Photos, anyone?

Hi friends! I'm getting settled in Bluefields, enjoying the Caribbean food, people, and Creole language. I'm hoping to get an update posted soon, but until then, how about a slide show of all my adventures during orientation? If the slide show doesn't load well, visit the online album here. They're all stolen from my friend Brent, whose camera is far superior to my own. (Plus, I'm in the pictures from Brent's camera!)



Love to all of you,
Kendal

from the desks of loved ones...

Reflections on travel/absence/adventure---take your pick---by two of my favorite poets: Ken Graber (my uncle, writer from Illinois/Wisconsin and one of the smartest people I know), and Elizabeth Bishop, (white girl from Massachusetts who traveled through Latin America translating poetry in the early 20th century). Enjoy!

on thinking of mary’s father. . .

i've seeded in my deep mind
the request for a poem
about a room or rooms people go to

and find the smells of fathers
and lovers and children and friends
who must,
given the weight of their absence,
be needed elsewhere.

the more i listen
the better i hear mothers

describe finding their children
and, without fail,
noting the smell of them,
eyes gone soft and voice hushed:

children pungent-fresh, like pumice and sweat,
minty, soap-shrill and apple-fresh,
unshowered and just showered --
tousled, and new as a star.

do you remember,
as you put them to bed now,
the singularity
of their arrival at birth –
crazed and ravenous to drink
in this new re-creation of yourself?

yesterday, mary called after
one afternoon
in her father’s basement
and all those hours on the floor,
his sweaters crushed to her face.

what would you, i, give today for a
single deep inhalation
of our loves --
father, grandfather, grandmother,
mother, sister, brother,
each friend with their own name --
lost (already) to other worlds?

-Ken Graber


Arrival At Santos

Here is a coast; here is a harbor;
here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery:
impractically shaped and--who knows?--self-pitying mountains,
sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery,

with a little church on top of one. And warehouses,
some of them painted a feeble pink, or blue,
and some tall, uncertain palms. Oh, tourist,
is this how this country is going to answer you

and your immodest demands for a different world,
and a better life, and complete comprehension
of both at last, and immediately,
after eighteen days of suspension?

Finish your breakfast. The tender is coming,
a strange and ancient craft, flying a strange and brilliant rag.
So that's the flag. I never saw it before.
I somehow never thought of there being a flag,

but of course there was, all along. And coins, I presume,
and paper money; they remain to be seen.
And gingerly now we climb down the ladder backward,
myself and a fellow passenger named Miss Breen,

descending into the midst of twenty-six freighters
waiting to be loaded with green coffee beaus.
Please, boy, do be more careful with that boat hook!
Watch out! Oh! It has caught Miss Breen's

skirt! There! Miss Breen is about seventy,
a retired police lieutenant, six feet tall,
with beautiful bright blue eyes and a kind expression.
Her home, when she is at home, is in Glens Fall

s, New York. There. We are settled.
The customs officials will speak English, we hope,
and leave us our bourbon and cigarettes.
Ports are necessities, like postage stamps, or soap,

but they seldom seem to care what impression they make,
or, like this, only attempt, since it does not matter,
the unassertive colors of soap, or postage stamps--
wasting away like the former, slipping the way the latter

do when we mail the letters we wrote on the boat,
either because the glue here is very inferior
or because of the heat. We leave Santos at once;
we are driving to the interior.

Elizabeth Bishop

The Third Wheel, or, Tales of the Infirm

I needed to get out of the house for a minute, here, visiting old friends in Matagalpa. The whole city is in an uproar, so it seems…or maybe it’s just my social circle. Roger, local tattoo artist/painter/number-one-chum of Noel and crucial member of the Artesanosites, took his one-way flight today to Amsterdam, where he will live with his Belgian girlfriend until further notice. Stephanie, my faithful travel companion/former housemate/current girlfriend of Noel will board her one-way flight back to Seattle on the 23^rd, having just completed her year of study under the Fulbright scholarship. Bobby’s beautiful girlfriend, Emma, who is nearing the end of her own Fulbright in Ecuador, is visiting for a couple of weeks and just arrived today. Natalí, Artesanos’ Barista/Acupuncturist/Noel’s sister/ex-girlfriend of Roger is coping with the departure of one significant other (Roger), and the re-arrival of Chapu, Spaniard/Musican/Significant Ex-of Natalí/current boyfriend of Sandra, with whom he is traveling in Nicaragua for three months.

