Of Chicken and Men

“You didn’t know they don’t lay eggs in the winter?”

I looked at him, a bit embarrassed.

“You must learn more about animals. In the winter they expend their energy on growing more plumage; so they don’t lay any eggs.”

He was an old man in a blue bucket hat, with Jewish features, and a quick laugh. He wanted to demonstrate to me the importance of studying animal behavior, so as the chickens approached the patio table where we were enjoying our lunch, he grabbed ahold of a piece of bread and held out a crumb between his thumb and index finger.

“Lets see who comes and gets it first.”

Between the group of chickens, a couple were of the ordinary variety (the type one usually has a clear mental image of in their head) while the rest were Chinese chickens, who have extra feathers on their heads that make it look like they are wearing extravagant “Sunday Church” hats. The first to approach him was an “ordinary” chicken, which is slightly larger than the Chinese chicken, and perhaps, as a result, a little less shy. The old man tried to get one of the Chinese chickens to eat from his palm, but they hesitated.

“It’s because they don’t know you,” he remarked.

Then he began to throw the crumbs out on the patio to see who would grab them first. The old man wanted to show me something about the two Chinese roosters that were in the crowd, which he called “the bosses.” As he threw crumbs at them, it became clear that they would approach the piece of bread but would always be too slow on the uptake; a female chicken would come in and snatch it from them immediately. Not only that, but at times it looked as if they were simply waiting for the female chickens to arrive and take the crumb from right under their beaks.

As the man explained: that was precisely what was happening. “It’s chivalry,” he explained. The more I observed, the more convinced I became that he was right. The roosters would head to the crumb, stand over it, and let out a cluck to announce to the other chickens the food's location, while never reaching down to peck at it. The rooster was instinctively awarding the food to the female chickens, under the assumption that they needed it to produce eggs.

Soon a regular rooster arrived at the scene, larger and more majestic than its Chinese counterparts. The old man explained that this rooster had actually been given to him by one of his grown children, who had had it cooped up inside his family’s house until the animal became too much of a burden. When he threw crumbs at this rooster, it did not hesitate and quickly snatched up the free food without even considering the female chickens around him.

“That’s because he grew up in isolation and was never socialized. It’s not chivalrous. It’s a ‘modern’ chicken.”

21 Things I don't want to forget about Jamaica

1. Listening to Spice sing about her needle-eye "pum pum" at insane decibal levels on a minibus packed with elementary school children.
2. Elementary school kids who are insanely good at adulting; traveling across the city in overcrowded public buses full of peddlers, with their little siblings by the hand.
3. A taxi driver explaining that the reason Jamaicans don't share their marijuana spliffs is because you never know whether or not the person you pass your joint to has performed oral sex on a woman. (He may have been making direct reference to this song.)
• Many Jamaican men oppose performing oral on women and find the practice "unhygienic", although the jury's still out on whether or not they truly abstain in the privacy of the bedroom.
• Other potential reasons that I've heard for Jamaicans not sharing spliffs: Rastas refuse to share their spliff with "meat eaters" (as true Rastas are devout vegans), or perhaps it has to do with men believing that sharing something that has touched another man's lips can be perceived as "gay" (Jamaican men adhere to strict homophobic norms).
4. Jamaican superstars being treated as regular people who seem able to just chill amongst the crowds and enjoy everyday delights.
5. The dance scene: students that dance as part of marching band crews in high school (and have dance offs with rival schools); young adults in crews that perform every night at different dance hall parties; the dance crazes that sweep through the scene (Puppy Tail, the Jamaican Thief, etc.).
6. The sheer amount of playful, mischievous fun that goes into a dancehall "performances" which party-goers take in with critical gusto, as if an audience at a play.
• The staged dispute between a dancer and the DJ (or "selecta") over the kind of music being played.
• A random elderly man pretending to force himself onto one of the young dancers before going into a "Daggering" dance routine.
7. Being called "mi boss", "mi general", "chief".
8. The slow buildup to parties and its different phases of music: starting with ska and rocksteady, followed by roots and dub, 80s dancehall, up to the latest hits by Vybz Kartel and Mavado.
9. The young men carrying huge sound systems on dollies with boxes full of pirated CDs on top, who walk around playing tunes on the street to attract customers.
10. The minutes (and sometimes hours) long shouting matches over an uncalled foul in a pick-up game of basketball, or over the rightful place of Alkaline within the dancehall greats, or over a cab fare. 
11. The sucking of one's teeth to demonstrate displeasure.
12. The night scenes: the Rastas and their nightly dub parties and live musical events; the dancehall scene with it's numerous "yard" parties and after-parties; the uptown nightclubs.
13. The Rasta men at dancehall parties roaming around like popcorn vendors at a ballpark, with trays full of lighters, open packs of cigarettes, gum, rolling papers, and long branches covered in marijuana buds, which they distribute to customers by picking chunks off like grapes and plopping them down into people's palms.
14. The large black plastic bags full of marijuana branches that many small shopkeepers keep stowed away, in case a shopper comes by and asks to buy a little.
15. The Chinese shopkeepers behind the barricaded counter whom the Jamaicans treat with a certain amount of disparaging indifference (calling them "Chin" or "Chinaman"), who set up shop in neighborhoods even the Jamaican entrepreneurs avoid.
16. The unlit spliffs hanging from the mouths of young laborers as they deliver merchandise to the different "wholesale" storefronts.
17. The diversity of hairstyles: wigs, extensions, straighteners, braids, cornrows, dreads... 
18. The complex gradient of English and Jamaican patois spoken around the city, with distinctions between "downtown" and "uptown" patois coupled with the formalized use among the bureaucratic and upper-class establishment of the "Queen's English".
19. The centrality of music to people's every day lives: spilling out from cars, buses, churches, bars, homes, businesses...
20. The Rasta culture of sitting down, smoking a spliff and "reasoning" with a group of friends and acquaintances.
21. The legendary studios and streets in the downtown area that have slowly disappeared or gone into disrepair.

