

Carrots, Corn Flakes

Tortillas, Cheese

Yogurt, and ice cream

The boxers that play in the ring are worn out but so driven to win

This poem is brushed up against my keys

This poem was written with a broken pencil

This poem isn’t afraid of getting wet from my water bottle of clean water

This poem does not have order, organization and sense

No simile mocks my subject

In a poem you usually have descriptions with adjectives that are silky, soft, and sensitive

In this poem, you won’t find eloquent, elusive, imagination

It’s not fair to its readers

Strong and sweating to the finish they fight not giving up even when they are repeatedly beaten down

The spectators make bets and sometimes the game is predetermined, corrupted by hunger for money

The boxer knows this, and takes the hits anyway.

This poem means something to me

It was written in my own backyard

You see, I am from the United States

I am from me me me and take take take

Media consumption, a socialist phobia, and a fat wad of opportunity

I also came from

A house that kept the rain out,

I had a loving father who respected the women in the family

And enough food to live and be healthy

You reader, like the blind man who would hold out his hand on the street, can’t see

And I don’t know if I can properly explain

When you only have a paper and pencil in a place

Where a ten-year-old boy is shot

For his shoes

At the game it’s sweaty, hot and loud 
cheap food is being sold in the allies and aisles, 
trash is scattered on the ground because people have the mentality that someone will clean it up 
or maybe they just don’t care.

A 14-year-old girl’s body was found discarded in the sewage after being raped

Someone else will clean it up

I don’t want you to TAKE this story,

Like how I sat and took notes on the different women I talked to

I wrote as a pathetic distraction

Forming words that printed on my page

English as a code of translation but still not understanding

Take these words as braille

The government in Nicaragua is like that “referee” in the match 
Unemotionally making the countdown when the boxer has been knocked down

He’s there watching but not doing anything to stop the violence

When I look at the pages that I have scribbled, it reads things like:

Single Mother

4 children

Question: What’s the first thing you think about when you wake up?

Answer: Making breakfast for my kids so I can get them to school on time.
Sometimes when she can afford to take the time to go to the doctor,
but she only has enough money to help herself or her children, 
who is she going to pick?

Different House

Single Mother

5 children

Question: What do you wish for your eldest daughter?

She says for her to have an education because i never got that chance
But sometimes, for the family, she sends her daughter to work, to contribute, to sell her body,
to be a prostitute

Even the lighting is similar in the boxing ring to the sun that beats down in Nicaragua, 
In the background there’s a constant unanimous cry from the crowd for a win,
for the fight to finally be over

Another House

Another Mother

3 children

She said to me that if her husband had any second alone with her, he would rape her.

Sometimes she doesn't have food to feed her crying child so she gives them glue to sniff to curb the hunger

Sometimes I think I am the one in the ring…

I left in tears but my body felt more then the downpour

A squirming of my organs, the pumping of my blood and the prospect of my earlier meal going in the reverse direction it went down

All I have for you is my words

My process for writing is never-ending revision but what makes this poem unfinished is its lack of title…

This only portrays one element of Nicaragua that I learned about, the poverty and the realities that people live in. I also visited two indigenous communities. At one we were shown ancient pre-Columbian art that had been preserved on the rocks of this protected area. I also looked at women’s health learning that Nicaragua recently outlawed therapeutic abortion (1 of 4 other countries in the entire world). I learned a little about the tourism industry seeing the complexities of it play out in front of me one night when I was out with my friends. There are young boys who have baskets full of things to sell (candy, cigarettes etc.) and as we sat in the restaurant we watched a boy talk to two men (gringos) and then introduce them to some nearby not seemingly looking prostitutes. The young boy made hand gestures for blowjobs and other things having this whole conversation. The men declined but this interaction that we witnessed was referred to as human trafficking. What?! Punch in the face! I saw this happen? This happened in an establishment that gave information-warning tourists not to buy from these street kids on their menu? Not to mention the young boy, who was probably about 10 years old, was HIGH! You see sniffing glue is popular because its cheap and accessible, and most importantly it curbs the hunger. slap slap SLAP! And I was told that tourism isn’t the biggest demand for prostitution its local… Fuuuuuuuck

These are only some small local problems. I am overwhelmed with the structural problems that Nicaragua has. Political corruption, environmental deterioration they have it all and yet the people stay strong and i can't help but be a little addicted to this place even though i want to leave at the same time.

I literally retreated to a yoga retreat for two days in Nicaragua. We had Yoga twice a day and some chanting sometimes. It was a beautiful place with a saline pool, a huge bed with an amazing shower and bathroom! The only problem, a SCORPION. yeah not ok, in my room, on the floor, next to the bed. Me and my roommate after calmly acknowledging the problem (screaming and jumping up and down) killed it with a shoe, quite the team effort as i chickened out after i hit it once with my shoe and she finished the job putting the thing out of its misery. The scropion was accompanied by giant flying ants and hand size spiders. They made up for the bugs with the food they fed us! oh my gosh, vegetarian usually vegan deliciousness..curries, salads mmmmmmm 

The second to last day at the yoga retreat was my birthday, i got my first professional message ever. The day didn't really feel like my birthday but i am ok with that. After 18 years of spending my birthday with my family their absence made me feel that much older. Its a new year of traditions and i am getting older whether i still laugh at jokes about poop or not.

 One year older, one more country, and a whole year of experiences carved into the curves, cavities and callus' marking my body leaving a permanent effect on who i am and who i will be next year.