Things here feel a little bit awkward, at the moment.

I’m just passing through, on my way to Bluefields (I leave this coming Monday), trying to catch all these loved ones in their various moments of transitioning. It’s hard, wanting to spend time with them as they prepare for their respective journeys, but also wanting to give them the space to be with the other people they need to spend time with. Hard being a couch crasher, when Stephanie and Noel are in their last week together, Bobby and Emma are reuniting after several months, and Sarah’s got company. So I’m in the cybercafé, planning my next move.

Actually, I'm at the cybercafé, praying that I won't write this post, only to have it get lost when the lights flicker on and off, as they've been doing for the past little while. I love this place.

I wrote earlier that my start-date in Bluefields has been delayed a week, which turns out to be not such a bad thing. In addition to spending all of this bittersweet but necessary time with friends who have one foot out the door, (I understand better now how it must feel for my friends and family when I hop on a plane every few months), I'm also just inching on over to the "all-better" side of MESSED UP. It all started last Thursday night, after an unremarkable meal of rice and beans and tortillas...

(Disclaimer: This is where those of you grossed out by my euphemisms such as "gastro-intestinal pyrotechnics" should jump ship.)

It starts as a grumble, that turns into a gurgle. Always the grumble first...at which point, you think, 'Naw, it can't be...I feel fine!' And then it gurgles (grumbles being distinct from gurgles in that the latter sounds like a child sucking the last drops of a milkshake through a straw, as one wonders, 'How in God's name could that be happening inside me right now?'), at which point, after dropping to your knees and reciting a few Hail Mary's, just in case, even though you're not Catholic but it seems to be the thing to do here, you do some emergency profalactic rehydration, grab your roll of toilet paper, anti-septic wipes for the seat, miner's headlamp for the walk to and from, and make a mad dash through the dark towards the out house (no running water in these parts, folks!).

And what do you find? Not a hole in the ground, as you might expect. But a two-holed, oval-shaped contraption covered in several peeling layers of multi-colored paint, with a plastic toilet seat, unfastened, balancing on top. The 'toilet' is divided down the middle into two chambers: In back, the bottomless chasm that ends in unspeakable horror, and in front, a small little cup of sorts, with a hose leading out the bottom and, disturbingly, across the floor and into a nondescript hole in the back wall. I wish it weren't so, but the front of the toilet most closely resembled a beer bong. (Or at least, what I imagined a beer bong to look like. I've only ever read about them in books about those kids who used reefer in college.) Most mysteriously, a large bucket of white powder with a scoop sat on the floor in front of the seat. The instructions on the back of the door of the out house read:

1) Poop in the BIG HOLE. Pee in the LITTLE HOLE. If you miss, you have to clean it up.

2) Don't pee in the BIG HOLE, or it'll smell really bad. Make sure the HOSE IS FASTENED to the little hole, or your pee will spill on the floor.

3) Throw your HYGIENIC PAPER in the trash can, not it in the BIG HOLE. When you're done, toss some ashes from the bucket into the BIG HOLE.

4) Make sure not to get ashes in the LITTLE HOLE, or the hose gets clogged.

As I make my mad dash to the toilet, I'm thinking...

Ah....NOW I get it, a composting toilet. It totally makes sense, keeping the waste products separate. Keeps them from stinkin' so darn much, and the ashes help neutralize something down there in that chasm of darkness. Ok, logical...

YEAH RIGHT, THAT'S WHAT I'M THINKING! I'm thinking, WHAT THE HECK? TWO HOLES? YOU MEAN YOU WANT ME TO AIM WHAT'S GURGLING DOWN THERE? ARE YOU NUTS?

It was a high-stress situation, trying to read all the instructions with all of the holes and the various things one was supposed to, and NOT supposed to put in them. Turns out, I had no need to worry. The grumbling and gurgling was actually a ruse. A ruse that would last all night. My body did not, in fact, want to violently wring out my entire GI track, but rather make me FEEL as if it wanted to wring my body out from hair folicle to toe nail, recruiting much time and energy and sweat and tears and physical strength and determination...only to find out that someone had put ashes in MY TUBE (refer to Rule 4 above), and there would be no need for any ashes OR 'hygienic paper' that night. Ouch.

