Serving in Nica-time: Day Five

Day Five:

(Disclaimer: There are probably several mistakes and misspellings and errors of thought in these posts. By the end of the night, I'm about tuckered out, but I want to get my thoughts down before I go to sleep. It's 10:39 right now in Nicaragua as I'm posting this, which is 12:39 a.m. eastern time--my day started at 4:00 a.m,, which is 6:00 a.m. eastern time--the time I usually wake up at home. When I return from clinic at the end of each day, I try to upload the day's photos right away, but this little laptop takes a long time, and the internet service is working as hard as it can to post the pictures. It usually takes me most of the evening, and there's often other things happening that keep me from getting it all done before I collapse. Today, I got the bright idea that I would take my laptop and do my writing while everyone else is doing their jobs, but, alas, laptops are not allowed in clinics, and my dumb arthritis won't let me write longhand for more than a sentence or two. By the time I finally get all my thoughts down, I don't even want to think about going back and correcting my spelling mistakes. I hope you can see past them to the intent of what I'm trying to say.)

It's about noon and I'm sitting at the weight and height station just inside the large wooden door at Guadalupe Arriba. The door is swung open, and Chris is in front of me making balloon animals for the children, the sun streaming in and throwing this gorgeous golden light on their faces. Of course, the adults are interested, too. Last night, Chris practiced with the two large bags she ordered online before she came, hundreds of long balloons in "carnival colors," which she says aren't quite as bright as she had hoped they would be. It doesn't matter to the children. They're loving every minute of it. It looks like Chris is, too.

This is the third clinic day we've had since we've been in Nicaragua. Every day, every building, has a feel and character of its own. The way of speaking here, for instance, seems to be different from the other areas we've visited so far. The translators are having a little bit of a harder time understanding because the people talk so quietly. Nelson said it's likely they aren't used to having people visit from other places, so they're slow to speak. Most of them seem to have a hard time looking us strange visitors in the eye. They love having their photos taken, though, and I've learned to point to the lens and say, "¡Mira aquí, por favor!" While they often look so very, very serious in the photos, as soon as I turn the camera around and show them the result, they smile and laugh and nod and say, "Gracias," then point to their child or their mother or their friend and say, "¡Ahora ella!" or "¡Ahora él!" or "¡Mi hijo/hija!" Some of the children will lift a finger and say, "¡Aquí!" And then, the moment the lens is directed at them, they will strike a solemn pose and wait. When I take a photo of an older woman then show it to her, she will often laugh and cover her mouth. I try to tell each person that they're beautiful, or handsome, or that the picture is very good. The very elderly usually put their hand on my shoulder and start talking and talking. Today, Carlos, one of the translators, called me over because he thought I would like to take a photo of a 70-year-old man, Salvador, who was seeing one of the nurses. I took Salvador's photos, showed it to him, and told him he was "muy guapo." He started talking right away, so I asked the translator to ask him how he felt about getting his photo taken. He nodded and said he liked it very much, that he thought it was very good that I was taking pictures. I asked him if he liked seeing his own photo, and he said, yes. Yes, very much.

Being a person who loves communicating, who loves telling stories and, especially, listening to them, this trip has been quite a challenge for me. One of my favorite past times is asking questions, finding out a person's history and discovering the things that really matter to them. Here, I can't do that except for with my own team members. And that's wonderful, because I love hearing their stories ,too. But the people here have such amazing stories of hard work and love and loss and family, so it's frustrating to lack the language tools necessary to hear what they have to say.

This morning, I met pastor Alberto. I offered the standard greeting, and he began speaking to me very quickly in Spanish. "No hablo español," I said, which was an improvement over yesterday when I was saying, "No habla español," which, as Jeff told me, means no Spanish is spoken here. This must have thrown the poor people I spoke with into a panic wondering how they were going to convey their medical concerns to this crew of Americans if no one spoke their language. I tried, with Alberto, to tell him my name, and to tell him Jaynie's name, and to tell him Lori's name, but he said he didn't understand. So we just stood beside each other in silence, not able to talk about the weather, or the beautiful church we were standing beside, or the precious baby playing beside us in the dirt. I know it's okay to simply stand in silence next to someone, but when you'd prefer to hear all about their life, their past, their faith, their pains and joys--it's frustrating.