Politics in Nicaragua: The Ugly

On the morning of November 5th, 2012, a group of protesters began to gather in front of the main voting center in the small northwestern town of Ciudad Dario, Nicaragua. A day earlier, on Sunday, the town had gone to the polls to vote for an alcalde. It had been a bright, sunny day, as usual, and the townspeople had woken up early to visit their local polling center, where they had waited patiently in line to cast their votes. Afterwards they had proudly showed off their ink-purple thumbs to their family and friends, proof that they had exercised their civic duty, as they went about their usual Sunday business. Though sporadic violence had become an unfortunate and regular part of previous elections in Ciudad Dario, on this day, it was almost dead silent—except for the soft, ominous murmur (like the sound of the first bubbles in boiling water) of people sitting in plastic chairs on the sidewalk in front of their houses.

I had thought that perhaps this election would be different. The run-up had certainly felt less tense than the run-up to the presidential election a year earlier. Maybe, I thought, the opposition in Ciudad Dario had resigned themselves to losing (even unfairly), like the opposition had in most other parts of the country. By nightfall, however, I began to witness the first signs of a potential battle. All the comedors were closed, which I found odd, but I managed to grab a bite at a place that had leftovers. On the way home, I passed the alcaldia building, which is on the corner facing the town square, and as I kept walking north I came across a group of hooded youth, their faces covered with bandannas. Not a good sign.

Politics in Nicaragua: The Bad

“I know whose going to win the election. I even know by how much,” he said as he sipped on a large bowl of meat soup. It was October 22nd, 2011; two weeks before the Nicaraguan Presidential elections. By that point, it wasn't surprising to hear someone claim to know who was going to win (most people, even in the opposition, accepted the undeniable popularity of the incumbent, Daniel Ortega), but it was the first time I’d heard a Nicaraguan say that he knew what the actual results would be. “Ortega will win with at least 56% of the vote,” he said with a picaresque smile.

I didn't know this at the time, but my friend hadn't just picked the 56% mark by chance. It was the percentage the Sandinista party needed to achieve an absolute majority in the National Assembly. (Voters were expected to vote for a Presidential candidate and a representative in the Assembly; but it was widely understood that most voters voted strictly down party lines.) My friend was a Sandinista, but a pragmatic one, well aware of the current power dynamics in his country. Another friend, a more devout old-school Sandinista, had, a year earlier, expressed his concerns about the possibility of a landslide Sandinista victory in the Presidential elections: “I’m going to start to worry if Daniel gets more than 60%,” he had said.

Politics in Nicaragua: The Good

In 1990, Nicaragua was shocked to find that the Frente Sandinistas de Liberacion Nacional (FSLN), the Marxist-Leninist party that had been in power since their triumph in the popular revolution of 1979, had lost in the first free and fair Presidential election in that country’s history.  The Sandinistas received 40% of the vote, while the loose conglomeration of opposition forces precariously held together by Doña Violeta Barrios de Chamorro, widow to a famous martyred journalist, got 54%.

In the following two decades, while remaining a powerful force in Nicaraguan politics, the Sandinistas failed to win a single presidential election. Daniel Ortega ran and lost three consecutive times.  Support for the party seemed to hover, and remain stuck, around the 40% mark (in 1996 they got 38% of the vote; in 2001 it was 42%). People began to talk about an entrenched minority of diehard Sandinista supporters:  “the 38%” they were called.  Then in 2006, Ortega ran again, and again he got 38%, only this time he won! (The opposition vote was split in two and the runner-up party ended up with just 28% of the vote.)