Unfortuantely, something else came out of that night in the outhouse...I woke up at about 3am in a fever, only to discover that somewhere between bearing down and bedding down, I had pulled something in my back. And it was BAD.

Now, I know this is going to make me sound like a big wuss...and my family back home, knowing what a hypochondriac I am, they're all gonna think I'm just being dramatic. But I've never dealt with such back pain, or muscular pain, for that matter, in my life. It was like a charlie horse in my lower back, that spread up into my shoulder and around to my front side. The pain was actually nauseating. I found myself short of breath, because anything but the shallowest breathing put pressure on whatever nerve or muscle was acting up, and caused this shooting pain that went all the way down my right leg. I was doubled over, and couldn't find a position, standing, sitting, or laying down, that provided any relief.

Thankfully, Friday was the last day of our orientation, and the field team in Matagalpa was kind enough to let me skip the day's activity, and try to sleep it off. Unfortunately, though the cramping that sent me to the out house in the first place went away pretty quickly, the back spasm and fever lasted, full throttle (with only one morning of relief Saturday morning) all the way through Monday night.

I went to a private health clinic, was poked and prodded and sampled in every which way, only to be diagnosed with "low white blood cells." That didn't help the back. (It's worth noting that when asked for a stool sample, I was sent to a bathroom with no running water or toilet paper, and a clear plastic dixie cup with no lid. Glamorous, no?)

Next stop, a 'natural medicine clinic,' where I was examined by a burly Nicaraguan doctor (burly not being a word often associated with Nicaraguan men, mind you). He squeezed every acupuncture point on my body, all 388,364,826 of them it seemed, making notes on a diagram. "Does this hurt? What about this?" This question, my friend, when repeated so often by a big dude squeezing you and poking you with his thumb, could reasonably be answered 'YES! They ALL hurt when you squeeze THAT hard, you big bully!' at any point, leading me to believe that this method of diagnosis is subject to some errors in objectivity.

He then asked, "May I inject you?" To which I responded, reasonably, "Um...with what?" Apparently, in his parallel universe, local anesthetic injected at accupunture points provides double the benefit of the traditional ancient eastern practice, for which I have the utmost respect in it's unadulterated form. Being open to an adventure and praying for relief, I consented to this injecting fiasco.

First off, it was a big ol' needle. And it was attacted to what looked like a cross between a tranquilizer and a caulk gun. THINK BIG. He started on my back, pinching the skin up, insterting the needle, and injecting. As he worked his way around my entire body, injecting my feet, arms, sternum, shoulders, and yes, even my GUMS with this big needle, he recited his diagnosis:

"It could be malaria. Yes, yes, very likely malaria, based on your fever symptoms. But the particular muscle that you've thrown in your back worries me. That muscle is associated with the gall bladder. It very well might be gall stones. Do you have a history of gall stones? No? Well, let's see. This point on your chest, where the needle is right now, does that hurt? Yes? Oh dear me, that's your kidney. Have you been drinking calcified water? Because you might very well have kidney stones, and a bladder infection at that. And it's certain that you have colitis...no doubt at all in my mind about that one at all. Yes, well have to inject you here, here, and here for that infection in the bladder. But, come to think of it, have you been driving on bumpy, unpaved roads? Because it could just be that your back got messed up from all that driving...But you feel better now, don't you? The shots are working, I can tell. What do you mean, you don't feel better? Give it some time, it will. If it doesn't, come back for another treatment."

He wrote a prescription for about 8 different natural herb supplements that I needed to take to cure each of the tentative diagnoses he had given---all of which could be conveniently purchased from his secretary at the front desk. Even in my pathetic state---back wrenched, body covered in what looked like mosquito bites from this evil, injecting maniac---I had enough sense to graciously decline the drugs, grab my bags, and run...

...straight into the arms of the massage therapist at the Japonic (Japan/Nicaragua) Clinic across town. What can I say, I was desperate. The massage salon at this clinic looks like a World War II army infermerary; a big room with high, whitewashed walls and 30 cots lined up in two rows of 15 on a linolium floor. Thankfully, there are curtains hung from clotheslines, partitioning each cot into a separate unit...at least until the oscillating fan kicks up a breeze and blows your 'front door' open. They have you strip down to your skivvies, lay face down on the table, and wait. The curtain opens, the fan turns on, and all you can see are shoes. White hospital sneekers, and opaque white hose are all I know of the voice that whispers sweetly into my ear, "Anything in particular hurting you, my love?" How much time ya got, lady?

