Kendall S.

International Relations & Development Volunteer

Managua, Nicaragua

In September 2007, fresh out of college and full of optimism, I set out on an adventure to Nicaragua with only the vaguest of plans. I didn't speak Spanish, I had very little money, and I wasn't sure what kind of job was waiting for me there. But I had an inherent faith that I could do something useful if I put my mind to it.

A year and a half later, on a superficial level, it seems that not much has changed. Though my Spanish is pretty darn good now, I still have very little money, and I'm not sure what kind of job is waiting for me back here in the U.S. But my inherent faith in my own usefulness has metamorphosed into something beyond my own comprehension. I think it will take many years to process all that I did, learned, and came to understand.

I first visited Nicaragua in February 2006, as part of an alternative Spring Break service trip. It was a life-changing experience: I had never visited the developing world before. We visited several different cities in the country, meeting with leaders of various NGOs to learn as much as possible about this resilient nation's history.

Digging through my files, I pulled out the names and email addresses of several NGOs that had touched me on my visit to Nicaragua. I wrote emails, explaining that I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted to do in Nicaragua, but that I wanted to volunteer, learn as much as I could, and do something useful in the process.

Not many organizations knew what to do with such an open offer. But one group, Asociación Kairós para la Formación, said my goals aligned perfectly with their mission, and invited me to join their school as an introduction to Nicaragua. I still didn't know exactly what I would be doing, but I trusted AKF's leadership. On September 3, 2007, I packed my bags and flew south, beginning my life's greatest adventure to date.

My first several months in Nicaragua were spent under the guiding wing of AKF’s capable leadership. Almost immediately upon my arrival in the country, I was off to language immersion school in Esteli—a cool, breezy mountain town in the north. It was there that the realities of my new daily life became clear.

I spent about 20 hours a week working one-on-one with a Spanish professor, who attempted (with varying degrees of success) to teach me Spanish grammar in Spanish. Though I spent many a long hour with a blank stare on my face, eventually things started making sense, due in part to several years of Latin back in high school.

I spent just a month in Esteli, but it remains one of the most vivid periods in my memory. There were so many difficult moments when my lack of cultural understanding and language skills nearly reduced me to tears. I remember trying to explain to my host mother that I was a vegetarian without offending her, spending my 22nd birthday far away from friends and family, and most vividly, my vicious three-year-old host brother, whose favorite pastime was sneaking up behind me and kicking me in the groin.

But it was also a magical time. Shortly after my arrival, a huge parade filled the streets outside the language school, and I celebrated Independence Day with my new friends. There were several sidesplitting mistranslations on my part that equally offended and tickled my hosts. And I’ll never forget my first time sitting amongst veteran revolutionaries as they sang their beloved Sandinista hymn.

At the end of my time in Esteli, my Spanish was still pretty rocky, but the foundation had been built. I returned to Managua in the first week of October, and began work with AKF.

AKF is a traveling school for community education. While they have a retreat center in Managua, their primary work is in the small campo communities that speckle the countryside. AKF’s leaders visit each of their member communities at least once a month, leading workshops in community organization and development. They help community leaders plan for the future, and take charge of the development of their own lives. AKF also brings delegations of Northerners to visit and learn about Nicaragua, so that they might return to their home countries and affect change in policy that deals with the developing world.

At AKF, my job was to learn. It was a challenge for me to slow down my North American pace of life long enough to be quiet and just listen. I wanted to do something, help someone, and get something done! But AKF taught me that this attitude was precisely the reason why projects led by foreigners were often ineffective. We have our own ideas about how things should be, develop, and grow. But our ideas of a “developed” world are often incongruent with the needs of the culture with which we are working.

A far more effective way of working is to simply be present in the culture in which you are the visitor. It can be difficult to accept that there are no easy solutions to the problems that affect the people around you. You can’t just throw money at most of these problems and expect them to be resolved. If it were that easy, these problems probably wouldn’t exist anymore.

AKF invited me to spend time in the various communities in which they work. I spent two to three weeks in each of their several communities. In places without electricity, running water or paved roads, life moves at a very different pace. People value their families and communities in a different way. They laugh, sing, and relax more.