At last, after more than 15 years, the Sandinistas were back in power.  And since then (curiously or predictably, depending on how you see it), Sandinista support has appeared to skyrocket.  In 2008, the party easily, and controversially, won a majority of the seats in the municipal elections, and in the 2011 presidential elections, Ortega cruised to victory with over 60% of the popular vote. The election monitors found certain irregularities in that last vote, but they did not question the overall results. A year later, Sandinistas now talk of polls that show 80% support countrywide.

Their public support is probably not at 80%, but there is, without question, a growing support for the current government.  Where is this new support coming from and why?  And what are the views of “the 38%”? Why are they so loyal to the Sandinistas?

Politics in Nicaragua: The Scene

Today I start a series on the political environment of present-day Nicaragua.  I begin with the description of an everyday scene that is emblematic of its current political culture.

People had begun to gather at the park since the early hours of the morning.  Mostly women—mothers who, like rocks, had withstood life’s erosions to the point of achieving an ageless quality—dressed in plaid straight skirts and depleted plain-colored v-neck shirts: campesino women.  They assumed their regular pragmatic, cross-armed stance, as they stood waiting in front of and glaring at the town’s alcaldia.

At the entrance of the alcaldia stood two four-foot high jumbo speakers, that now begun playing music at a deafening decibel level.  It was a playlist of around six or seven songs, that would loop round and round for hours and hours until, mercifully, it would be turned off and discontinued at the end of the day.  The songs included an old revolutionary song, the new Sandinista campaign song, and the famous 1990 campaign song celebrating Daniel Ortega as a razorblade-wielding cockfighting gallo. (Eeeeese es Daniel, Daaaniel Orteeega, Es el gallo enavajado que ya tiene preparado el pueblo trabajador.) Groups of volunteers, wearing the newest edition Sandinista party t-shirts (no doubt collected at the last national rally), sat on the steps of the building or on the bed of the pick-ups parked along the street.

The alcalde (mayor) soon arrived from Managua to deliver a loud, rambling, defensive speech to the cheerfully enthusiastic volunteers and the stone-faced waiting women.  The alcalde reminded the crowd of why they were there, which party had made it possible, and how much the government cares about the poor and struggling.  It could easily have been a cheesy, feel-good speech had it not been for the alcalde’s habit of screaming into the microphone, his aggressive gesticulations, and his overall threatening tone.  Once finished, he got back into his Toyota HiLux and drove off.

Finally, the anticipated materials arrived: sheets of zinc used for roofing.  Volunteers helped unload the cargo from the pick-up trucks, while others started taking the names of the women in line and scanning to see if they appeared on the official list.  Groups of bystanders walked by, some whispering to each other: “Look at how they reduce those poor people to public humiliation,” and “They only give the zinc out to people of their own party.”  Throughout the day, the zinc was distributed to the neediest in the community.  “A lot of those people sell them off after they get them,” one bystander says.  But for many, it is a Godsend.  They can now remove their old, crumbling, leaky tile home roofs, and ensure protection against the elements particularly during the intense thunderstorms of the rainy season.

This scene, of poverty-stricken women being given a helping hand while Sandinista propaganda is shoved down their throats, represents Nicaragua’s current political environment.  It is the hallmark of the current populist regime of Daniel Ortega.

In the next post, I will examine the arguments given in support of the Sandinista government.

My Favorite Posts

In honor of reaching my fiftieth post, I've decided to compile a list of some of my favorite writings so far.  Enjoy:

1. my post-modern summer job - When pretending to work becomes work.

2. Game Theory and Tardiness - Something to read while you are waiting on someone.

3. Nicaragua: Names - Why are Nicaraguan names so strange?

4. Valparaiso - Life in a city of squatters.

5. Mexico City - Life in a city of mystics.

6. Bureaucratic Linguistics - When acronyms take over.

7. International School - When pluralism descends into ethnic conflict.

8. Homage to a Friend/Life in Suburbia - The Goodwill bins, mall parking lots, and buddy cop films.

9. Tower of Babel - God reacts to a new skyscraper in Qatar.

10. Radiohead - You are now entering the strange world of indie music.

Nicaragua: The German Century

Founding members of the Deutsche Club in Nicaragua  1901

When one thinks about foreign powers that have changed the course of Latin American history, the two countries that immediately come to mind are Spain and the United States.  Others that make the list might be Great Britain with its influence in the Caribbean and along much of the region's Atlantic coast during the 19th and 20th century, or France with it's former Caribbean colonies and that one quixotic adventure into Mexico.  A country that doesn't come up very often is Germany; but the German footprint--the result of a wave of immigration in the 19th century--can be seen from the Oktoberfest celebrations in Nuevo Hamburgo, Mexico to the German museums in Valdivia, Chile.  Germany's impact in Nicaragua has been particularly consequential.