This mystery woman, for all the sweetness in her voice, is kinda a wuss in the massage department. She rubs me down with all the strength of a 4-year-old playing with hand puppets. And while this is soothing, and certainly relaxes a few of the superficial hair follicles on my back, it doesn't do too much for the stabbing spasm that makes me want to surgically remove my own trapezeus.

As she wraps up, the sound of 29 other massage therapists simultaneously doing the "chop chop" drifts throught the room. Thanking her shoes, as she breezes out before I can see her face, I take ten minutes to get dressed, as it seems my condition has worsened. Looking into my wallet, I see that InjectoManiac and ChopChopShoes have left me so broke, I can't even afford a cab home. So I walk six blocks in the Managua sun (Think SELF-CLEANING OVEN) to the nearest ATM, stopping only three times to catch my breath, since I haven't fully inhaled since Friday morning at 2:59am.

After the ATM, I feebly wave down a cab driver, who, taking pity on me, offers me the local, as opposed to the Gringo price. He gets me to the bus station just in time to see the Matagalpa bus pulling away, at which he kindly honks his horn, allowing me just enough time to half-jog, half-crawl to the door. I get inside, but my backpack doesn't, as the anxious driver closes the door on me, pulling away. In fact, I don't believe he ever came to a full stop to let me on.

When my backpack and I finally find a seat, I turn to the guy and hand him my fare ($3), of which he hands $.60 back and says, "Sorry buddy, this isn't the express, this is the local." That means, instead of a two-hour, non-stop trip home, I get to endure the THREE hour, people-packed-in-like-sardines, stops-every-two-miles-to-let-on-the-traveling-preachers-and-panhandlers ride home.

When I FINALLY get there, wheezing as I plop down on Stephanie's couch, I find relief in the form of Roger's tattoo table (doubles as a massage table in times of crisis), Stephanie's elbow ("Harder. OUCH! SOFTER! Oh geez, that's the spot. OH LORD! Higher. OH NO, THAT'S THE SPOT! OH MY GOD, I NEED A BREAK!" "Kendal, please, we do have neighbors."), a hot shower, over-the-counter muscle relaxers, and a tube of Bengay ("OUCH! That's so hot! No one told me it would be that hot! It burns!").

I spent the whole day Tuesday, and much of the day today, lying on the couch, reading a book, watching TV, and playing my guitar. Sometimes, poking and prodding and products can only do so much. What you really need, is a good friend's home to relax in, her healing hands to rub on the Bengay, and some time alone with your book to feel better. Lesson learned.

Signing off,

Señor Dramatico

Major Update...

Ladies and gents, contrary to popular belief, I haven't died. I've been terribly slack about posting a blog entry for quite some time now, for which, I'm sorry to say, I don't have much of an excuse. I can only say that the past two and a half months (has it really been that long since I've written?) have been full of major transitions...about which, it seems, I have had neither the time nor the words to describe for my faithful readers out there. My sincerest apologies. I would promise to do better, but I would surely disappoint. So I'll just keep doing the best that I can.

I'm in the air over the Gulf of Mexico at the moment, en route from the United States back to Nicaragua. There is so much to tell you, I'm not sure where to begin. First, I have to decide between paying $4 for a bag of peanuts or $3 for a bottle of water...after having paid $15 just to check my one, under-weight suitcase. These airline cutbacks are really starting to make me reconsider traveling. Maybe that's a good thing...

I've been all over the map these past few weeks: New York for the Broadway premiere of GLORY DAYS, a musical written and directed by friends of mine from elementary school days; Washington, D.C. for my sister's graduation from her master's program and my brother's graduation from high school; St. Louis, Missouri for three weeks to perform in the MUNY Theatre's premiere of THE PRODUCERS; Road trip back to D.C. with my sister, via my Grandma's house in Arthur, Illinois; New York again for a few days to see some friends in RENT before it closes on Broadway in September; Back to D.C. to catch this flight back to Nicaragua...all in a few weeks.

