Wilderness Accommodations.

Seated directly across my living room from the PC Nicaragua site coordinator, Beyadro, I chose my words carefully. We started our conversation in Spanish and guiltily I asked if he would mind continuing in English. This was a day that I had been waiting patiently for, preparing for and secretly dreading for weeks now and I didn’t want my future decided by a misspoken word. This was the moment of truth and my conversation with this soft-spoken man would determine my home for the next two years.  My preferences for my future site were vague and I had two simple requests. “Beyardo”, I said, “Put me in the woods and put me deep.”

            All of us aggies had a meeting a week later and seated together learned, one by one, who had been placed where. We were given our site, a packet with a brief description and a thumb tack to pin into the large map at the front of the room allowing us to all see where the others would be and to have a better idea of how isolated or connected we would be with the world as we know it. My site (as was the case with most of the volunteers), was my first choice; Jucuapa Occidental in the municipality of Matagalpa, Nicaragua. The material that I was given prior to picking this site was open-ended at best but what stood out were the possibilities for watershed and agro forestry projects. I had never been to Matagapla and knew very little about it but it was clear that it was remote (possibly to a fault) and the projects mentioned were exactly what I had hoped for.

            I had been sick for almost three weeks when I arrived in Estelî, in and out of bed, trying to pull it together for Spanish and ag classes. If my stomach were in the 5^th grade, it would get its ass kicked every day for being such a sissy. I’d only been in Nicaragua for two months and had already been on anti-biotics three times for bacterial and parasitic problems. We were all meeting up at a hotel for a couple days to meet and spend time with our Nicaraguan and INTA (Instituto Nicaragüense de Tecnologia Agropecuaria) counterparts. Mine turned out to be Elmer, one of my host brothers. He was a shy 20 year-old who was nice enough to come over on a bus and stay for 2 days to meet the new gringo that he’d be sharing his space with for an indeterminate amount of time. I was truly appreciative that he had come out which made it even more difficult when I had to leave him in the middle of our meeting for a poorly scheduled visit to the laboratory in town. I was taken in by a PC staff member, dropped off a sample and tried to return as quickly as possible, which turned out to be an hour later. I felt horrible but Elmer understood and we left together that afternoon to make our way into my new home.

            Me made it in to Matagalpa City at around 3pm after a quick 2-hour bus ride from Estelî. Walking through the market, Elmer reminded me that transportation is limited up to his home. We had missed the only bus for the day by three hours so we had a couple options: Stay with his sister in the city for the night and take the next bus up at noon the following day, or hike the 11km’s of road up in to the mountains. Being the ever-indecisive person that I am, I threw it back on him. “I dunno, man. Its up to you. What would you do if you were in the city by yourself? Would you hike it or wait?”  Elmer had a challenging glint in his eye when he said “Well, I’d hike it. But do you think you can do it with your backpack?” I’d gotten the answer that I had secretly hoped for and my smile answered for me. We started our journey into the woods.

            The road was rocky and clearly seldom used by anything with rubber wheels. The flat front country gave way to steep winding roads and we were on our way. Thousands of perfectly manicured rows of corn filled gaping scars of clear-cut forest on nearly every hillside. We walked alone for miles eventually passing a pile of horse dung, which at this point, had been the only sure sign that anyone had ever traveled up this road.  I asked Elmer if he had ever hitchhiked to lighten his load up the hill and his response was an obvious one.  “No, hombre. Cars don’t ever come up there.” We kept walking, most of our trek in complete silence. The heat started to beat down on top of us and I begged for clouds. My stomach and body ached and I was so glad that I had filled up my water bottle in Estelî before leaving the hotel.

When I had started the hike, I knew what I was jumping into but arrogantly I kept reminding myself that it was only 10km’s in. I could picture Lucas Somers, my past Forest Service partner and wilderness BFF, smirking and shaking his head at me in disgust. We used to hike three times this distance every day with 80 pounds on our backs and our arms full with tools, usually ending with a foot race to challenge the other’s mountain man ego.  But this was different. Sure, I’d hiked over more terrain much steeper than this but I had never done those hikes this sick or dehydrated and I had never done them in the tropics. At one point it crossed my mind “Ryan Hubbard, if your dumb ass dies of dehydration today, you better be good and dead because if not, your mom and Aubrie are going to hunt you down and finish you off.” About 3 miles in, I got a call from the PC Medical Office. I set my bag down and answered, more amazed than anything that I was receiving phone signal. They had called to let me know that they received my lab results. They showed that I had a significant bacterial infection (which explained the fever) and I was advised to “Spend some time in bed. I know its your site visit but just relax and take it easy this week.”  I thanked the voice on the other end for giving me a call, promised that I would not leave my bed and hung up, I couldn’t help but laugh when I hoisted my bag back on to my back. I shot a smile and a nod to Elmer and we were on the road.

