The Red Card

22 August 2012.  One of our major goals during these early months of our stay in Nicaragua is to learn about the culture of the Nicaraguan people.  The issues people face, and how they have learned to deal with them. 

Sarah (who is Peggy’s niece) works for another non-government organization (NGO) promoting health education in Nicaragua.  She came to visit us last weekend, and told us this story from the village where she lives.

Feeling offended and belittled by the demeaning catcalls men often shout at ordinary women walking on city sidewalks, a local women’s group in the village of San Ramon decided on a plan to make their feelings known—very well known.  Ten or 12 of the women went to the nearby city of Matagalpa equipped with nothing but a whistle and a red card for each.  With the whistles and cards in hand, the women began to walk through the streets of the city.

When they heard a catcall (and there were many), the group would figure out which man was responsible and approach him directly.  When they got near to him, all the women held up the red cards and blew their whistles, long and loud. 

They didn’t need to say a word, yet they got their message across in a language the men completely understood. 

“TWEEET!  A RED CARD!  TWEEEEEEEET!  Ten more RED CARDS!  TWEEET! TWEET! A dozen more TWEETS!  

And the men understood.  “You have committed a foul!  You’re out of the game! Don’t do that again!  Not ever again!” 

Some men turned their faces away.  Many turned red with embarrassment.  Their friends disappeared, abandoning them to suffer alone in their shame. 

But that wasn’t all.  The women took photographs.  Then they spoke to the newspaper.  A news story was published, complete with pictures.  And then the women posted the printed story on boards and light poles all over the city.  There the story was read by many, young and old.

Wasn’t that an innovative idea?  It so effectively called public attention to a degrading problem, but no harsh words needed to be said.  The women got to let off some steam—almost literally—but without harming anything.  Nothing, that is, except the offending male egos.  They used a humorous means to let their feelings be known publicly while clearly communicating their displeasure to the very people who caused their pain.  Surely it was a remarkable local response to a common problem for women.  I admire their courage and creativity.

First Days In Nicaragua

13 August 2012.  When I sat down to write this blog entry I was interrupted by Peggy calling me over to look at another new bird—Stripe-headed Sparrow.  We have been here only five days now, and have seen already 3 new “life birds” while looking only off the lovely deck in the back yard of our temporary home.  We are perched on the rim of Laguna de Nejapa, an old volcanic caldera that now is completely forested and has a lake in its bottom.  From the hammock on the back deck we see not only the caldera below us, but in the distance beyond we also see the city of Managua and past it is the very large Lake Managua.  It is really going to be hard to leave here when the time comes.

Our first few days here were mostly devoted to rest and details of life in a new country.  First we unpacked.  That took about an hour.  Alma, a local staff member at the Nehemiah Center, took us to a grocery store to stock up on food.  The next day we walked back to the same store, and a second one nearby to buy our telephones and a few more groceries.  Both of these stores are completely modern and fully stocked.  In them we found everything we were looking for.  Everything, that is, except my favorite sweet soy sauce, which is completely understandable since I have had to hunt all over Grand Rapids, Michigan and then again all over south Texas to find a couple bottles.  Some delicious foods are just hard to find, and I suppose that partly explains why they seem to taste so good when you finally do get to enjoy them.  I will make it a quest in the next few weeks to find just the right Asian grocery in Managua.  Today we went looking for a used car and found a couple of good prospects to consider.

Introducing ourselves to Nicaraguans, in Spanish of course, has been interesting.  Although some people have trouble with Peggy, most get it right away.  But when I introduce myself as Gordon, I most often get silence and a wide-eyed blank look in return.  I can’t tell if it’s my accent (but Peggy says it’s pretty good), or if it’s actually my name that causes this palpable hesitation.  But I am now thinking they just can’t believe their ears—because in Spanish “gordo” means “fat.”  In other words, I think they think my name is, well, Fatty.  So I play along a little.  Sometimes I add that it is like “gordito”—that being an affectionate nick-name you could translate as “dear little fatty.”  Then the wide-eyed blank stare turns into a wide grin.  I think they will remember my name after that—or at least have a memorable image in their minds when they see me later.

We are very happy to be here.