Cultural Experiences

Posted byrandy@letters-to-rachel.memorialPosted inAdrift in the World, Forward Into the Unknown, Updates From the Abandoned PlanetTags:, , , , ,

Dearest Rachel –

It seems like a bit of a waste of time, when there is so much that needs to be done at the school and clinic (to say nothing of the houses in need of water storage pilas – although there’s only so much that can be done in any given day toward that end), but the team at Just One has a practice of arranging for various ‘cultural experiences’ for its volunteers to go on.

I have two theories as to why this is a thing. First of all, for those of us on this trip, many of us are taking vacation time to do this – not all, mind you (indeed, for some, this is all part of the job, whereas for me, this is just something I’m free to do). As such, while it’s clearly a working vacation, it’s still a vacation, at least insofar as they are ‘vacating’ their ordinary day-to-day life for the sake of the mission. I believe the term being thrown about these days is ‘volun-tourism.’ So there’s a need to have these little breaks here and there to offer the ‘tourism’ part to the volunteerism. If nothing else, all work and no play makes Jack Nicholson a dull boy.

The other thing driving such little moments away from one task or another is to get out and meet members of the community; it so happens that Just One reaches out and touches people far beyond the reach of its compound, and this is a way to see how this happens. I’ll explain more on that as I get into this story.

We were offered three different such ‘cultural experiences’ to try; a bakery, a pottery and a tortilla maker. As I’m not much for pottery, and prefer American-style flour tortillas to the corn ones that are common throughout the area (although last night’s dinner featured tostadas that were every bit as addictive as the tortilla chips they sell back home), I chose to look into the bakery, and that meant today was the day to hop into Douglas’ van and ride with him and a couple of my fellow volunteers into the hilly streets on the outskirts of Siguatepeque to Don Mario’s place, where he and his wife make semitas.

In this neighborhood, it’s hard to tell businesses apart from homes. It’s not because every building looks the same; in fact, it’s quite the contrary situation, with every place differently colored or shaped from its neighbor in a crazy quilt of buildings. However, with a complete lack of signage, there’s no way to identify which buildings are businesses. It even goes further than that, as street addresses aren’t a thing, either (nor are street signs, now that I think about it), so finding a location is next to impossible; if you know where a place is, you’re fine, but if you don’t, you might as well forget it). My point is, you wouldn’t know that this is Don Mario’s bakery if you didn’t already know that it was.
However, it would seem that the government is more than able to find them, even tucked away as they are. While they had been using the brick, wood-fired oven for between thirty and forty years to make their baked goods, it would seem that they were required to switch over to a more efficient (and less polluting, according to the powers that be) gas oven. Doña Dalila acknowledges that the new over is easier to control from a temperature perspective, and delivers a more consistent (and longer-lasting, due to the baking away of moisture) product, but she contends that their baked goods aren’t quite as good as they used to be in the old oven. At the same time, if and when they can have it dismantled, they will have a lot more space to work with in the bakery, so that’s a plus, too.

The intent, I think, was to have us take part in preparing a few semitas of our own, as well as to partake in a few of the finished product. However, when we arrived, Don Mario was out on an errand, and the semitas that there were had already been prepared and were still rising. Evidently, the recent weather had slowed them down toward being ready to bake.

We could see the racks, holding some forty dozen semitas each, waiting to finish rising before going into the new gas oven, as we walked in. Nicole had given Sue some money to buy a supply for the clinic; we basically cleared out their entire stock of finished semitas, as well as a box of what looked like small hot dog buns.
This was one of the finished product; it looked – and rather tasted, although it may have been as much from the expectation of appearances as anything else – like a puffy snickerdoodle cookie. There is no cinnamon in these things, though; what flavor it contains is due to liberal use of vanilla instead. Doña Dalila explained how it obtains the mottled dappling, but between the translation and the time since, I’ve forgotten the particulars. It doesn’t help that we didn’t get hands-on experience.

At some point, however, Don Mario arrived; it turned out that his ‘errand’ had to do with checking on his daughter’s final project for her university: a small hydroponic farm. Evidently, once it bears fruit, she will have passed her final exam and earned her degree.

It so happens that the reason she’s made it as far as the university level is due to having gotten a scholarship through Just One. Meanwhile, with the money saved from having her study here (as opposed to a private institution, for instance), Mario and Delila were able to purchase their (mandated) gas oven. So the whole family has benefited from the organization’s programs…

…well, to a certain extent. With their children having college degrees, they don’t have a succession plan for the bakery; not even an apprentice to pass the business down to. “Everybody wants to be on YouTube or TikTok,” laments Mario about the younger generation, “they don’t want to work like this. They all want to emigrate to the U.S.” But the two of them tell us that they’re happy with their daughters’ choices and the opportunities they have in front of them; and if the bakery ends with them, they indicate that they’re content with that. Which means, I suppose, we have to get our semitas while we still can, because they won’t be around forever.

For now, though, I’m going to have to get back to work at this point. Just continue to keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it, I’m sure.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

2 thoughts on “Cultural Experiences”

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