Nicaraguan history has been marked by three great power shifts.  The first was independence, which was thrust upon Nicaragua in 1821--no battles were fought, no dilemmas faced.  A few flags and people were swapped.  The power vacuum left behind by the Spanish, however, unleashed a feud between the country's two major cities--Granada and Leon--for control of the newborn state.  The dispute culminated in a civil war, where the Leon faction (the liberals) requested the help of a group of American mercenaries, led by the southerner William Walker.  Walker, after helping to beat the Granada faction (the conservatives), turned his guns on his allies the liberals, and proclaimed himself president.  So, it wasn't until the 1850s that Nicaragua actually had to fight and die for its independence; and it was not against the Spanish, but against a group of slave-state proponents from the United States.*

The second major power shift was the rise of Jose Santos Zelaya, the dictator responsible for the actual establishment of a Nicaraguan political state.  Gaining power through a coup in 1893, Zelaya began building railroads, establishing steam lines, and strengthening public education.  He enacted a number of seminal constitutional rights, introducing habeas corpus, compulsory education, the separation of powers, and property guarantees.  He also took control of the entirety of the Nicaraguan territory by expulsing the British from the Atlantic side of the country, and creating a new department, named (naturally) Zelaya.

The final shift was Anastasio Somoza, who transformed the country into his personal estate.  He is the founder of a very particular political culture: the modern clientalist corrupt authoritarian dictatorship.  A political culture that sees politics as a winner-take-all game, and the presidency as the pinnacle of power, fame, and wealth.  A political culture which became so entrenched that even a popular revolution could not shake it.

Germans, I'll argue, played a critical role in both the appearance of Zelaya onto the national political scene and in cementing Somoza's legacy. All in all, a small group of German immigrants were responsible for much of what happened politically in Nicaragua in the twentieth century.

Telenovelas

What's wrong with her?

Oh, that's Elena.  She's in a coma.

What happened?

She was in a car accident.  She was in the car with Bruno and they were running from the police.

Why were they running from the police?

Because Bruno had just kidnapped her.

Why did Bruno kidnap her?

Because he is in love with her, and because he wanted a ransom payment from the money she inherited from her engagement to his twin brother Alejandro.

Is that Alejandro?

Yes.

Where is he?

Well, Alejandro was on his way to visit his beloved Elena, because she was about to give birth.  But Bruno poisoned the pilot of Alejandro's private jet and the pilot died mid-flight, and now Alejandro is stranded on a desert island.

Who is he talking to?

That's the spirit of his departed mother.  She is the reason Alejandro is rich.  You see, Bruno and Alejandro were separated at birth; Bruno went off with his father, a very wealthy business man, and Alejandro went to live with his mother in a dirt poor neighborhood in the city Medellin.  The two brothers didn't know of each other's existence until one day they crossed paths.  It was around the time of their father's death, and the will, shockingly, handed down all the father's riches to his wife.  So, Alejandro and his mother suddenly became incredibly rich, and Alejandro was left to run his dead father's businesses.  None of this made Bruno, the heir apparent, very happy.  Not only that, but Bruno's girlfriend, Elena ends up falling in love with Alejandro.

The Algorithm

"Does Standard & Poor take into account the impact of its ratings when assessing a country's credit worthiness?"

"No"
 - Myriam Fernandez de Heredia, S&P's director of sovereign ratings for Europe and Africa, on Los Desayunos de TVE (January 20th, 2012)

The new algorithm would change everything.  The Standard & Poor sovereign credit rating system used a hybrid-form of analysis that combined computerized quantitative modeling with expert qualitative insight.  Everyone understood, however, that the credit ratings themselves, once announced, changed people's behavior and, as a result, altered the equation.  It was a bright young man, a recent MIT graduate, that formulated an algorithm that incorporated the rating's projected impact into the final sovereign credit score.

For example, let us imagine that the credit rating for the sovereign bonds of the Republic of Krakhovia suffer a downgrade due to the country's high debt burden and low growth rate.  The country's S&P rating goes from A to BBB+.  The announcement spooks potential Krakhovian bond buyers; Krakhovia has trouble selling its bonds and must raise the bonds' interest rate; the rise in the interest rate exacerbates the country's already troubling debt levels.  So, the projected debt levels, once the impact of the BBB+ rating is taken into account, are higher than earlier models would have anticipated.  The new algorithm suggests Krakhovia's bond rating be downgraded to BBB.  A BBB rating, however, causes even greater concern than the original downgrade, sending bond interest rates even higher.  The new algorithm suggests Krakhovia's bond rating be downgraded to BB+.  BB+ bonds are borderline junk bonds, alarming bondholders who are increasingly trying to unload the assets.   The algorithm suggest a B- rating.  At B-, the bondholders are sent into a panic, causing a massive sell off and the crashing of the country's currency.  The algorithm suggest a CCC rating.  At CCC, the IMF enters the picture.