The ropa y zapatos room is in Alberto's room. When we arrived, there were two young children sitting on the bed in Alberto's room playing instruments that looked like guitars. Perry got a great video of the boy playing. A quick look around the room revealed several instruments--the two guitars, plus a tambourine and what looked like a big guitar when a rounded back. "¿Què es eso?" He told me what it was, but I couldn't understand, so I asked, "Is it a bass?" He looked at me blankly, of course, so I pantomimed playing a bass and tried to sound like one, too. "Boom, boom, boom?" "Si!" he said. "Si!" He played it for a minute, and, yep, sure enough, it was a bass.

I met a little girl I called my "gemela con zapatos rojos," my twin with red shoes. She had bright red Converse tennis shoes on, just like I have been wearing to clinics. Though I could say little more than "zapatos rojos," it was fun to make even a small connection. She then taught me the names of all the colors for the shoes that her friends and sisters were wearing. I had Jaynie take a picture of our four red shoes together, and then I took a photo of her beautiful face.

Several people who have seen the photos I've posted on Facebook have said that the people here are so beautiful and look healthy enough. Are they really in need? The answer is yes. Yes, they are. Here are a few things I've learned while I've been here, because I knew virtually nothing about Nicaragua before I came: It's not uncommon for people to lose loved ones--children, spouses, parents--to parasites. A woman I photographed yesterday named Ursula lost four children and a husband to parasites--or at least that's what she thinks happened. She can't know for sure because they had no reliable access to healthcare. Now she only has her young granddaughter and great granddaughter as family, but no way of providing for them because she can't see.

In Nicaragua, adolescent pregnancies account for 1 in 4 births nationally. On the first day of clinic, I held the baby of a young girl who looked to be no more than 12. She was alone--no man, no parents, no grandparents. The baby was wearing a rag covered in a pink grocery bag for a diaper. She was a very loving and protective mama. She held that baby close to her the whole day. When I held the baby for just a minute, she became very anxious and wanted her back. Her face was so sweet and round, she looked like a baby herself.
More than 30% of children have some degree of chronic malnutrition, and almost 10% suffer from severe malnutrition. During one clinic, Dr. Andy had concerns that a young girl was suffering from anemia, and he asked the mama if she had pollo in the house. No, no pollo. Tortillas? No, no tortillas. Each thing he would ask about, the answer was no. One little girl's face was so pale from anemia, and she wouldn't even speak or smile. Her mother said she barely ate and didn't care to drink, either. When asked if the little girl drank a "lot" of water during the day, the mama said, "Yes. She drinks one glass a day." Today, a young boy reluctantly told one of the care providers that he was unable to see the chalkboard in the classroom and that he doesn't see cars until they're upon him. The care provider said he was smart and got good grades, but without being able to see the board in class, he was essentially teaching himself. Consider this--more than 50% of the U.S. population wears contacts or glasses, but in rural Nicaragua, you rarely see a person with glasses, because they don't have access to eye care. Most of the country's income goes to the richest people in the country, while less than 15% goes to the poorest. The work the rural people do here is very difficult and labor intensive. Parents will often lie about their children's ages for them to work. A middle-aged woman at yesterday's clinic had been picking coffee beans since she was 12. Even so, the working people live on only about $1 per day. Some of the poorest people are elderly women who are the heads of their households, which is the case in about 1 in 3 households. And yet, very few women own the land they live on, and most work on land that will never belong to them. One woman Dr. Andy saw this week had such terribly debilitating rheumatoid arthritis in all of her joints--misshapen hands, swollen knees, pain in her elbows--that she lived in constant pain. If she had happened to have been born in the United States, she would likely have had a knee replacement. But here in Nicaragua, she can only hope to manage her pain. We had run out of arthritis medicine, too, though she was able to leave with ibuprofen to ease the pain. The people here have been handed so much political unrest, natural disaster, inadequate infrastructure, and little or no access to basic human necessities like clean water, education, employment, and healthcare. And so much of it has only to do with the fact that they were born here and not somewhere else. The place of their birth. That's it. That, in and of itself, becomes a major factor in their quality of life.