I realized quickly that it was a poor use of language to call Nicaragua “under-developed,” or even “developing.” Yes, their infrastructure and economy lack stability, but their cup runneth over in less tangible currencies: family, community, and laughter. I began to wonder if what we sacrifice to maintain our materialistic lifestyles was really worth it.

During my time with AKF, my language and cultural skills grew and strengthened. I began to understand how I fit into this new culture, as a guest in a completely different world. I learned to slow down, to listen, and to ask the right questions. So much of AKF’s work is about showing communities that they have the capabilities necessary to solve their own problems—that they needn’t wait for foreign aid, which often comes with so many strings attached.

I stayed and learned with AKF until mid-December, 2007. After my training period with them, I was placed in the community of Matagalpa, somewhat near Esteli in northern Nicaragua. Armed with all of the experience and knowledge from my time under their tutelage, AKF sent me off into the countryside to listen, learn, and find a project to join. I visited NGOs stationed in Matagalpa, looking for a project that I might join. I discovered that my timing was less than perfect: Most Nicaraguans spend the entire month of December on vacation, celebrating the various religious festivals that fall in that month.

While in Spanish school in Matagalpa, I got to know several other gringos who were doing service projects in the city. I met a group of Northern carpenters who had come to Matagalpa to build a community library on the outskirts of town. They had limited resources but their leader, Dominique, had built enough community partnerships and raised enough funds to employ a few local craftsmen and purchase limited materials.

However, most of the Northerners in the group didn't speak Spanish well enough to communicate at the construction site. Being in search of a project myself, and moderately confident in my language skills, I volunteered to help on the library. I had no idea what I was getting into.

It turns out that Dominique's vision for the community library was to build an environmentally sustainable building out of local materials. She had recruited carpenters from the North that specialized in the Cobb building style: Structures are built from a mixture of sand, mud, and straw, layered on a stone foundation and protected by a thatch roof. The natural cement mixture created by these materials dries harder than concrete, but is extremely labor intensive, as each layer can only be laid a few inches at a time, and then allowed to dry before adding another layer. The final product is a virtually indestructible earthen structure, the likes of which have endured for many centuries in Britain.

I was recruited as a translator to facilitate communication between local workers and the Northern forewoman, but my role became so much more than that. I became a Spanish/English tutor for the various parties involved, attempting to teach myself out of a job by giving both Northerners and Southerners the language skills to communicate without a translator.

I worked hundreds of hours on that site; mixing cobb with my bare feet (you can't get the right ratio of sand, water, straw, and dirt any other way), sifting dirt from the yard to mix into the cobb (trying to avoid any rusty nails or broken glass in our bare feet), and starting the occasional mud war with the dozen children who liked to loiter around the site and tease the gringos.

One of the local workers, a teenager who had fallen behind in his schooling, asked me if I might help him with his schoolwork. He was 17, but still in the 8th grade. His was an unfortunately common story: He had stopped attending school in order to support his family. But he was trying to finish high school, and had enrolled in an accelerated program that would allow him to complete the 9th and 10th grades in one year, by attending eight-hour sessions once a week while he continued to work.

Though the program's goals were noble, cramming so much information into one session a week left this particular student feeling perpetually overwhelmed, paralyzed by a lack of understanding.
The gaps in his knowledge were astounding: When trying to explain Newton's laws of motion to him for his physics homework, I realized that he didn't understand basic arithmetic concepts such as multiplication and division. It was like trying to build the top floor of a multi-level home at the same time as we were digging the hole for the foundation. We met several times a week for an hour or two, trying to bring some of his basic math and science skills up to speed, while completing just enough of his advanced homework to get by.

The Library Project was a wonderful springboard for my time in Matagalpa for many reasons.
Friendships grew out of that time, not only with peers and adults but also with several of the young street children living in the city. Street children are a common issue in impoverished countries. Kids take to the streets to earn money for their families, to run away from abusive situations, or because they have no other place to go. Nicaragua, the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, is swarmed with street kids.