The algorithm, once tested, proved unusable because any downgrade (no matter how small) sent the rating spiraling to CCC (the lowest possible rating), and any upgrade resulted in an AAA rating (the highest possible).

The markets were never informed of the algorithm.

Book Review: How to Make a Nicaraguan Quilt

Rigoberto Lopez Perez

On September 21, 1956, Anastasio Somoza Garcia visited the city of Leon to accept his party’s nomination to (once again) stand for reelection in the upcoming Presidential contest. The act was merely a formality; Somoza had already been ruling the country for twenty years and through land expropriations and the personal control of several national industries had become one of the richest men in Nicaragua. Dictators, however, like all leaders, require the appearance of legitimacy, even if it’s through rigged procedure. So, Somoza Garcia made the trip north.

Days earlier, Rigoberto Lopez Perez, a young aspiring poet, landed in Nicaragua, after an ambiguous stint in El Salvador. He immediately headed for his hometown of Leon, carrying a cardboard box filled with his belongings, which included a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson. On the evening of the 21st, he sneaked into a town party thrown in honor of the visiting President. It is said, that when he took out the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson and unloaded it into Anastasio Somoza Garcia, the dictator looked straight at him and remarked (like a father reprimanding his child), “You fool! What have you done?”

Margarita, está  linda la mar by Sergio Ramirez tells the story of this extraordinary event, which led to the death of the first Somoza and the consecration of Lopez Perez as a martyr (you can find his bust next to the cathedral in Leon). As Ramirez retraces the assassin and his victim’s steps up to that fateful party, he flashes back a half-century to tell the story of Ruben Dario, by that point an international literary sensation, and his triumphant return to his hometown of Leon after decades of roaming around the metropolises of the world.

The two narrations mirror each other: as Lopez Perez arrives on a boat to the port-city of Corinto, Dario is also arriving on a boat to Corinto; as Leon throws a parade in honor of Somoza, the city is also throwing a parade in honor of Dario; as Somoza lays dying, Dario lays dying. Even some of the characters are present in both narratives. Dario writes what would become one of his most famous poems, “A Margarita Debayle,” on the side of a little girl’s fan; that little girl grows up to marry Lopez Perez’s victim, Anastasio Somoza Garcia.

Game Theory and Tardiness

Imagine the following situation: two good friends decide to have dinner at a certain restaurant and agree to meet each other at the restaurant at five-thirty in the evening.  Whether or not they honor their established meet-up time can be seen as a game theory dilemma.

In the situation there are four alternatives: (1) they could both show up on time; (2) friend A could show up on time and friend B could show up late; (3) friend B could show up on time and friend A could show up late; (4) they could both show up late.

Now, because time is infinite, alternatives 2, 3, and 4 are vague--they fail to specify the exact moment in which one or both of the friends arrive (example: in alternative 4, both friends could show up late but at the same time, or they could both show up late but with one friend showing up before the other).  So, to clarify things a little bit, lets just state the four alternatives as:

(1) they could both show up on time, at 5:30pm
(2) friend A could show up earlier than friend B
(3) friend B could show up earlier than friend A
(4) they could both show up late but at the same time

Alternatives 1 and 4 are optimal.  In alternatives 2 and 3, one person has to sit around waiting for the other to arrive.

What is interesting is that in punctual societies, like the United States (or stereotypically Germany and Japan), there exists a socially ingrained consensus to choose alternative 1.  In countries where such a socially ingrained consensus does not exist (stereotypically non-punctual societies: the developing world), each individual shoots for alternative 4, but ends up with alternatives 2 or 3.

Bureaucratic Linguistics 101

“Hello everybody, please take a seat.”

The meeting was being held in the company’s largest conference room, which seated over sixty people. A representative from each department was there: there was an HR guy, the CTO, the CRM, the CMA, the CFM, the CMO, the CISA, you name it. At the front, standing next to the CEO was the new face we had been called on to meet. The CCO gave his standard upbeat assessment of the company’s current “transition period,” before energetically introducing our new COO. We gave our new leader a polite round of applause.

“Thank you.”

 
He began by humbly praising our skills and character, and expressing his emphatic belief that the future of the company was bright. And then he got down to business. Because everybody knows the first meeting under new management can only mean one thing: new acronyms.

“So, we are all familiar with the Customer Satisfaction Matrix, or CSM.  Well, we believe the people we do business with should be viewed as clients, and that it is not merely their satisfaction that should be considered but their input, be it praise or constructive criticism.   So, here we see an example of a Client Feedback Template; these CFTs are what you will be working with from now on.”

When I first started the CSMs were Purchaser Approval Ratings (or PAR—which lent itself to cutesy PowerPoint slide titles like: “PAR for the course” and “PARticulars”), and then Purchaser Approval Rankings (because they enjoyed the acronym so much).

