Nicaragua+by+Haley

Tortilla Fanatics Corn and beans are very popular in Nicaraguan food culture. On a daily basis they eat corn tortillas, in which they can wrap their meat and beans. The Nicaraguans eat a lot of tamales, which they have named nacatamal. The whole meal is made from a lot of different ingredients, including chili, potatoes, and cassava root. The meal is wrapped in a leaf from a plant that is like the banana plant. Their tortilla is big and thin, made out of white corn. They can’t always afford meat, so they use beans to get protein. A common bean dish is gallo pinto, made from red beans and eaten at breakfast. The Sumu and Miskito tribes, which are native to Nicaragua and Honduras only, use corn and beans regularly. They have two meals a day, one at dawn and one at dusk. They use the corn to pound into tortillas and the beans make up a good part of their meal. They also drink a fermented drink called mishlo or wasak, which is also made with corn. Nicaragua have many, many staple foods, but corn and beans are the most used.

Relative Location: Nicaragua is in Central America, bordered by the Carribean Sea, the Pacific Ocean, Costa Rica and Honduras.

 Population: 5,981,199. That's about the size of Washington.

Area: 129,494. That's about the size of Washington, too!

 NICARAGUAN RECIPES YOU CAN GO TO: [|Gallo Pinto] [|Nacatamales] [|Carnes Desmenuzadas] [|Chorizo and Beans] [|Tres Leches Cake (Cake of Three Milks)] [|Cornmeal Cocoa Beverage]

 Other Nicaragua Sites: [|Nicaraguan names] [|Lake Nicarauga's Fresh Water Sharks] [|The President of Nicaragua] Type of government:  The Nicaraguan government is a Republic, with an excutive, legislative, and judicial branch. Its last presidential election was in 2006, its next will be in 2011. The president serves a five year term.

Fun facts: Nicaragua has nine crater lakes, more than any country outside Africa. Lake Nicaragua, in Nicaragua, houses the world's only freshwater shark, known as the Nicaraguan shark.

Interesting Facts: Gallo Pinto is Nicaragua's national dish. The main religion followed in Nicaragua is Roman Catholicism. The currency of Nicaragua is Cordoba.

This story is about a character from my country, Nicaragua. It is based on the story __Seedfolks,__ where people from the Cleveland community come together to make a garden. That's what our stories are about. In the garden, we have to plant something from our country. My character, Hazel Rios Ortega, is a tough girl who doesn't accept anybody. When she meets someone who understands her, and she starts to plant in the garden, she realizes that the world is not such a bad place.

Nicaragua Story

Sometimes I feel like my life is cursed. Why am I here? Why can’t my family stay together? Why couldn’t we have stayed in Nicaragua? Most people would cry, but not me. I get angry.  My dad ran away when I was six. My older sister got pregnant when she was sixteen, and ended up dying in childbirth. They baby died, too. My brother got into drugs and died of overdose when he was fifteen. My baby sister got typhoid fever and died five months after she was born. In Nicaragua we were really poor. Most people hated us because of how messed up we were. I was so angry there after Mom’s baby, Delsie, died, I would run away and stay outside for a night or two. Mom never tried to talk to me; she was too buried in her landfill of misery. The only person I talked to after Delsie died was my cousin, Sol. She’s four years younger than me, but understood everything I told her. About how much I missed my dad and how I wanted my mom to crawl her way out of the landfill she lived in. About how I was mad at myself for running away, for not being strong.  I got even madder when Mom told Sancho (my little brother) and I that we were moving to the States. The one thing I did NOT want to do was leave Nicaragua. But mom said that typhoid was spreading again and that in the States pepople wouldn’t glare at us, because our family was dead. They wouldn’t know what my brother, Oalo, did when he got into drugs. They wouldn’t know he was in the local gangs and owned a gun and killed people with it. They wouldn’t know that Fonda got pregnant with this guy she wouldn’t tell us about. They wouldn’t know my dad couldn’t keep a fob because he liked his drinks too much and ran away. They wouldn’t know that Delsie’s dead.  I was nine when we moved.