Why the pause in my work in Nicaragua? Besides having all of the aforementioned good reasons to be spending time in the states---time which my supporters at the InterExchange Foundation were kind enough to allow me---things took an interesting turn down here in Nicaragua right before I left: The last time I posted a blog (I cringe knowing how long ago that was) I was still working with my dear street kids in Matagalpa, holding class for a couple of hours a day in various subjects (reading, art, even personal hygiene). Right before I was gearing up to head back to the US, I heard the unfortunate news that several of my “students” had been involved in a series of robberies and hold-ups, some of them armed with knives, including stealing the stereo system out of a car belonging to Artesanos' manager. (Artesanos is the café where I had been giving my daily classes.)

A typical class at Artesanos, with (L to R) Donald, Emmanuel, Santiago, and Milan.

Two things came out of this twist of events: Obviously, the owner of Artesanos, being concerned for the safety of his establishment and his customers, had to ask that we discontinue meeting at the café. Secondly, several of the involved persons were arrested and taken away to juvenile centers, often described to me as “work reform camps.” This was where things got strange.

To give a little context, you should know that many of these street kids are members of “street families,” wherein an older kid/teen/adult offers “protection” to the younger kids in exchange for a very large percentage (if not all) of a kid's earnings from begging and stealing. It is essentially organized exploitation, as anyone who has ever read Oliver Twist might understand. Being that I'm a foreigner, and was spending most of my time hanging out with a gang of street kids, it is only natural that I might be suspected of running such an operation. In reality, the kids I worked with probably did have a street “father,” as they're called, though I never met him or even saw him around. But, for all the police knew, I could have been the man behind the curtain.

In the aftermath of the Artesanos car stereo theft fiasco, the police told my friend, Noel, (Artesanos' owner), “That gringo” probably shouldn't be poking his nose around looking for the street kids, and definitely shouldn't be seen hanging out with street kids anymore. There was never a direct accusation made, but the implication was clear: Neither I, nor Artesanos, should ever appear to be aiding and abetting this group of “hardened criminals.”

It's hard to articulate my feelings about the whole event. I was certainly concerned about the kids: The term “work reform camp” was being thrown around far too easily, and I didn't like the way that sounded. And of course I was frustrated, especially because the main perpetrator of the crimes was Milan (the kid with the burns on his face that I met at Christmas, for you faithful readers out there), who is both the youngest and brightest of all the kids I had been working with. I had the most hope that he could break the cycle of violence and desperation at a young enough age to start building a better life for himself. I felt guilty, too, because Milan had recently stopped attending our sessions, and I hadn't put too much pressure on him to come back, thinking that it was best to give him his space and let him come back on his own. And of course there was ANGER. I had really been making some progress, especially with Santiago, on the reading front. We had learned the alphabet up to the letter Q, which, considering the deteriorated status of their glue-mutilated little brains, I considered to be quite decent. And I was confused, too: When I went to go inform my kids that we could no longer hold classes, I found that every single one of my regular participants---including those not involved at all in the robberies---had vanished from the streets overnight. Some of the child service organizations in town had patchy information: So-and-so went to an orphanage in Managua, we think. And So-and-so got hired by some foreigner to be a house-boy/butler of sorts. But I couldn't get any hard facts. Worst of all, I felt that the cloud of mistrust that the police had cast over me and my intentions in working with the kids had somehow tainted what had actually been accomplished.

When all this ñaña hit the fan, I had only a few weeks left before the start of my contract out at the theatre in St. Louis. I spent a couple of those weeks trying to track down the kids, to no avail. And it didn't really seem fair to go around looking for a new place to volunteer, only to disappear a week or two later to go back to the US. In the end, the timing probably worked out according to some greater plan. I was dreading telling the kids that I had to leave for a time and put an end to our daily meetings. I would still certainly choose that to what actually happened---especially not knowing where the kids are or how they are doing---but at the very least, I was spared feeling like I had abandoned the kids. Maybe I could have done more to fight the system, track down the kids, and get them out of trouble. I can second-guess myself about that for as long as I want, but the fact of the matter is, at that point in time, the situation was taken out of my hands. And as much as I craved closure on that chapter of my time in Nicaragua, I think that I had subconsciously prepared myself for something like what happened; expecting the worst, but hoping for the best.