“Now, the ‘indicators’—or what used to be called ‘indicators’ and shall now be considered ‘markers’—have changed.  In this first square we see the marker states: ‘Client received prompt connection to representative.’  You’ll remember that it used to say something like, ‘Customer received immediate connection to sales agent.’  In the second square, the ‘marker’ states…”

These “buzz word meetings,” as they are known, have become an established rite of passage for any respectable upper management hire.  It is their opportunity to lay claim to a new era, to plant their flag.

“I think we all agree that the Peer Orientation Observation and Practice, the so-called POOP sessions with the newly hired employees—the NHEs—had to be renamed.  Here we have their new name: Monitor, Input, Listen, and Follow-up.”

The directives are clear.  The old acronyms must never be used again.  They have been forever banished by the new tsar.  We must act as though they had never existed, as though we had always used the new acronyms.  How else to avoid confusion?  Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia.

“Now, there are also a few confusions about WPTs...you know, work position titles.  We are ready to assign new WPTs, but let me be perfectly clear, these are simply changes in the titles and not in the responsibilities that accompany those titles.  Your current job description and responsibilities remain unchanged unless we talk to you separately.  Lets start with the Financial Administration and Accounting Representative...”

WPTs is a mistake on his part.  He should have said WRD (Work Responsibility Designation).  WPTs got banished years ago, when an old regime attempted to get rid of the concept of “titles.”  But it’s a typical mistake.  Most of us have trouble keeping up with the changes, and simply pick and choose our favorites and stick to them.  This is to the eternal consternation of our boss, who is constantly reminding, warning, and lecturing us to use the “new format.”

“…As for the CSP, his title will remain unchanged.”

The poor CSP. He’d been called that since getting hired, the letters slowly growing independent of the words they represented, until one day he could no longer say with certainty what they were. Custodial Services Provider was his best guess, but he conceded that Cleaning Services Personnel couldn’t be ruled out. He thought he remembered an e-mail about his title getting changed but the acronym stayed the same. Anyway, he didn’t really know what any of the acronyms really stood for, technically, so it didn’t bother him too much that that list also included his own WRD.

“…Folks, lets remember to keep it light, but to also keep it positive…”

A slide flashed behind him, showing a middle aged man on the phone in his office giving the camera a thumbs up; beside him an acrostic: Teamwork/Harmony/Understanding/Motivation/Belief = Upbeat/People. It was well known, even up at the executive level, that rogue employees had begun using vanished acronyms as derogatory terms or placeholders for profanity. CAO (Chief Accounting Officer) became synonymous with cheapskate or tightwad (as in “What a CAO…”), while CTD (Closing the deal) inevitably meant sex (as in “I CTDed your mother last night”). Some acronyms, if said to the wrong person in the wrong context, could get you fired, as former colleagues of mine can attest.

Before ending the meeting, two interns came around handing each department rep a three-ringed binder. Sandwiched between their plastics covers was a rain-forest worth of warm printer pressed papers: this years glossary of acronyms.

“We have no doubt that the new format will help simplify and clarify much of our reporting.  Thank you.  And lets GTW!”

(Get To Work)

Nicaragua: Race

In Nicaragua, there is a direct correlation between skin tone and income level.  The lighter your skin tone, the richer you are, the darker your skin tone, the poorer you are.

Unlike countries like Mexico, Guatemala, Ecuador, or Bolivia, Nicaragua does not carry the burden of an indigenous underclass.  Native American minorities (and in Bolivia’s case, majority), and their accompanying distinct ethnic identities, historic traditions, cultural practices, and surviving languages, do not exist in Nicaragua. Nor did the African Diaspora leave a mark on Nicaragua as it did the in the Caribbean nations, Panama, Columbia, Venezuela, Brazil, and Ecuador. (At least not on the western side of the country, where the majority of the population lives.  Significant indigenous and black-African minorities and majorities do exist in the geographically segregated and sparsely populated Caribbean coast. In this post, however, I will deal exclusively with the western half.)

Nicaraguans are a homogenous bunch, in so far as they can all be described as Spanish-speaking Mestizos.  But within this Spanish-speaking Mestizo category there is an immense variety of skin-tones, accents, and social classes.  In this post I will explore the racial dynamics of a country where there are technically no racial minorities, but where skin-color still plays an important role historically and in the day-to-day life of the average Nicaraguan.

