Year: 2017

by Brenna, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Today, I bought a plant.

Every day on my walk to work I am surrounded by organized chaos. Here in León, Nicaragua, I pass by camionetas overflowing with people, groups of little boys playing “quitball” ( a version of baseball using arms instead of bats), and little old ladies who sell fresh tortillas on street corners. There is a small pulperia that sells various plants in anything that could be used for a container. Coffee cans, milk jugs, and plastic water bottles house the assortment of plants that change daily. Seeing the greenery amid the craziness when I walk past Pulperia Marielos, I can’t help but admire how these plants thrive. As far I can tell, these odd containers of old milk jugs, buckets, and bottles make excellent homes for plants.

On this walk I think to myself, I want to buy one of these plants and be able to see it grow during my time here. In León, there is constant sun and it rains often enough that I would not have to worry about watering it. Despite the cannon that goes off at 7 am every morning, the random fireworks, and constant noisy parades, a plant would just grow. Seeing it outside my room every morning would be a reminder that something from this land belongs to me and will grow alongside me.

Even with the nonstop traffic, and the afternoon heat, I carried my new plant home smiling. It has small round leaves and lives in a recycled soda bottle. This plant is perfect.

This purchase cost only 10 cordobas ($0.33) but it’s worth goes beyond that. I am going to be living here in León for 9 months and this plant is the first personal touch I’ve added to my room. By putting this plant outside my door I have transformed the space into my own, made this home feel like my home. It is also one of the first choices I have made about the life I want to create here. Day by day I am creating that life, going to yoga, going to the beach and reading the books I finally have time for. My new plant is the small green home base that I can build around.

On its own the choice to buy a plant doesn’t hold some great significance, however, I am learning to relish in the little things. It marks one of the many choices I can make in deciding what life I want to create for myself. During my time here I want to travel and see as much of this country as possible, and I can. On every available weekend, I have taken trips to sleep on active volcanoes, swim under waterfalls, and see beautiful sunrises. I am beginning to see myself thrive here in Nicaragua, the oddest container I could have imagined.

by Elizabeth, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Rafaela, my host sister, is four years old, blind and a drama queen. In the beginning, I assumed that she would be the most difficult to bond with because much of my early integration involved me silently listening to conversations and simply being present. Since she couldn’t see me sitting there, none of this meant much to her. But we have managed to connect in other arguably more important ways. Her world revolves around sound and touch, so the color of my hair and the brand name on my clothes means much less to her than it does to the rest of Ecuador. In Rafaela’s world, I am just a nebulous physical presence with a foreign sounding voice that sometimes makes weird smelling food. But for some reason, we get along.

If it’s been more than an hour since I’ve talked to her, she will repeatedly shout my name at the top of her lungs. If I don’t answer, she will ask the nearest person where I am and what I’m doing with slowly increasing volume until someone inevitably breaks down and responds. Sometimes, she tells me that she is “in love with the sound of my voice.” Other times, she tells me that I talk like a gringa and should learn Spanish already. Multiple times she has asked me why I’m from the United States and not from Ecuador. My follow-up question of why she’s from Ecuador and not the United States caused her somewhat of an existential crisis resulting in an extended period of silence, but I think that is when I truly earned her respect.

She is one of the most eager learners and teachers I have ever met. Right now, she is learning how to open doors herself. This involves a few minutes of banging her hands on the wall until she finds the doorknob and flings herself into the room, often completely naked and usually before 6 in the morning. She walks to my bed with arms outstretched, feels to make sure I’m in it and then leaves. It’s part of our morning routine. An unexpected side effect of this experimentation with my doorknob recently resulted in her locking us both out of my bedroom and my neighbor having to come and break down the door. Just another day in the life.

Learning English is also one of her current projects. We can spend hours together with her asking me how to say random words in English (“jug” and “cool” are her favorites). And while other people worry about hurting my feelings, she is the only one I can truly count on to correct my pronunciation and help me learn. She will randomly call on me to read to her from whatever book her hands land on and then ruthlessly mock the way I say each word until it is up to her standards. Her tough love has been the best Spanish teacher I could have hoped for.