Looking back, the hike was not bad at all and I am glad that my first introduction to my new home was on foot. It felt like the right way to do it and I would repeat my decision in a heartbeat. As the elevation increased and we crossed more rivers, the valley gave birth to more and more life. Hardwood forests blanketed steep hillsides, so thick that there was no sign of earth beneath the canopy. Vines spiraled down from giant, twisting Mammoths of trees along the road. Finally, for the first time in Nicaragua, there were no radio’s or televisions blaring. There was no echo from herds of mototaxis honking their horns to make their presence known to one another on lawless city streets. Just birds. Just insects. And only our feet scuffing up the rocky hillsides. Looking down at my feet, I slipped easily into a dream state, strolling through the cattle pastures near my house in Bishop, walking deep in the wilderness with Luke. I was thousands of miles from home, but home was walking up with me. It felt good and for the moment it kept me sane and calm as I passed in to a foreign land that would mark my new identity.

After just under two hours, we could see the house. It sat cradled on the other side of a large ridge, surrounded by a beautiful rushing river and countless acres of corn and beans. I was greeted warmly by my host mother, Margarita. She had a very content, free-spirited way about her and I could picture her just as easily in the woods of Santa Cruz or in a small house in the Humboldt redwoods. The sun was setting soon after I arrived and I was offered a plate of Gallo Pinto (the defining Nicaraguan staple, a mixture of red beans and rice, eaten with EVERY meal. Sidenote: The reasoning for only eating red beans in Nica is bizarre and kind of hilarious. I'll tell you about it when I see you next), and a tortilla. I forced myself to eat as much as I could, still lacking an appetite from my stomach problems. I ate alone with the exception of the chickens and ducks at my feet and the cats perched on shelves in the kitchen watching me force down every bite and begging for a piece of tortilla to drop.

After dinner, I received a tour of the pueblito from two of the kids in my family. My best tours of Nicaragua have all been from children ages 3 to 9 and I’m certain that this is the only was to see the heart of any Nica community.  We walked to Grandma’s house and crossed the river (which doesn’t have a bridge and is completely non-passable after heavy rains. Peace Corps bridge project? Check.), and I met as many of the local people as I could before it was too dark. I sat on about two dozen porches, chatting with mainly mothers and grandmothers and sipped so much coffee that my blood sang. I came down from my buzz in the kitchen of my house later that evening. I sat and shucked beans with my host mother, again, mostly in silence. She smiled and sang, scolded the cats when they overstayed their welcome in the kitchen and when we both had heaping buckets full of extracted beans, we parted ways and went to bed.

Its hard to forget how far away I am when I look down lush green valleys and bathe in the river but that home, my real home, will always be there waiting for me. This is my community now and it’s people my family. In many ways, this is what I have envisioned and craved for many years. Away in the woods, sweating through my shirt and speaking a language that was, only a couple months earlier, not my own.  The next two years are going to be the most defining years of my life. My task is completely in my hands and I am free to do with it what I please. The lack of supervision and direction that we are given as Ag volunteers is rare within the PC and most other groups have what they refer to as “Aggie-envy”.  Complete freedom. I’m going to keep myself very busy, realizing that excessive free time is a killer and when I have a moment to stop and think, homesickness smothers like a wet blanket. It happens when I least expect it and my heart begs my feet to take it home. But I’m here with a purpose and very lucky to have this opportunity. The voice in my head challenges me: “You wanted to make a difference, so do it.”

Yeah. I think I will. 

A bag full of mens' gifts in a country full of women.

This weekend I experienced my first real trip to the Nicaraguan countryside. Although my heart has been content during my travels and in the Nicaraguan towns, this weekend confirmed what I have always known deep down: My soul lives in 'el campo'.

Yesterday was  Mothers' Day here in NIC and the holiday is wildly important to the Nicaraguan people (as it should be). In every household, this is a full day-long event full of festivities, quality time passed with the women you love and paying respects to the ones that have passed. I have learned to appreciate and embrace  most rituals and daily activities here in my new country but the love and attention given to every Mom on this day has been my favorite cultural aspect of life in Nicaragua so far.