I'm not saying it's necessary to travel to a developing country to serve others. There are people within five minutes of me who are in need. But my feeling is this--if you feel pulled toward a place, if you feel a responsibility to it and to its people, if a particular geographic location captures your heart and tugs you back there again and again, then go. Be there. Do what you're skilled to do. Helping to meet basic human need is never a mistake, regardless of where it is.

The day is winding down now, and the last patients are being seen. Tomorrow will be our last clinic day. It's hard to believe, because it feels like we've just begun. It's so strange, because time does become virtually nonexistent here. Returning home and having a schedule and certain times you have to be certain places will be very strange. I'm not sure I'll be able to adjust again. I might just have to stay on Nica-time for the rest of my life. Lo siento, friends and family.

Much love now and more later from San Ramon, Nicaragua.

Serving in Nica-time: Day Three

Day Three: March 16, 2015

Lo siento. Lo siento. Lo siento. It's one Spanish phrase I'm pretty good at saying. I say it when I'm squeezing through the narrow aisle of the bus with my camera dangling from my neck, my camera bag jutting from my hip, and my big backpack swinging into everyone's faces. Lo siento if I hit you with my pack. Lo siento if I step on your toe. 

Yesterday was our first clinic day, so after a morning of packing the bus and loading our backpacks with the supplies our hosts suggested (flashlight, roll of toilet paper, water bottle, snacks, hand sanitizer), we climbed aboard the bus and lumbered up the bumpy roads. We passed through the main part of town, bustling with locals who were popping in and out of shops. We passed la biblioteca pública and a little shop whose exterior stucco walls were hand-painted with logos--Google, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. Buildings are bright blue, pink, and orange. Up, up, up the bus climbed until we reached a sharp turn up a steep, gravel road, one side lined with coffee plants, the other with tiny houses built from brick. Some had windows blocked by corrugated steel or thick steel bars. Most had one or two lazy, emaciated dogs lounging in the dirt. Lo siento, little doggies. Lo siento, perros flacos.

The people were lined outside the door when we arrived. I waited in the back of the bus until those ahead of me were off so I didn't thwack them in the head with my backpack or my camera. Before the trip, Jaynie and I had purchased two new camera lenses to take along. I had agonized a bit over whether to purchase a telephoto or a wide angle. Once I was inside the little Nicaraguan church, I knew the wide angle 17-35mm had been the right choice. There was very little room to move around, so taking in a lot from close up is so helpful. Plus, I must admit, I'm sort of a sucker for those documentary-style wide-angle shots.

One of the first patients was an older blind man in a white hat and white shirt who came hobbling across the road, his cane cautiously feeling the way in front of him. Justin, our team ranchero who keeps things running smoothly, took him by the elbow and guided him into the church. The man told Dr. Andy that he was having trouble sleeping because his whole body would itch. He wasn't eating much, either. Andy told us later that the man had spent much of his life drinking, which I suppose contributed to his blindness, and now he had cirrhosis of the liver. I'm sorry, blind man. Lo siento. 

All through the day, Tanya would call out "Próximo!" and then Perry would go to the door and call out "Próximo!" And the next person would be lead to the triage table to tell the worker their name and why they were there. By the end of the day, we would see more than 100 people, treating more than 300 people, including the other people in each person's household. They received treatment for parasites, and joint pain, and headaches, and stomach problems. The farmacia team would dispense hundreds of doses of ibuprofen, vitamins, TUMS, antibiotic, Bag Balm, and hydrocortisone cream. 