I have never been an older sibling; even all of my extended family was older than me. Because of this, I am incredibly fortunate to be in this house with this little girl. She has taught me so much about dragonflies and percussion and shamelessly playing the recorder at full volume no matter who is sleeping and how to always get what you want (pro tip- just scream until they give it to you out of desperation). Although the barrier of age and language is too great right now for me to express this in a way she can understand, I really do love her. And maybe one day someone can read this to her in English and she can remember that weird interim family member that taught her how to say “jug” and “cool” and didn’t kill her when she banged on the walls at five in the morning.

by Chastidy, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Last week I asked my host mom and her cuñado how to say peanut in Spanish. Not knowing very much English, they tilted their heads in confusion. Attempting to get my questions across, I grabbed a piece of paper and pen. “Color café.. con líneas,” I said as I drew out a peanut. I then motioned my hands as if I was breaking a peanut open repeatedly. Finally, my mom’s cuñado said, “Ahhh, un almendra!” No, not an almond. I then resorted to just googling a picture of a peanut, which I probably should’ve just done in the beginning.

For a brief moment I was reminded of home. Holding conversations with my own parents often looked like a game of charades, with puzzled faces and fleeting moments where we thought we were on the same page. Growing up with deaf parents was trying at times because my fluency in American Sign Language wasn’t the best. However, in moments of frustration and confusion, I learned to navigate around not knowing specific words, figuring out different ways to get my message across. Now, being thousands of miles away from home in a country with a different language, I’m noticing the patience and persistence I developed from my home life, an experience that at times felt isolating from that of my peers. I think about my parents everyday, and I am ultimately extremely grateful. What seemed to be a struggle growing up has helped me tackle on this new journey, and figure out the word for peanut – maní.

by Trevor, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Bleach is for clothes. Not for hair.

At least this is what I thought until today. As I rest my body against this hard bus seat, I reek of bleach. My hands are stained in the best way they have ever been before. Thirty minutes ago, I dyed my hair for the first time. Exhilaration runs through my body because I have checked another box off my bucket list. I am not even sure if I am on the right bus right now, but I don’t care. 10:08 reads across my red Lacoste watch. It’s peaceful, and as I look outside the window the dense shadows blend in with the darkness. Usually, I’m super stressed out on the bus, always checking my surroundings and GPS to ensure I am not on track for getting lost. Tonight, though, is a different night. On this evening in southern Brazil, I have forgotten all the negative possibilities. I have embraced my bleached hands and open my memory to backflips a week ago.

The water around me is covered in divots from the rain. The heavy clouds and the lagoinha (a small lake) that surrounds me are postcard-perfect. The paddleboard below me nudges me forward. As my mind wanders off into nothingness, I think about how I don’t know how to execute a backflip. But I figure it is a phenomenal time to learn—in the rain while paddleboarding. I am already soaked like a soggy sponge from the rain. And even if I don’t land it, the lake water would brace my landing. Hopefully…
Eventually, I conjure up the courage to push off.

Splosh.

The skyline-silver water fills in around me and I float around for a few minutes. After enjoying the peaceful water, I swim back to my board for another five flips.

Spontaneity like this has been underrated for the short time I’ve been in a foreign country. Honestly, I have been too self-conscious during my first month here. I care too much about how much I mess up words in Portuguese; how I don’t say the right phrase even after preparing a solid minute to express it. I worry too much about how “perfect” my next VSCO picture has to be. The exposure. The filter. The content. My audience. I am too meticulous about it all. I worry so much that I notice myself slipping back into old habits. I’m relying on instant results when the results are not instant. It’s a long hike, a long bus ride (figuratively and literally) that I have in front of me. Stressing is unnecessary. There’s no use for worrying about how I don’t have the best connection with my host family. Or how I did not talk to that one coworker at work. Or how I missed out on that one opportunity with friends. Or even how I lost over four pairs of contacts in over a month. There’s no perfect family. No perfect friendship. No perfect experience. And there’s no perfect photo that can accurately capture the captivation and adventure of the best moments I have.

bump

The seats and windows rattle with every bump on the pavement, jostling all the passengers around me back and forth. As my reflection comes to a close, so has the day of most working Brazilians. My mind is my new camera, a lens where I am open to experience all kinds of sporadic decisions. And through these decisions, I have discovered there is so much to learn about Brazil. My bleached hands and backflips stand for a bigger lesson: to learn about new things and try new things. From this spontaneity, I have learned that I do not need to base my opinions off of other’s conclusions. Personal growth manifests from within yourself, not anyone else. And as long as I am growing by learning, I no longer need to fret about the small things because those things are not going to break my experience. Wherever this road leads is unknown, but it’s invigorating not knowing what’s going to happen next and enjoying the ride.