We left my house at around 5am yesterday to visit family in Leon, about three hours from Diriamba. The drive was beautiful, mile after mile of emerald green farmland and forest scattered with houses and corner stores. We pulled in to the city of Leon and my dad, Romiro, gave me the grand tour. We stopped first at one of the larger mercados in the city to buy flowers for his deceased mother. After buying three boquets, we headed over to the main Cathedral in downtown.

The cathedral is huge; It fills up an entire city block. My host family are Catholic, as is most of the country, so they were able to explain every piece of artwork and fill me in on the importance of every architectural feature. Inside the cathedral were the remains of the famous Nicaraguan poet, Ruben Dario. His body is protected by a large, marble Lion.  We walked outside and bought a shaved ice from one of the vendors in the park. My dad and i snacked on ours while we walked around Leon, admiring the memorials and murals of past revolutions and the people that lived and died for Nicaragua.

We loaded back into the truck with my mom and sisters and began our journey into the campo. On the way, we stopped as another house for a post-Baptism lunch for a nephew/cousin. I had the chance to meet and speak with twenty or so family members, all curious about the gringo that came to lunch with the Granera family. The one that i spent the most time with though, was my dad's 89 year old father. We sat and ate for over two hours while we talked, he sat with his legs crossed into his chair, blue shirt unbuttoned and his well-weathered face protected by the brim of a big, black cowboy hat. We talked about life in rural NIC, traditional foods of our home countries and life before and after the revolution. Oh, and we had a nice, long talk about venemous snakes too. A little bit of everything.

After lunch. we continued into the countryside, about another 20 km. We stopped at a small Catholic church where my dad and oldest sister were both born and raised. We walked down to a small, brighly colored cemetary where we sat to pay our respects to my host grandmother. We tied our flowers to her headstone. The ranchhouse wasnt oo much further. Protected by fields of bright green Yucca and sugarcane, cattle, horses, wild dogs and more chickens than I cared to count, this open-air, wood-beamed house was my heaven. Very modest and perfect in every way.  I met more family and walked to the edge of the property to look out into the expanses of rolling green. The only sounds came from insects, hungry birds and an approaching storm, pushing black clouds from inland. In this moment, I was home.

At sunset, I walked with a small army of women, sisters and little girls, through the fields to a small shop to buy treats. The darkness and heat lightening chased us home and with the acception of a few major tragedies (spilled chips and candies) we made it home safely. By 8pm, the sun had been gone for almost two hours and replaced with lightning bugs. The sky opened up to one of the most intense and consistant lightening storms I've ever seen. I watched the storm that night from my hammock strung in the center of the open living area, surrounded by around twenty other bodies. The barking dogs, roosters (which I've grown to passionately hate), cows and crying babies kept me from too much sleep. But I rested.

I rolled out of bed around 430 and by five, the sun was up. A cousin asked me if I could ride a horse and he seemed genuinely happy when i responded "Yes, sir." We saddles up two horses, opened a few gates and chutes and drove a head of about thirty cattle through the countryside, up to another pasture to graze for the day. The ride was gorgeous, every shade of green imaginable. Vibrant birds sat in every tree and five volcanos filled the horizon. My companion was very interested in wooing the local girls in English so i gave him a handful of pickup lines and we laughed together while I explained to him in Spanish what they meant. The rain opened back up on our ride home.

After lunch, a group of us drove to Cerro Negro, one of the more famous volcanoes in the area. We hiked to the top. The black volcanic soil made it a hot one but we made it without any problem. We looked down from the top and collectively decided that it would take too long to hike the trails back down. Running down the sheer face was a much better option. I felt like I was back home playing with my brother and friends, running full speed down the volcano. We jumped and fell at full speed. We laughed at eachother and yelled all the way down. Tumbling down that hill, we werent different people from unknown cultures and places. There was no language barrier. We were just kids having fun.

We headed home exhausted and got home around 7, ate dinner and gave my mom her gifts. I got her a set of six lotions and made her a card. I spent a day last week panicked because I couldnt find her a proper gift. All I knew was: She likes smelly things and enjoys little decorations for the house. An appropriate gift was near impossible to find in Dririamba. I was lucky enough to stumble into and unmarked perfume shop in town. I brought an entire bag of gifts from home but had failed to notice until i got here that they were ALL gifts for men.