And so it was with extremely mixed emotions that I said my goodbyes to all of my beloved Matagalpino friends, and embarked on my whirlwind tour of the United States. I made good use of the time...catching up with old friends, visiting lots of family along the way, and earning a little bit of dough to keep this crazy Nicaraguan adventure going. I have to admit, though, as I'm in the middle of yet another transition, all this coming and going is taking it's toll on me. I think there is a very good reason why the Peace Corps doesn't allow it's volunteers to go home during their time in-country. On the one hand, I probably would never have come down to Nicaragua if I had thought I would never get to visit my family in the states. But on the other hand, in hindsight, I realize that the repeated transitioning back and forth has been harder on me and my family than it's been worth. I'm fairly convinced that the next time I head back to the States, it needs to be when this whole adventure is said and done, whenever that might be.

Saying 'Goodbye' to friends in Matagalpa...

About two weeks have gone by since I started this blog entry (I got on the plane for Nicaragua on June 28^th, and here we are on July 13^th), which seems to indicate that my promise to do better posting timely blogs still needs a little work. But at least now, after getting my feet back underneath me, I can tell you what I'm actually going to be doing now that I'm back in the country.

Before I left, I made contact with a group called Acción Médica Cristiana (Christian Medical Action), a Nicaraguan organization that provides basic medical services and health education to the poorest populations on the Caribbean coast. The Caribbean coast is a semi-autonomous political region of Nicaragua, separated from the Pacific side by a nearly-impassible mountain range and dense forest region. Nicaraguans think of each region as practically its own country: The Caribbean is inhabited by Costeños, or Coastal people, and the Pacific side by Españoles, or Spanish people. Historically, the Pacific was colonated by the Spanish, and the Atlantic by the British. Therefore, the Pacific peoples are descendants of Spanish Conquistadors and ingigenous people, speak Spanish, and look like most other Central American peoples. The Costeños, on the other hand, are either descendants of indigenous peoples themselves, or descendants of African slaves, brought over to work the land under the British empire. They speak a variety of indigenous languages (Miskito and Rama being the most common), a version of English known as Creole (which I actually find harder to understand than Spanish), and Spanish as a second language. They cook different food (I hear shrimp costs about $0.35 a pound there, and lobster costs just a few bucks...and everything is made with coconut milk), listen to American Country Western Music, and love Reggae. The houses are built up on stilts, due to the propensity for flooding during the Hurricane season, and instead of roads, most places are reached by boats up and and down the streams and swamps. I've been told it's a lot more like Jamaica than any other part of Nicaragua...though I haven't been there yet (or to Jamaica, either) to confirm this analysis.

AMC is one of the major health care providers in the region, which is far weaker economically than the Pacific side, hindered by the fact that one must either fly, or take a long boat ride to reach some of the most remote corners. AMC works in several different project sites, focusing on a variety of health-related issues, such as child malnutrition, sustainable farming, dental hygiene, and HIV/AIDS education. I'm hoping to post some more detailed info about AMC, if I can get my hands on some of their publicity materials when I get back to Managua on Monday. (If you go WAY back to the first blog posts, AMC was the group that put out information related to Hurricane Felix relief efforts back in September.)

For the next two months, I'm going to be volunteering with the field team in the coastal city of Bluefields, working on an HIV/AIDS prevention and education project. Specifically, my job description reads:

• Support the capacitation activities directed to the group of adolescents.

• Form a theatre group with the group of adolescents in order to educate the population on themes related to HIV/AIDS, child sexual exploitation, and violence, taking into account the cultural aspects of the region.

• Form a dance group with the group of adolescents.

• Support the education program that is being developed in the penitentiary system in the city of Bluefields.

• Support the development of a student health program that will be implemented in five schools in the city of Bluefields.

Anyone who knows me, even a little bit, would surmise that this job description has me very excited. It's pretty broad, which, I've been told by the volunteer coordinator, is an invitation to take some initiative and focus in on something that suits my interests. This is such an amazing opportunity for me, because it gives me a chance to work with an skilled group of Nicaraguans, after so many months of working independently, yet still provides me the space to do the things I'm passionate about.