Lets begin by stating that Nicaraguans, perhaps due to this lack of a festering racial minority, are incredibly open and blunt about the skin color of their friends, relatives, and casual acquaintances.  I already discussed bluntness in Nicaragua as it regards to physical attributes, but what I did not mention is that skin color is by far the most popularly used distinguishing descriptor for a person.  Chele (loosely meaning whitie, but without the racist implications) and Negro (loosely meaning blackie but, again, without the racist implications) are the two most common nicknames in Nicaragua.  They are not only nicknames, they are also used in situations where a person needs to get the attention of a light-skinned or dark-skinned stranger or when a person decides to give a friendly “Hello” to a random passer-by.  Americans, such as myself, are well acquainted with “Oe, chele” (“Hey, whitie”), the salutation every gringo receives from any passing stranger. (Rural folk are especially friendly, as one would expect from people who live in tiny towns and are used to greeting anyone that walks by.  They will undoubtedly offer up a “Oe, chele” any time they cross your path.)

Nicaragua: Blunt Objects

Bluntness would seem to come naturally to Nicaraguans.  I once heard, on a bus, a passenger call out, “Hey, piggy,” to a plump vendor, who turned around unscathed and politely attended the customer.  Frank nicknames (apodos) are the norm and tend to completely replace one’s real name.  Baldy (Pelon), Fatty (Gordo), Shorty (Chaparro), and Big-Eared (Orejon) are such common nicknames that people normally have more than one friend that is referred to by the same apodo. (“I talked to the Big-Eared one.” “Which one? Ronald?” “No, man, Franklin.”) In the US, such nicknames, when used to address the person the nickname refers to, would result in either a severe reprimand, a lawsuit, or a beating (depending on the situation). But in Nicaragua, nicknames don’t seem to bother anyone.

So, based on these examples, a person might assume that Nicaraguans are inherently more crass and open than Americans.  I believe they are in terms of physical appearances.  I mean, social norms in the United States strictly prohibit using physical “flaws” as descriptors in public settings.  Just think of those situations when you are describing a common workplace acquaintance whose name you do not know or cannot remember.  The obvious strategy to get the others to realize who you are referring to would be to list the acquaintance’s most striking and distinguishing characteristics.  The problem is that distinguishing characteristics, when viewed as flaws, are taboo in American society.  You cannot say, “I am talking about the fat guy,” because it is viewed as insensitive and insulting.  So, people tend to go for the beat-around-the-bush strategy.  The, “Oh, the one who always listens to Sinatra. Oh, the one who likes to wear blue,” strategy.  Once it is clear that nobody knows who you are talking about, you drop the sensitivity act and say (displaying the appropriate amount of frustration at having to stoop so low), “You know…the fat guy.”  “Oh yeah! Ted!”

In the United States, this tendency towards non-judgment, this abhorrence of discrimination based on physical attributes, became the political correctness movement.  A movement of compassionate judges and executioners, eager to crucify one in the name of the few.  Inevitably, as the PC movement has become more entrenched in American society, it has engendered a counter-movement.  This counter-movement is characterized by people making shocking and uncouth remarks in a deliberate attempt to offend others, with the ultimate goal of mocking the oversensitivity (and perceived hypocrisy) of the PC movement.  Essentially, they say the unsayable, because they know they aren’t supposed to say it, and those offended know that they know that they aren’t supposed to say it.  It’s an easy way to be the “cool rebel,” challenging authority.  Examples of this counter-movement in American popular culture abound; from right-wing shock-jock talk radio stars (Rush Limbaugh), to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, to Sasha Baron Cohen. (You’ll notice it also spans the ideological spectrum.)  More importantly, you see it in every day life, in educated friends who spout off sexist clichés for the sake of irony (supposedly lampooning both people who really are sexist, and people who don’t get the irony).

Crossing the Border: The Welcoming Party

This is the fifth installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.

As Choco ran he didn’t reflect on his journey, on its purpose, on whether or not it had been worth it; all he felt was adrenaline elbowing his chest cavity with all its weight.  He didn’t even realize he was running hand in hand with the pregnant Honduran, until she started to drag.

The others had approached the SUV as it got closer, but Choco had remained suspicious, and the Honduran had stayed with him.  By the time the letters on the SUV became legible, it was already too late for the others.

The Honduran was not keeping up, and they attempted to hide in a private ranch.  Upon reaching the barbed wire, a man appeared out in the distance and aimed his rifle at them.  The shots echoed everywhere, further disorienting them, but also providing a new boost of frantic energy.

As Choco looked around desperately, the Honduran watched their shadows run alongside them, like an inside-out mirror.  They bobbed and panted for another twenty minutes, reaching a group of grazing cattle.  “You see those cows, they have to belong to someone.  Lets hide out here until the owner comes.”

Crossing the Border: Exodus

This is the fourth installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.

They drove up to the Mexican-American border, hidden under the bed-cover of the Coyote’s pick-up.

It was a moonless night, and the milky way, a large violet streak, like the tracks left behind by a jetliner, divided the sky down the middle.  The Coyote pointed the way: “Walk towards that star.  An SUV will be waiting on the other side.”