So, I'm ending my day the happiest Ive been in a month. Laying in bed tired and sunburnt, relieved that I finally found a gift for my wonderful mom and wondering how I came with a bag full of mens' gifts to a country run by women.

If cramming a lot of crap into a small space was an Olympic event...

I'd be a gold metal contender. 

This will probably be my last blog post before I get on a plane.  I'll be in DC on Monday afternoon and plan on checking into my hotel, dumping my stuff and exploring until I can't explo no mo. Tuesday I'll be attending my staging event to get a brief introduction to the PC, meet some other volunteers that will be leaving around the same time and making sure all of my paperwork and passports are in order.  Before staging, I plan on waking up early to go check out the Smithsonian. I've never been to DC before so I'm hoping to walk down and see as much as I can in the little time that I have. Im up 15th St, about 5 or 6 blocks north of the White House so I couldn't have asked for a better central location. I will be checking out of my hotel around 2 on Wednesday morning, be at the airport ready to rock at 3:30 am and flying down to my new home at 6:05. So crazy.

I'll be bounced around from location to location once I get to Nicaragua but if you would like to contact me, my training address will be:

Ryan Hubbard, PCT

Voluntario del Cuerpo de Paz

Apartado Postal 3256

Managua, Nicaragua

Central America

I guess relative to most host countries, Nicaragua's mail system is fairly dependable. It usually take 2 weeks for airmail to arrive in NIC, although it does get broken in to a lot. If you send anything valuable or more than 2 lbs down there, you can pretty much guarantee that it will be 'investigated'. 

I hope to update you again soon. Thank you for your interest in my travels. I love you all. See you on the other side! 

Peacin' out.

Well… as most of you know, I am leaving on Monday, May 9^th to start a new chapter. After completing staging events in Washington DC, I will be loading myself and a backpack onto a plane and departing to my new home; Nicaragua. As an agriculture volunteer, I will be working mostly in the fields of sustainable agricultural practices and improved food security and preservation. I will be devoting the next two and a half years of my life to serve my country as a Peace Corps volunteer and attempt to improve the quality of life for citizens of rural Nicaragua.

I have experienced the entire spectrum of emotions over the past few months but now that the time has come to go abroad, I am feeling cool, collected and prepared. After attending a ‘Bon Voyage’ party on Sunday and speaking with past volunteers (one of which just so happened to have served in Nicaragua!) there is no doubt in my mind that this is what I was born to do. I know how difficult the next two and a half years will be both physically and emotionally but for the first time in my life, I truly feel like I am doing what I was meant to do. It’s a wonderful and liberating feeling.

Most everyone that will read this blog has been with me through the application process and are aware of my passion and excitement to finally be serving as a Peace Corps volunteer. Below, I have included a very small section of my first PC application essay to better explain why I am leaving home. Thank you all so much for your love and support. I truly feel so blessed to have you all in my life.

                All humans have an innate desire to help others.  I truly believe that deep down, every person wishes they could make a difference in the world and improve the quality of life for their fellow man and woman.  Carrying through with this aspiration to an extent that will truly make a long-term difference takes time, commitment and a readiness to use the skills that you possess.  As a recent college graduate, I am in a unique point in my life where I am able and willing to undertake all three. Since the age of eleven, it has been an ongoing goal of mine to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer. Now the time has come, and I am ready to commit.  

I understand that to truly make a difference in the world with the Peace Corps, I must view my time abroad as a 24 hour position, conducting myself as a representative for the United States in a manner that my family and fellow Americans would find admirable.  I expect to live and breathe for my cause, focusing all of my time and effort into fulfilling my goals within the Peace Corps, improving the quality of life for the people of my host community. With my tenacity and the skills that I posses, I intend to acclimate well and make a positive impact within my host country.

Both of my grandfathers and several of my uncles have served in the military, dedicating their time and lives to the country that they love.  I too feel it is important to explore other regions, serve my country and act as a representative of the United States. Given some of my personal and political beliefs, I know that the armed forces are not for me.  I am aware that, like the military, it is common to be placed in to situations that are strange and unglamorous by western perception. Having spent much of my time living and working in very secluded locations, I have become accustomed to living without the amenities that some may find essential to every day life. No matter how sparse my environment may be, I intend to adapt quickly and make do with what few resources I am given.

My name is Ryan Hubbard. I am a proud American with a strong sense of community. When I arrive in my host country, it will be my new home; the local people my fellow men.  I will not lose focus of my mission and will work with determination towards the ultimate goal of improving the quality of life for the people of Nicaragua. I will make a difference.