Mona Gente

I’d first like to thank everyone who wrote me concerned emails after my last blog. Luckily the sun has come out and it is amazing how a bit of heat on the skin and brightness in the sky can makes things seem that much better. I really do appreciate knowing that so many of you were concerned and that so many of you read this blog!

About two weeks ago, I returned from a weekend in San Carlos where we held a goodbye party for Greg, the small business volunteer who has finished his service there, to find two dead rats in my house. At last the rat poison worked! But how the hell was I going to get the little stinking bodies out of my house? Well, whenever you don’t want to do something yourself in Nicaragua, whether it be bringing up a heavy suitcase from the dock to your house, running down to the nearest little store to buy matches, or sweeping out the rat corpses in your house, you call for a chavalo (little kid) to do it for you. The little chavalo errand runners are quite possibly my favorite thing about this country. They make life so much easier. Of course you pay them but I can assure you the cordoba (equivalent to 6 cents) you spend is well worth the service.

I have my favorite errand runner, Kevin, who lives right across the walkway from me but if Kevin isn’t around, all I have to do is stand outside my front door and call out, “who wants to do me a favor?” and I have about five small children at my service. Of course it was the morning when I found the first rat, so Kevin and all the other chavalos were in school. Always one to quickly problem-solve, I called out to Kevin’s 11 year old sister, Rosa Elena, instead. She quickly came over, laughed at my squeamishness and swept the rat out of my house and off my porch into the vast weeds that lie below. For this job, which I considered very valuable, I paid her thirty cents. About ten minutes after she left, I found the other rat beneath a bucket underneath my sink. This one was bigger and smelled a lot worse and there were ants eating it. I was immediately disgusted and ran to the door to call out to Rosa Elena once more but something stopped me. The revolting task turned into a personal test and I decided I had to go this one alone. I would sweep the reeking rat body out myself. After all, I’m tough, in the Peace Corps, and it would only require a few quick flicks of the broom.

After five full minutes of mental and physical preparation coupled with deep respiration, standing with the broom in my hand, staring at my task, I decided I was ready. I began to drag the body out. I have never smelled anything that awful. And I live in a land of latrines. Turns out, those flicks of the broom? Not so quick. With every flick, the rat just did a little log roll. So, along my floor we went: me broom-flicking and letting out small groans of disgust, it log-rolling. Finally, I got it out. Mission accomplished! I wasn’t as proud of myself when I graduated from college.

In the school, we talked about diarrhea, which is always a fun topic with small children. I ask them what bad health practices can cause diarrhea and they shout out, “Mangos!” “Sweet milk!” Well, that too. In the Casa Materna, I taught the women about their reproductive organs using the felt body and felt cut outs that the previous volunteer, Keisha, left me. They are a great tool; the only problem is the vagina, the birth canal, is enormous. Without really meaning to, I made the women die laughing when I told them that the felt woman’s vagina was really, really wide. It took a while to calm them down afterwards.

I also had my third meeting with my high school girl’s youth group. It is a small group of just 5 friends between the ages of 13 and 15. I am forming a much bigger, more formal group with aid from the health center as well but with slightly younger adolescents. With the smaller group, the idea is to be more casual and provide them with a mentor of sorts, someone older in whom they can confide (me, because I had the ideal adolescence!). This meeting we baked banana bread, talked about self esteem, and the latest on the telenovela. During our gab fest, my elderly neighbor knocked asking for the usual bucket of water. The new water system still isn’t functioning but I collect enough with all the rain to spare him some. As soon as he left, the girls starting talking in low voices about how he is a mono, or monkey. I am always extremely amused when the topic of mona gente (monkey people) comes up and play the fool and ask as many questions as I possibly can all the while containing my disbelief and laughter. Most Nicaraguans believe (and this includes relatively educated ones) that there exist people that can turn themselves into monkeys in order to steal things from others. They run from roof to roof at night and the next day, are converted back into humans. Most Nicaraguans have seen them with their own eyes or at least know someone who has. And everyone knows a story about the one time when their uncle Pedro caught a mono, managed to cut it with a machete on the arm before it fled, and then saw an alleged monkey person walking around as a human the next day with a cut on her arm. I am not kidding and neither are they. I would also like to clarify that while there are monkeys that live near me, they do not inhabit trees in populated areas. There are no monkeys walking around the streets much as I would like them to. No, apparently they are all running across the roofs of Sabalos at night, robbing everyone blind!