Matagalpa is a large enough town to have a small population of street kids, but not so large that the multitude of faces is overwhelming. As a white man, I was often mobbed by kids in the square who assumed I would be a generous donor. Knowing that many of these kids were being exploited by older street gang leaders and wouldn’t directly benefit from my coins, I took to stocking my backpack with individually packed peanuts, raisins, and crackers. That way, when approached, I could share a bite to eat with them, and maybe exchange a few words.

One day, Emily, one of my co-workers on the Library Project, was demonstrating her passion for transforming trash into art to a Nicaraguan friend of ours, Emanuel. Emanuel's eyes lit up when he saw Emily turning a pile of discarded drinking straws into a bouquet of plastic roses. Without saying much, he disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a pile of discarded plastic shopping bags and a knife. Emanuel cut the plastic bags into strips and started stretching and spinning the delicate material. Several minutes later, the bags had become a multi-colored, sturdy cord. After spinning several cords, Emanuel quickly wove them into a stunning bracelet, which could be sold to tourists for a couple of bucks by any street vendor in the square.

As I watched Emily and Emanuel work together to weave several more bracelets, the wheels in my head were spinning furiously. I couldn't stop thinking about my little group of street kids, and how much they might benefit from an artisan skill like bracelet-making. The process wasn't difficult, and the materials could be found anywhere: Trash, especially plastic shopping bags, litters the streets of every major city in Nicaragua.

About a week later, as construction on the Library Project wrapped up, I assembled a team of supporters to propose my ideas for a Street Kid Project. I needed Emanuel and Emily's skills, the support of a local NGO (I joined up with a group called Las Hormiguitas, which works with street kids on a regular basis), and a location. Emanuel worked at the most popular local cafe/bar in town, Artesanos, which happened to be owned by Emanuel's cousin and my close friend, Noel. Noel allowed us to use Artesanos as a classroom during the hours he was closed, provided the kids behaved and didn't steal anything.

The final crucial component proved to be the most challenging—the children. About a week prior to our first class, I went around town to all of the begging hot-spots, inviting kids to come to our class. The kids, being extraordinarily street-smart, knew how to say the right things to make potential “donors” happy. They guaranteed to be there, and even to bring friends along! As the big day approached, I collected hundreds of bags, imagining that the entire population of Matagalpa's street kids would be bursting through the doors. But as Emily, Emanuel and I waited in Artesanos for the kids to arrive, I quickly realized how naïve I had been: Not a single kid showed up.

Disappointed but not defeated, we gathered up our supplies and took to the streets. It took us a while to find them, but with determination in our hearts and plastic bags in our hands, we eventually found a group of about five kids playing in the town square. We teased them a bit for not showing up, and then got to work demonstrating our plastic-bag bracelets, hoping they would think it was as nifty as each of us did. After a few minutes of spinning cord, a small crowd started to gather. The kids, enjoying the attention, started making the cord themselves—acting like old pros to impress their audience. I could hardly contain my enthusiasm when the group ringleader, Chico, whispered to me, “I think we could actually earn some money doing this!”

I began offering daily sessions at Artesanos for any kids that cared to show up. Emily returned to the US, and Emanuel often had to work, but I found that with the occasional co-teacher from Las Hormiguitas, I could handle the group on my own. As an incentive, I bought each of the kids a hearty lunch at the end of each session, using money from my Christianson grant. On any given day, there would be anywhere from three to twelve kids in attendance. Sometimes, we gathered in the town square, in the hopes of recruiting more kids to join our group.

Initially, we just worked on artisan skills, recruiting help from local craftsman with support from Las
Hormiguitas. Then, remembering my AKF training, I started asking the kids what they wanted to learn. It dawned on me that I might be more successful if the kids felt more ownership in the lessons they were learning.

I was surprised when each of the kids individually asked me if I could teach them to read. Many of them had started school, but had dropped out before becoming literate. I was awed and inspired by their request, but not really sure I knew how to teach someone to read, let alone in another language. With the guidance of Las Hormiguitas, I was able to purchase several sets of educational materials, again with Christianson grant money.