In the ropa y zapatos room, Jaynie and Lori spent the day distributing the clothing and shoes that had been donated for the mission. They ran out of shoes quickly, and women's clothing soon after that. Women came for clothes, and Jaynie had to tell them, "No mas. Lo siento." Men came for shoes, and Lori had to tell them, "Lo siento. No mas. Lo siento." It's hard to say no to someone who is standing in front of you and trying to decipher your rudimentary Spanish. It's hard to say no to someone who could really use a gently-used pair of shoes. But the airlines only allotted us one 50-pound piece of luggage each, and then we paid for another 50-pound piece, but those were mostly for supplies. An additional bag, Kathy told me, cost $125 to check. 

But there were plenty of people who did receive clothing and shoes and hats. The older woman with the green bandana who hugged me for taking her photo really loved the dress she received. There were little boys who received shirts and pants, and little girls who received shoes and dresses. Lori gave away a dress that Chris had helped her granddaughter Katie make as a sewing project. The dress has a new home in a little mountain village near San Ramon, Nicaragua. 

For the first part of the day, the ropa y zapatos team had a hard time communicating with the Nicaraguan people. Neither of them spoke Spanish, so they found themselves pointing and shrugging a lot. The translators were working with the doctors and the dentists and the nurses. Lo siento, ropa y zapatos team! Lo siento! Then along came Javier who lived in the village and had spent three years in Belize where he had learned English and spoke it fluently. Javier taught us to say, "hermosa," and "no mas zapatos," and "muy guapo," and "¡qué linda es!" At one point, I took a photo of a young man leaning against the doorway of the room, a beautiful halo of light framing his face. "Muy guape!" I said. Javier laughed. "Guapo," he corrected me. "Guapo." Lo siento, man in the doorway. I asked Javier what I had said, and he said it didn't really mean anything, but I had almost said, "cuate" which means "twins." 

"So if I see handsome twins, I can call them cuates guapos?" 

"Si," Javier laughed, "you can call them cuates guapos." 

Javier told me that it's very hard to find work. He preaches during the week, and he finds whatever work he can in the village, but he said it's not easy. 

While I was in the ropa y zapatos room eating my lunch of enchilada on a crispy tostada, an elderly man hovered around the clothing table, picking up pieces, holding them up, and then putting them back down. Each

patient receives a card during their visit, and some are given the option of choosing clothing while it's determined that others don't have quite as much need. The man had already been through the ropa y zapatos station, but he seemed to feel he had forgotten something. A Cincinnati Reds baseball cap had caught his eye, and he turned it round and round in his hands. The man wasn't going to ask for the hat, so Jaynie offered it to him as part of his allotted ropa. Immediately, he placed it on his head and hugged each of us tightly before posing for a portrait with his new hat.

 

The dental team worked on the raised platform of the church, the feet of Dr. Lindsay's patients jutting out into the alley beside the building. Dr. Lindsay hovered over the patients, touching each of their teeth, asking, "Dolor?" The first man she saw had his lower seven teeth extracted. Watching the team work was amazing. So much compassion. So much patience. Their assistant, David, gladly responded to their beck and call, cleaning instruments and handing out stickers to the children, and doing anything that was asked of him, all with a big smile on his face. At one point, he was so eager to get from one place to another, landing him on the floor. "Are you okay, David?" I asked. Without a moment's hesitation, he popped back onto his feet and called out, "I'm great!" 