 Now I miss Sol more than ever.  My mother spends all her money buying clothes and going out to parties. She glares at me when I get home from school and tells me to stay out until dinner. We moved from Nicaragua three years ago, and I’ve been able to fit in pretty well. There are a bunch of kids like me: mad at the world. That’s what my shrink at school calls it. I caught onto English quickly, but I’m still flunking all my classes. Of course my mom doesn’t care. I don't have any friends in the States. Well, I had one, but I ended up hurting her. She never talked to me again after I hurt her feelings by screaming at her. She’s too soft, too sensitive. I’m strong now. I don’t break down so easily. I take care of Sancho and I DON’T let my feelings get in the way. My mom cries all the time. Once I asked her if we should just move back, but she just slapped me. <span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype','Book Antiqua',Palatino,serif; color: rgb(244, 26, 26);"> “Hazel, you know we can’t go back there! Look at how great our life is here, and be grateful!” <span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype','Book Antiqua',Palatino,serif; color: rgb(244, 26, 26);"> I spend my free time roaming the city, spray painting, and vandalizing office buildings. It was supposed to keep me interested, but all I could think about was how warm Nicaragua had been. I missed the taste of nacatamals and gallo pinto, the beans fried just right. Our whole family lived together in Nicaragua. I wondered how Sol was doing. She was the only person I could really talk to. <span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype','Book Antiqua',Palatino,serif; color: rgb(244, 26, 26);"> If I wasn’t out spray painting or making deals with the local gangs, I was holed up in our small apartment on the eighth floor. Mom always gets home really late at night, so I’m stuck taking care of Sancho. When its just me and Sancho in the apartment, I feel small and afraid, so afraid I think I’m gonna cry. I hate crying. I hate how it makes your eyes all puffy and red and people ask you if you’re okay. That’s the worst. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I don’t want their sympathy. I don’t want THEM.

One of the nights when mom was out late and I couldn’t sleep, I climbed up to the roof of our apartment building. I’ve gone up there once before, but got scared of the height. There was a bunch of wood up there and it was really warm. I could see all the way out to Lake Erie and the flashing lights of Cleveland. A car went by every so often, and I jumped every time, thinking it was my mother. I leaned over the railing and suddenly felt a peace inside me, something I had never, ever in my life felt before. I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t feel afraid. I didn’t feel mad. And just for that small moment, I didn’t hate the world. “Hello?” It was just a whisper. But it sure ended my peaceful feeling. I screamed loud enough for people to hear me across Lake Erie. I jumped around, ready to beat up this stalker when I spied the speaker. She was a slim girl, a little taller than me. I let down my fists. “I’m Xiomara,” she said softly. I glared at her, outraged that she would disturb me. She was a slim girl with long black hair and big brown eyes. She was beautiful. I suddenly felt self-conscious of my messy brown hair and dirty face. I brushed passed her to go back to my apartment.

The next night, I was on the roof again, half-hoping that Xiomara would come. It was ten o’clock at night, and I was dangerously lost in my thoughts, just remembering about my past life, before we left when I was nine. Before Fonda, the first to die, died, Mom always told me I was beautiful. She would brush and braid my hair, and tell me that I was her favorite daughter. We lived with my two sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and eight cousins. People envied my mother for having three beautiful children (before Sancho and Delsie). Fonda, my older sister, would play with me and walk with me. She was eleven years older than me. When I was four, Mom and Fonda got pregnant at the same time. Mom with Sancho, Fonda with a baby girl. After Fonda died, Dad took to drinking even more. I didn’t really understand, but soon I did. I suffered through Dad’s beatings and my screaming rages. Mom really broke down after Delsie died. Oalo would come home once a month, always high on drugs. By that time I understood everything. I longed to escape like Oalo would. Sometimes I tried. I wouldn’t use drugs, but I’d try beer and cigarettes. The only person who could get across to me was Sol. I loved her, more than my parents, more than Sancho. She wouldn’t question my rages. And then Oalo died and dad ran away and my anger issues became worse… I cried and cried. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream. I could only give in to the violent sobs that racked my body and burned my throat. I longed to go back to Nicaragua. I HATED the thing that ripped my family apart. I wanted to rewind time, back to when I was five. When everything was perfect.