As successful as our program might sound, it was not without setbacks. For all of my enthusiasm at the outset, I had so much to learn about street culture, and working with young people. I immersed myself in scholarly literature on street kids, focusing on the issue of substance abuse. I learned that the little glass jars I saw the kids carrying were filled with cobbler's glue—the fumes of which would buy the kids a cheap high, but caused severe and permanent brain damage over time.

I learned that the kids took exceptionally long bathroom breaks during our classes, because they were huffing glue, bathing from the sink, and using a toilet (a luxury for them, being accustomed to conducting their daily business in full public view in parks and on street corners). I learned patience beyond what I had imagined possible, but I also learned to be firm. I required each kid to turn out their pockets before going to the bathroom: I couldn't control what they did in the streets, but I could insist that they not get high during our sessions.

Violence was such a part of their daily lives, and I struggled to break that cycle in our classroom.
When sharing a box of crayons, a kid would sucker-punch his neighbor to get the color he wanted, instead of just asking. They were so used to projecting an indestructible exterior, it was almost impossible to get them to display any deeper emotions.

I organized a blanket drive during the colder months, to help provide some warmth as the kids slept outside. I was amazed to learn that, upon giving away blankets to as many street kids as I could, they turned around and sold them to the highest bidder. The very next day, they would ask me for another blanket, claiming that theirs had been “stolen,” and that they were still cold at night. My solution to this problem was to require the kids to purchase the blankets from me, for a nominal fee of about twenty-five cents, the proceeds going back into the fund for their lunches and reading materials. I found that, by requiring a tiny sacrifice from them, they took real ownership in their purchase, and protected their blankets for much longer.

Despite all our progress, the realities of street life still controlled the kids' moral system. Stealing was as much a diversion as a necessity of life. Adult friends would approach me with stories about “my kids” being involved in petty crimes all over the city. Being one of the only adult influences in their lives, people somehow expected me to get a handle on the situation. I did the best I could to talk to the kids about it, but they denied any involvement, as one would expect. How can you reason with a kid who doesn't view stealing as wrong, but necessary?

In May 2007, I got word from Noel that the kids had been caught red-handed trying to steal the stereo out of the car belonging to Artesanos' manager. Noel was forced to report the kids to the authorities, and ask me to stop holding class in his bar. I understood completely: Noel's first priority was to the safety and comfort of his customers.

At the same time, I was approached by the authorities myself, and accused of being responsible for the children's behavior. Street kids often work for an adult boss, and so it wasn't too far fetched to imagine that I was profiting from the children's illicit activities. The authorities warned that if I continued to work with the kids, they would have to take legal action against me. I was devastated. I had never been accused of something so contrary to the truth. But I understood that such a conclusion was easily made when an outsider comes into a community. I was very grateful to my association with Las Hormiguitas, because as a respected NGO, they were able to vouch for my intentions and relationship with the kids.

Furthermore, I had at this point used up all of my Christianson Grant first installment, and was relying on Las Hormiguitas to help fund the daily purchase of meals and materials for my class. I hadn't budgeted for buying daily meals for the street kids, but felt like it was a crucial component of our work. I had enough personal savings to absorb some of the impact, but that was wearing thin as well.

As I faced the prospect of finding a new space to hold class, a devastating thing happened: One day, without warning, all of the street kids vanished. It was something out of a horror movie—no one would tell me where they had gone, or what had happened. The authorities, not thoroughly trusting me as a foreigner, wouldn't give up any information about what had happened. Finally, the director of Las Hormiguitas learned that there had been a round-up of sorts in the middle of the night, and the kids had all been taken to a “reform” camp, several hours away, where they would be “reformed through hard labor.”

Just like that, my project was over. No goodbyes, no closure whatsoever. I couldn't even imagine what the kids were thinking or feeling but I'm sure it was even worse than the horrible feelings coursing through me at the time.

Right at that crucial juncture, I got an email from a theatre producer in St. Louis who wanted to hire me to perform in a production of Mel Brooks' THE PRODUCERS for six weeks. The pay was good, and I was running out of savings. Feeling like the carpet had just been pulled out from under me, being offered a high-paying, high-profile theatre gig was just the thing to save me from sinking into a deep depression over the fate of my Street Kid Program. With the blessings of Las Hormiguitas and the InterExchange Foundation, I packed my bags and headed to St. Louis.