Sometime during the day, I plopped onto the floor next to the height and weight team of Chris and Annie. I sanitized my hands and pulled a bag of roasted, salted almonds from my pack. A little boy stood in front of me, so I asked him his name. "Mi nombre es Memito," he said. I held out the bag of almonds, and Memito shyly took a couple and popped them into his mouth. After he had chewed and swallowed them, I asked him if he liked them. "La gusta?" He nodded, so I held out the bag again. He took a few more almonds than the first time. After he had eaten them, I held out the bag again. As his mother called him away, he stuck his hand in the bag and grabbed as many almonds as he could. I guided his other hand into the bag, and he filled that one, too before running off. A few minutes later, he was back, and I offered him the bag again. This time, I noticed he had a small pocket on the front of his pants, so I held it open, and he caught onto the idea quickly, filling the pocket with almonds. The next time he came back, there were only a few almonds left in the zip-top bag, so I gave it to him. Immediately, he tried to share his new acquisition with me. A lot of the mothers struggle to provide enough protein for their children. I wished I could pack a whole suitcase full of almonds and fill all the pockets of all the children there. 

At the end of the day, Nelson, the codirector of Corner of Love, presented the hosting church with the proceeds from the day. Each patient must purchase a ticket for a very small sum in order to be seen, and those funds are given to the organization that opens their doors to the Corner of Love clinic. After the presentation, Javier prayed. I could understand about zero of what he was saying during that prayer, but, let me tell you what--that man prayed with such passion and fervor that tears were streaming down my cheeks by the time he said, "Amen."

 

And almost as soon as it had begun, the day was over, the supplies were packed back onto the truck and the bus, and everyone was saying, "Adios," and "gracias" to everyone else. Javier gave me and the ropa girls big hugs, saying he would miss us so much. We agreed that we would miss him, too. 

Okay, I'll admit this one thing. I have trouble sometimes owning my feelings. I often think I *shouldn't* feel a certain way. That if I'm sad about something, it's because of my faulty way of thinking, and I shouldn't feel sad. If I feel proud of something, I think it's wrong of me to feel proud. I think about this post even now, and I think, "Should I really feel that way?"

But here's the truth about today. I said "lo siento" a lot. Or at least I thought it. I felt sorry that I didn't have more almonds, or more ropa, or more zapatos. I felt sorry that I couldn't understand the woman with the green bandana when she held my hand and spoke to me in Spanish. I felt sorry that I said, "hermana" instead of "hermosa" when I was trying to tell the young girl how pretty she was. I felt sorry that I couldn't say, "Desculpa, por favor" properly when I was trying to squeeze through the crowd. I felt sorry that I couldn't feed the skinny dogs or translate for the dentists or take the perfect picture or hand out medicine or hold someone's hand and say, "It's okay. It will be all right." I will own those feelings, whether they are naive or silly or misguided. What I felt was sorry, and that's all I can own--my feelings. Sorry that I couldn't do more, say more, know more. I am trying to be glad for what the team is able to do, which is a LOT. They are the doctors and the dentists and the nurses. They are doing miracles. They are the rock stars. But I do feel inadequate. I'll surely do the best with what I have, though, because I know there are miracles here, even if I can't see them all. That's nothing to be sorry for.  

  

Much love now and more later from San Ramon, Nicaragua. 

Serving in Nica-time: Day One

Day one: March 14, 2015: More than flexible

"Not just flexible," the Corner of Love handbook says, "but FLUID."

The first day initiated the travelers--all 24 of us--to the concept of fluidity. Fluid, for some of us, meant waking at 4 am to arrive at Akron Canton airport by 9 am for a 11am flight. For others, it meant heading back to the counter to print out boarding passes when the ones printed at home weren't scanning properly. For some of us, it was a first-time experience to juggle bags of liquids, take off our shoes, and heave heavy carry-on bags onto the conveyor. Or maybe finding out what happens when you accidentally toss your boarding pass in the trash with your water bottle (not much--they can print another one again fairly easily). Saying goodbye to loved ones. Leaving behind the known and familiar. Heading for the curious and mysterious "somewhere else" of San Ramon, Matagalpa, Nicaragua. 

