I apologize for the delays. I only have internet once a day,
either at the university or the coffee shop nearby, and our research projects
have launched forcing me to devote most of my days to interviews and readings.
Please, consider donating to my mural-making project. The link is found below
this paragraph. Indeed, I have much to share and update.
Last week (I know, I’m sorry for the delays), the group and I embarked on a journey through the lagoons and rivers to visit rural communities along the Atlantic coast: Wawashang, Pueblo Nuevo, Caka Creek, Orinoco and Pear Lagoon. The journey started with a panga—a small boat that has a fast motor but minimal security. It was honestly scary. We got soaked as the waves splashed all around us and the torrential rains decided to pour between one cloud and the other. And yet it was beautiful. Because as the sun came out, the rays highlighted the different shades of green adorning the coast with mangroves, banana plants, and species of other plants, unrecognizable to the eyes of a girl from the city.
Our first stop was Wawashang, a wonderland of sustainable,
agricultural practices geared for the community. Wawashang is lead by FADCANIC,
a local organization that funds projects for the autonomy and development of
the Atlantic Coast that for years has been neglected by the central government
and exploited by foreign companies (United Fruit Company, hint: giant from
which you get your bananas); and now the Atlantic Coast seeks to stand on its own
feet with the help of organizations like FADCANIC. In the fields of lush forest
and colonial houses splattered along the muddy river, Wawashang practices sustainable
agriculture by playing with genetic mutations to better adapt local plants to
diseases (not genetic mutations to make the plant inorganically beautiful or
bigger). And so we tasted the ripe and sour fibers of pineapple, the watery and
unusual chunks of “bread fruit” (hard to describe), and the refreshing waters
of coconut after coconut. We even saw the fermentation and germination of cocoa
plants, and I tried my favorite thing in the world, CHOCOLATE, straight from
the cocoa pod. Well, I tried a white, chocolate-smelling fiber that covers the
coco beans, and it reassured me of what I have known my whole life: I AM A
CHOCOLATE ADDICT AND I SHOULD START MY OWN CHOCOLATE FACTORY!
Anyways, besides the groundbreaking research and practices
that are revolutionizing the way agriculture is done and shared with the
community, Wawashang is also the place of a school for kids from the
neighboring rural communities to learn about sustainable agriculture and carpentry.
Kids, the age of fourteen to eighteen, not only know about plants and
composting and irrigations systems but also can carve intricate designs of
doors and build stools and other wooden furniture that they can then sell to
sustain themselves in the future. And the best part is that they take the
teachings back to their communities. It was with much joy that I met two of the
students from Wawashang: Tayrell from Corn Island and Aldin from Bluefield.
Instantly, they shared with my friend Ana and I their dreams to start an
ecotourism business and show the tourists, not the luxury of hotels and beaches,
but instead the beauty of mother nature and the local people. They said they
wanted tourists to value those who take care of earth and not those who destroy
it. Their ideas were simple yet revolutionizing and very promising. Being in a
place like Wawashang filled with much hope as we try to redeem ourselves from
our past errors—like depleting natural resources without thought—and teach
future generations the better way to grow as a society.
The second day of the journey took us to Pueblo Nuevo, a
mestizo community—very poor, with streets swamped in muddy waters, and highly
populated. From the port, we hopped out of the panga, walked through mud and
rain, and got on what were suppose to be horses (but were more like beaten down
donkeys). And so with the help of these horses, we climbed the muddy hills that
eventually turned into lush gardens of trees and everlasting forest. As some of
you know, I used to horse ride, and I was delighted by the ride. I even named
my unnamed horse, Mira. However, my poor friends struggled up the slippery
hills--falling off horses, screaming in distrust of the horses natural moves,
and unfortunately complaining and missing the beauty of the surroundings (most
of them are wonderful people, but that ride was a real struggle). And so when
we got to Caka Creek, a natural reserve also under the guidance of FADCANIC, we
were all delighted to be welcomed by delicious breakfast grown, cooked, and
served in the reserve. Content, safe, and with loaded stomachs, we went on a
hike around the reserve. As we balanced our way through channels of rock,
vines, and mud, and as we gazed up to see the top of enormous trees that
huddled in harmony as they covered the shine from the sun, we found a tapir! For
those of you who don’t what a tapir is, you are not alone. It was not until I
saw the hippo-meats-ant-eater-looking thing wobbling its way to our group that
I realized I was in the presence of endangered specie and probably the only one
of its kind in the Western Hemisphere. It was really cool! And if that wasn’t
enough to call it an adventure, we planted trees, we tasted the guwey white
liquid that comes from trees and is used to make bubblegum, and we walked for
hours—a total of five—through more trees making us feel like we were in the
middle of the jungle (and yet we were!). 
By the third day—my personal favorite—we arrived to Orinoco.
This small town is a Garifuna community. It has two unpaved streets and small
houses, each colored distinctly in reds and yellows, blues and greens, and
unusual shades of orange. It is very small and with very few people. But it is
condensed with much history and identity. Garifunas are indigenous, black that
migrated from the Island of St. Vincent before Nicaragua was ever a nation.
They are a mix of blacks from Africa, who escaped their miserable destiny under
the British, and Caribe, an indigenous group that migrated its way from
Orinoco, Venezuela and made its way through the Caribbean (I am from Venezuela
but I wish I had some Garifuna in my blood!). The biggest Garifuna communities
are located in Honduras, but in Nicaragua, Orinoco is the epicenter of the
Garifunas. Orinoco welcomed us with Punta (typical Garifuna music and dance),
cassava cake (a delicious desert made from the root, cassava), and a tour of
their very live and very proud community. It was after lunch that I was able to
embark in a tiny, wooden boat (I forgot the exact Garifuna name) and go crab
fishing. Yes, I caught five and did not fall into the water! Orinoco reminded
me of community, but it also destroyed a very dark idea of what I associated
with “indigenous community.” In my mind, I couldn’t detach the idea of
indigenous with poor and helpless, but what I found in Orinoco was the opposite
of that; I found richness in the rhythms of their drums, power in the jumps and
stomps of their traditional dance, and I even found modern in their clothes and
love of contemporary music (they can really dance). I also found what many have
tried to take away from these communities, especially after years of
marginalization and invisibility, and that is a perfect balance of honor and humility.
And I think that before we make up our minds of the “others” around the world,
we are obligated to meet, share, and know the others. That will be the moment
when the others become humans, become Garifuna, become your friends. I know I
will carry Wilson, his Garifuna family, his funky hairdo, and his lessons on
how to catch crabs wherever I go.
And so after many other visits to Pearl Lagoon and Haulover
and after many friends—including second-grader Nadalia who I met and played
with at a school that we visited and with whom I later played, again, as I
surprisingly walked past her house—we arrived soaked, and stinky, and utterly
happy to Bluefields. We ended our journey as we started: with a panga.
PS: Thank you Ana for allowing me to use your pictures.
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