While working in St. Louis I was offered a volunteer position with a group in Nicaragua I had come to know through my time in language school in Estelí. The group, Acción Médica Cristiana, works in the health sector, providing medical services and education to as much as 50% of the Nicaraguan population. I was drawn to AMC primarily because it was the only 100% Nicaraguan-run NGO I had encountered. It makes such a difference working with people that truly understand the challenges faced by their own people on a daily basis.

Upon returning to Nicaragua in June, I jumped headfirst into volunteer orientation with AMC in
Managua. It was by far the most thorough, thoughtful, and positive volunteer experience I had over the whole year. AMC worked so hard to create a position for me that would be beneficial to the community, as well as to my career goals.

I spent my first couple of weeks visiting AMC projects around the country, learning about public health in a way that I had never anticipated. I visited communities and helped AMC teach kids how to brush their teeth with a clean rag and salt, because no toothbrushes or toothpaste were available. I translated a children's song about self-esteem that I had learned in my childhood, and did my best to teach the wide-eyed kids in each rural village we visited.

After orientation, AMC placed me in their project in Bluefields, on Nicaragua's Atlantic coast. The primary focus of AMC's project was HIV/AIDS education, prevention, and support. Being a port city, the infection rates in Bluefields are among the highest in the country. Prostitution is rampant, and sailors bring the virus home to their wives after long stretches at sea. AMC actively engages persons living with HIV/AIDS by providing a social, psychological, and emotional support network to help them battle the virus. A large part of my time in Bluefields was spent listening and learning with this group, called “Gente Positiva,” or Positive People.

I was originally brought to Bluefields to help create a troupe of teen actors that would travel around to local churches, schools, and community centers, teaching the public about HIV/AIDS through sketches and one-act plays. This project eventually came to pass, but was sidelined for a while by an unexpected request made by the local prison psychologist:

A week into my orientation in Bluefields, my supervisor, Miss Jeannette, told me that I'd be in charge of working with a group of nine adolescent prisoners in the local penitentiary. The prison psychologist had come by the office that morning, asking for help with these young men, who would all be due for release at some point in the following six months. Josefina, the psychologist, said that they were having severe self-esteem issues, and a lot of anger, and she feared that their attitudes were worsening, not rehabilitating, while in prison. During that Monday meeting, I was told that I would start working with them the very next day, and would have several hours per week to work with them.

I spent hours frantically preparing a lesson plan for the prison group, meanwhile accompanying the community health promoter, Jenny, on her visits to all the local elementary schools as part of my orientation. Jenny was doing a workshop with the schoolteachers on how to recognize signs of abuse in their students. (Sexual abuse is rampant in Bluefields. In my first week here, there were five reported cases of rape against children under the age of 18. This is in a community of 40,000.)
Tuesday afternoon, I was shaking in my boots as I walked into the prison for the first time. I had never entered a prison before, much less the “most violent prison in Central America” (as I was later told by the regional director). I expected the teens to stare at me coldly, imagining the horrific things they'd like to do to me. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The session went far better than I could have imagined. I had been made to think that these were hardened criminals, that I would have to work with them with bars separating the room for my own safety. That couldn't have been farther from the truth. I found that these young men were starving for positive reinforcement, and their life stories just came pouring out when they realized that Jenny and I were offering a sincere, non-judgmental ear.

Over the course of a couple of months, I developed such extraordinarily bonds with each of the teens. Their stories cut me to the quick. At first, they said all the things they thought I wanted to hear: They were so sorry for the things they had done, and couldn't wait to get out and lead a better life. But a few weeks in, we hit a turning point, when all of the facades fell away and we really started to understand one another.