For my daughter Jaynie and me, the fluidity also included boarding a plane for the first time, settling in together with lots of friends (all wearing our tan Corner of Love shirts) and strangers within a svelte hunk of metal, awaiting the moment when the pilot would dart down the runway, picking up speed faster than my husband in our Honda along the back roads of Holmes County. The plane, not unlike the Honda, Barreling, rattling, lurching, and then--voila!-- (quite unlike the Honda) aloft, hanging in the sky, sailing gently, clouds blocking out the ground on which we had solidly stood just an hour before. And then the whole thing in reverse order--aloft, lurching, rattling, barreling, and, this time, braking. 

Fluidity, too, meant a long layover in Atlanta and fumbling through the trash for Jaynie's boarding pass before discovering it could be printed again. A train to our concourse. A meal in the food court. Sushi at a little in-airport spot called One Flew South where the first question the server would ask each diner was, "How long do you have?" Art above each waiting area and encased along the walls. Ceramics and sculptures and installation pieces of giant animals or bugs formed from bronze and hanging from the ceiling. Our team members mingled with one another, began bonding. We talked about aeronautics and canards on airplanes, about previous flights and mission trips. Some scrolled through Facebook news feeds and others read books and others knitted the hours away. And then the flight was delayed. And again. But, fluidity, remember. Preparation for our time in Nicaragua. Where did we need to hurry to? Andy, our team leader, was waiting patiently in the temperate 80 degree Managua and would be there when we arrived. 

In the air again. A group of young people shared our flight--a crew donning green shirts and headed for a town about 2.5 hours north of Managua with a primary focus on providing clean water. We talked to a young man aboard who has been to that town about 15 times in his life. I joked that he must have started when he was four, and I wasn't far off--it was 10. His enthusiasm for providing such a basic human need was inspiring. 

The flight attendants served sandwiches to us, and peanuts in little pouches, and small squares of chocolate chip blondes. I got to know Nadine, who had been brave enough to sandwich herself between Jaynie and me. While Jaynie watched the world pass below us from her window seat, Nadine and I talked about her family, her career (calling, really) as a nurse, her sister Betty's career (calling, too) as a Navy nurse (they were both along for this adventure), and what this trip would mean to us. I think we both got a little bit emotional talking about how humbled we felt to be able to strike out on such an adventure, thanks to the support of generous and unbelievably supportive people. 

And when we did arrive, fluidity meant ignoring full bladders and heavy backpacks to stop in the hallway and fill out the new customs forms Nicaragua had just created, then waiting some more to be photographed, have our passports stamped, pay our $10 visa, and slip into this new country. Some of us took the "slipping" business a little too far. 

A carousel of luggage circled round and round in the center of the Managua airport. Each of us had checked two 50-pound suitcases or duffles crammed full of supplies--pain relievers and stuffed animals and ziplock bags and Sharpies--and now it was time to claim those bags. For me, fluidity meant falling on my behind as a result of racing across slick tile in an effort to save my pack (containing my laptop) from being smashed beneath the wheels of a luggage cart piled with hundreds of pounds of medical supplies. I was all right, and so was the pack, and though I was splayed on the floor very indelicately, my dignity was saved as arms reached out--familiar American arms and unfamiliar Nicaraguan arms--and hoisted me to my feet. All of those cell phones tucked in pockets and no one caught my performance. 

Fluidity meant meeting our leader and waiting for the co-director, Nelson, who had been suddenly taken ill, but, nonetheless, arrived to receive us and stood on the back of the white pickup truck to load up our bags. Then, the two-hour bus drive in the dark to the compound. Hills and speed bumps and steep roads. Unloading damp luggage from the top of the van and the back of the truck. Letting those at home know we'd arrived with a quick text and an "I-love-you-so." And now, the compound--quiet but for the hum of the fan and the tapping of these keys. My roommates Anita and Lori and Chris are fast asleep. 1:19 here. At home, 3:19. For some here, the first 24 hours has passed since their adventure began at 4 o'clock this morning.

A fluid day, indeed.