Day broke a few hours later.  The sun’s heat was oppressive, indifferent…cold.  The sand seemed to conspire with its ruthless ruler.  The days of traveling on nothing but canned food caught up to them.  They began to carry each other in an ill-conceived attempt to save energy.  They kept walking.  There was no SUV.

Choco climbed up a tree to see if there was life anywhere near.  The sight of an endless bare landscape made him dizzy, and he fell to the ground and lost consciousness for a minute.

Partially buried bones--bird, dog and human remains--littered the trail.  “That fucking guy, he screwed us.  He left us out here to die.” “No, come on, let’s keep walking.  He said to just keep walking straight and they would come pick us up.”

The sun was standing right over them, at his most despotic.  The Honduran started to cry, a dry sob.

In the distance, they saw a dust cloud.  A wind storm?  It got closer and closer.  Choco shaded his eyes and squinted.  Leading the storm was a white SUV.

Crossing the Border: A Long Drive

This is the third installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.

The Coyote was a heavy-set Mexican, with a welcoming smile, and an ability to turn a “No” into an “Alright” with a simple look and a “Come on…”

Choco met him, along with his five traveling companions, outside a fried chicken restaurant on an unusually dry night in Guatemala City.  Getting to Guatemala had been simple enough; nobody even asked him for his Nicaraguan identification card.

The Coyote instructed the voyagers to get into the back of his pickup, and so started the first leg of the trip, up to the Mexican border.  As they neared this first border, the pick-up veered off an abandoned stretch of the Pan-American, and the Coyote told the travelers they had to lay down, he was going to cover up the bed.  Choco remembers that after his eyes adjusted, he spent those hours hidden away under the bed-cover studying the feet that lay in front of him.  The red slip-ons, with a rose-like bow near the pinky toe.  The slight cleavage between the toes, the long skinny bones, the veins bulging through like cables under a carpet.  The slight scar near the ankle.  The ankle bone like the bulging eyes of a fish.  Their pungent smell.  Choco claims he would be able to recognize those feet immediately if he ever saw them again.

The Existential Development Worker

Scene: A development worker is lying on a hammock in an unspecified developing country.  The hammock is swinging slowly, and the worker is staring intently at the leaves of a mango tree above.

What am I doing here?  Is this just another form of tourism?  Is it poverty voyeurism?  What am I doing?  Am I just here for bragging rights?  To win some imaginary future argument, where I can reference being down in the trenches and seeing it first hand?  For their reaction?  The way their eyebrows jump up like a cat startled by its own reflection.

But no, I’m doing something.  People express sincere gratitude at the services I offer.  They bless the Lord.  They appreciate what I do.  I am doing something.  But…what am I doing? Am I some tool of a foreign power?  Am I a crusader?  Am I imposing alien values?  Am I a missionary?  No.  Not a missionary.  Not some Jehovah’s Witness sent to enlighten the people with nonsense.  I actually do something.  Build latrines for communities who still shit in bushes; build bridges for villages that are stranded in the rainy season; teach people computer skills to compete in the labor market.  Yeah, some missionaries might also do similar work, but their main goal is to convert.  And a poor Catholic is no different than a poor Mormon.

But, and here is where you start to see the cracks snaking up the pillars, maybe I am a missionary.  Maybe I am just a missionary of progress.  Whose to say my idea of self-improvement (based as it is on the promotion of a skilled labor force, on the diffusion of modern technology, and on certain dietary and health practices) isn’t just as much nonsense as Joseph Smith’s golden tablets?  Aren’t I proselytizing in the name of the modern socio-economic world order?  A world order shaped by the industrial revolution and spread by its powerful disciples.  I am spreading the gospel of the modern technological-industrial system.

Valparaíso

Valparaíso is an abandoned beach house.  A deserted mansion inhabited by young, bohemian squatters.

A late nineteenth century creation, haphazardly constructed, as if several architects had been fired in the process of its erection, the building is hexagonal, with varying angles and side lengths.  The numerous stairwells crisscross each other like a Escher painting; the hallways, varying innumerably in width, zigzag around the many floors, leading to other meandering passageways, or to endless stairwells that, like water wells, fade into darkness;  the antique elevators (the ones with the metal doors that open and close manually like an accordion), long ago out-of-service, at one time rose to unknown heights at a snail’s pace.  Pipes are always bursting, ceilings collapsing at the slightest tremor, and fires are constantly being sparked and charring entire wings.  But the building remains.

The squatters have given the building their personal flavor.  The hallways and stairwells are covered in elaborate street art, stencils, and graffiti.  There are hookah-smoking rooms, cafes, music rooms, bars, arts and crafts rooms.  Downstairs there is a projection screen that plays old Godard and Antonioni films.  The corridors are littered with book stacks.  Dogs roam free, and on some floors outnumber their human companions.