The silence of the coffee forest

“They’re all gone,” the women says when I ask her where the men are, clutching her small child to her side and putting a hang gingerly on her swollen belly, “they’re all gone to the hills”. I glance over at the young women who I have trained to administer the surveys and be my cultural

Thesis-Antithesis

The coffee comes, interrupting our conversation for a second. The woman serving the coffee gently sets down the fresh coffee cups, picks up the old ones and looks respectfully at the older woman seated in the rocker in front of me, patiently waiting to continue her story. “Algo más?” She asks the old woman. The

Sunset paths on the Solentiname Islands

The women puts the final brush stroke on her painting, takes off her glasses and peers at us: two white girls, sunburned from a long day of exploring the Island of San Fernando, standing at the edge of her porch, looking sheepish. “I take it you don’t want to rent the canoe anymore?” she asks,

How to kill a chicken Part 2: kill it

  It all happened so fast. In my mind I had it planned out precisely: I would choose the chicken, pay homage to the gods and ask to take it’s life,maybe make an offering, build a fire and dance around it, celebrating the circle of life and all that good stuff.Farmers here aren’t sentimental, well,

Comfort Food

Food is a touchy subject anywhere, far from being merely a source of energy and nutrients, it is intricately linked to identity, emotions, feelings of well-being. Every country has its staple food; in India it is rice and dahl, in Germany it is bread and cheese, and here it is Gallo Pinto: essentially rice and

Sopa de Res

I came through the door yesterday, saw my domestica, Carmen,  cooking beans on the fogata outside and immediately know that today had to be the day. I had had cow bones in the fridge for a while now and was itching to use them but with the high price of gas for cooking, I knew

No Hay Agua

“No hay agua,amor” my host mum, Aura, greets me this morning. I mutter a greeting in return and stumble in my sleep-drunken state to the bathroom to splash some water on my face but as I turn on the faucet- no hay agua. There isn’t any water. I groan. This will be the third day in

Life and death in the Barrios

I hear the Taxi’s horn behind me and stick out my arm to wave it down. It pulls up behind me; an old Toyota, one of the many that comprise the fleet of well-used, beat-up cars that serve as collective Taxis. I stick my head through the passenger side window. “INPRHU?” I ask questioningly. The

A bitter-sweet symphony in Pearl Lagoon

The boat sputters and heaves against the waves. I see the front lift up and then smack down on the surface of the ocean sending a wave of bathtub-warm wáter to where I am sitting in the back of the boat, drenching me instantly. I taste the salt on my lips and hug my bag closer

Semana Santa in Bluefields

“How much longer?” my dad asks next to me, his voice sounding slightly pained. I look over at him, wondering if he is talking in his sleep or just resting his eyes. He is jammed up against the window of the bus, trying, I suppose, to get some relief from the overwhelming humid heat inside