I spent more and more time on the roof, and so did Xiomara. She was sixteen, and from Colombia. I whispered to her about Nicaragua, my family, nacatamals. She told me about Colombia, about how she loved to garden, how she wanted to plant corn. She said she felt weird without a garden near. We didn’t speak in English, though. We spoke in Spanish. Xiomara was a very together teenager, unlike me. I wasn’t even a teenager yet, but I was messed up. Mom spent the night out last night, and at seven in the morning came home drunk. She was still asleep, and it was nine at night. My mom looks so much like Sol my stomach hurts. “I miss the warmness of Nicaragua,” I whispered. “We’d dress in cotton dresses everyday. We lived by a river, the Rio Mico. Our city was dirty and poverty-stricken. There were so many kids like me and Sol. Mom was in charge of the house. She did a good job, before Delsie died. We would celebrate La Purisima in December. Guests would come to our house and we would pray to the Virgin Mary. We would sing lots of songs; I remember my Abuelo had a beautiful bass voice. Fonda would play the marimba, and she taught it to me.” “What’s a marimba?” “A xylophone. We would dance and dance. Mom told me that Nicaragua was known for its dances in Central America. “We would eat the most wonderful things everyday. Bananas, sugarcane, and beans were my favorite. I especially liked the beans. We don’t eat as many beans here. I would love to have some fresh beans…” Why were my eyes tearing up? I shouldn’t have talked so much. Before I knew it, I would probably become soft and sensitive, instead of tough like I needed to be. But up there on the roof with Xiomara, I didn’t really care.

Xiomara stood on the apartment roof railing, her hair flying everywhere. I had no idea how she could keep her balance so well. “In Colombia,” she started, jumping off without a sound, ”we would try to balance on the tree branches. There were a lot of trees on the farm.” She sighed. I knew she was missing the farm, just like I was missing the beans. “Oh…my…god.” Xiomara’s face had frozen in a smile, her ruby lips spread wide. “Look,” she said, and pointed to a space of land just down the street. At first I didn’t know what it was. I saw a lot of dirt, people, and watering cans. “It’s a garden!” Xiomara screamed in delight. “C’mon, I can’t wait another second. I can’t wait to plant something! Let’s plant corn! And beans! You said you wanted fresh beans-“ “Xiomara,” I said slowly. “I know what you’re thinking. And I am NOT going to plant something. Only stupid people do that.” She looked at me and away. I saw a tear rolling down her cheek. “Hazel,” she whispered. “I’m tired of living on this roof. I want to do something.” What’s her problem? Anger rose in my throat. I could see red. She could plant whatever she wanted! I just didn’t want to. Taking care of a plant would make me care. I would never, ever want to care. Caring makes you able to be tossed around by other people. Not caring allows you to be free, to do what you wanted to, without thinking too hard. “Xiomara,” I said loudly, full of disgust. “Do what you want. Just stay away from me.”

My second friend, my second failure. Xiomara didn’t return to the roof after I hurt her, but I did. I stared at that garden so hard I could taste the beans in my mouth. I just didn’t have the guts to go down and actually look at it. I wondered if Xiomara was down there, planting her corn. I wondered if she needed help. I wondered if anyone spoke Spanish down there. I wondered if I should go down. One time I spent the whole night on the roof, just waiting for her. My mom told me that I needed to get a life and stop waiting for someone who would never come. She said she did that for a whole year. She said she waited for my drunk dad who didn’t give a crap about his wife. She said I had no idea what pain was, what waiting or death or life was like. She said that I died when I was five, when Fonda died, when everything was perfect. “YOU HAVE NO IDEA!” I screamed at her. “All I’ve known is death. All I’ve known is pain. I was there too when everyone died! And y’know, I was the one who brought our family together! I was the strong one!” “I LOVED YOUR FATHER AND YOUR GOD-FORSAKEN FAMILY!” she shouted back. “You don’t know what love is like! You only know hate!” And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew I needed to go to that garden and plant beans.