I've been thinking a lot about what this time in Nicaragua has meant for me, in terms of what I'm going to want to do with my life after it's all over. Especially after not having performed in a while, going back to St. Louis to do a show really reminded me that I'm a performer at heart, and will always be. I didn't realize how much I was missing theatre, music, and all the rest, until I got a taste of it again. I have also loved working with this group of children, and I'm now convinced that, wherever I am, and whatever I'm doing, it will always be important to me to have a social cause to which to dedicate myself.

In trying to figure out how to blend these two aspects of my life, I realized that I've already been lucky enough to participate in a couple of different organizations that use the arts as a means of education. My senior year of high school, as an intern at Children's National Medical Center in Washington, D.C., I helped organize lead a weekly poetry and photography workshop for teenagers living with HIV/AIDS. My mentors in that program showed me how effective the arts can be in giving voice to feelings that might otherwise be inaccessible, in building relationships between people with very different lives, and in meeting people---especially young people---exactly where they are.

Those same qualities were reinforced by a brief experience I had in college, when I was brought on as a theatre consultant by a health education program in western Michigan. The organization trained a small group of teenagers (children of Latino migrant farm workers) to become health educators to their peers, helping them develop and perform short plays to illustrate the points they were addressing, regarding positive decision making and personal responsibility. I was only with the group for a short time, having only been invited to deliver a couple of workshops on basic theatre techniques. But based on the enthusiasm of the young volunteers, I could see how effective this organization was---if only in the lives of the volunteers in the program. They were so invested in the program---they even asked if we could put in an extra four hour session before I had to go home the next day.

All this is just to say that I'm excited to have another opportunity to put into practice the idea that the arts can be used for social purposes. That is, we can use creative forms of expression in order to be more effective educators. How much more effective would a play be, written, directed, and performed by young people, meant to educate their own peers, rather than having an old white guy lecture them with slides and handouts and statistics for a couple of hours? The idea isn't new, but it isn't an area that I've had too much experience in before, and I'm excited to try my hand in it again. I'll be letting you know how it goes, of course.

The orientation process that AMC has provided me, and Brent, the other volunteer, has been so thorough, thoughtful, and helpful. I really wish that I had some of their guidance from the outset, almost a year ago. We just spent the past two weeks in a rural community an hour outside of Matagalpa, shadowing the field team on their dental hygiene workshops. We went around to two or three different schools/plantations/community centers every day, toting our faithful puppet Ramon (with a very large set of false teeth and a giant toothbrush) to demonstrate proper brushing techniques. We talked about alternatives when there isn't a toothbrush or toothpaste available (a clean rag wrapped around your finger dipped in salt does the trick, apparently). I taught a song about self-esteem (familiar to any of my Maryland childhood friends as “I'm smart, and I'm strong, and I'm ready for whatever comes along...” of Blue Sky Puppet Theatre fame, only translated into Spanish by yours truly). And then we handed out cookies and soda, and played soccer and red rover and other high-energy games. We were aware of the irony of handing out sugar after our dental hygiene lessons, but the fact of the matter is, that kind of cheap, highly-processed food is all that people can afford in this neck of the woods.

We just got back from the countryside yesterday, and I'm now heading back to Managua for a few meetings, before getting started out in Bluefields next week. Hopefully, I'll do better with the blogging now that I have fun new features to play with on this new location. Pictures will be coming soon.

Must split...

...and catch the bus to Managua, so I can get there before dark. I hate getting a cab from the bus station in the dark. Shady characters abound.

Thanks for reading, and especially for your emails. Take care, and keep checking back.

Much love,

Kendal

Same Witty Commentary, New Location

Hey Faithful Readers!

Welcome to the new location of my blog! Turns out, the MySpace location just isn't as user-friendly...especially in posting pictures. So I'm gonna give this one a try...hopefully I'll get some more pictures posted this way, too.

(A preview of things to come....These are the beautiful folks I've been hanging out with for the past few weeks

I've got a fresh new update to post...hopefully that'll happen in the next couple of hours. I'm also gonna try to get my old posts transferred from MySpace over to this location, and maybe even add a few pictures into the mix. In the meantime, if you want to go back and read old posts, you can find the old location here.

As always, I'd love to hear from you. Leave comments, send an email, send smoke signals...any form of communication is appreciated!

Ta ta for now...
Kendal