About three weeks into our sessions, one of the young prisoners tried to take his own life by consuming pills while the other teens looked on. They all live in a very small cell—about 9'x12', with no windows, no ventilation, and a hole in the corner for a toilet—and the suicide attempt was a traumatic experience for all of them. Discovering the empty pill bottle moments too late, they shouted and banged on their bars for almost half an hour before getting the guards' attention.
Thankfully, the teen was physically okay: Unwittingly, he had stolen a bottle of vitamins instead of the painkillers he wanted. He was able to talk about the experience openly and constructively in our group, in a way that took the overall tone of our conversations to a much deeper level. I used the suicide attempt as a springboard to talk about support systems and coping mechanisms. We talked about how to create a safety net around ourselves so that we had a place to turn when times got really difficult. We used journaling, role playing, and music to make abstract concepts slightly more concrete.

I'm proudest of a lesson I taught on the Blues: I brought in recordings of some of the greatest Blues musicians of all time; John Lee Hooker, Nina Simone, and even a little Elvis. I printed out the lyrics in English, and attempted to translate them into Spanish as well. I taught them that singing the Blues is all about sharing the collective burden. The Blues are meant to be sung as a group, in a call and response style. It won't make your problems go away, but it might make you feel a little better to share the load with the rest of the group.

I knew I had hooked them by the grins spreading across their faces. The songs were about being in prison. The singers even looked like them! And man, did that beat feel good. I pulled out my guitar and taught them how the 12-bar Blues pattern works. Then, going around the circle, we took turns leading a verse, with the rest of the group responding in their turn. Everyone tapped their feet, and even if they couldn't sing, they contributed something—a heavy sigh, an “oh yeah”, or a drummed pattern on their chest—when it was their turn to lead. It was one of the most gratifying moments of my entire Nicaraguan experience. I worked with those prisoners for several hours a week, all the way through to the beginning of September. Saying goodbye to the teens was one of the most difficult things I had to do, when my time in Bluefields ended.

However, the main reason I had been brought to Bluefields was to start an educational theatre troupe. One Friday evening, at about 5:30, I looked up at the calendar and saw “ADOLESCENTS” written in big letters for Saturday, August 2nd. I asked Jenny what that activity was, and she told me that it was MY theatre group. 'Oh REALLY?,' I thought. And how many were coming? Only SIXTY.

There had obviously been a miscommunication. I had asked if Jenny would help me form the theatre group of about 4 or 5 teens, to put on educational dramas about HIV/AIDS. She said that was great, because they already had a group of about 60 teens that were trained as community health promoters, and we could select the group from that.

But Jenny and I had mis-communicated, and she had invited all 60 teen health promoters to come hear about the theatre group, and decide whether or not they wanted to join. This was a bit shocking for me since anywhere from 0-60 teens could decide to join my “class.” Working in a very small space, this could have presented a huge challenge.

I tried to keep my cool, and prepared a lesson plan for all 60 of my potential theatre club members.
I didn't sleep much the night before, fretting about how it was going to work out the next day. I went to work early Saturday morning, and continued to iron out the details on the lesson plan. At 2:00, our scheduled start time, no one was there. By 2:30, there were three students. Okay, so having too many students wasn't going to be a problem. By 3:15, we had about 15 students. I took them through a few drama exercises, and explained what I wanted to do with the group. I told them I'd need a group of actors, and a stage manager. All I got back were blank stares. Admitting defeat, I told them I'd go get our snack ready in the kitchen, and they could talk amongst themselves.

I was in the kitchen, licking my wounds, when a soft-spoken young woman named Berjenelle slipped in, and in her lilting Creole accent asked if she could be my stage manager. She was too shy to act, but was a really organized person and liked the idea of participating. As we poured soda into plastic sandwich bags, (that's how you serve drinks in Nicaragua, you tie the bag off at the top, and then bite off the corner and sip the bag to drink), she reassured me that her peers were interested, but just shy. When we got back into the main room, there were 7 names written up on the chalkboard. We were in business.

Over the course of the next six weeks, we developed an hour-long drama about the stigma faced by persons living with HIV. It was written, directed, and performed by the teens. We used improvisational theatre techniques as the foundation of our work, allowing us the creative flexibility to switch around roles, expand the cast, and easily integrate new ideas as they came up. Right before I left Bluefields, we presented our drama for an invited audience of over 130 people. I couldn't have been prouder of the kids: They had taken such ownership in the process. They beamed as they took their bows—the love for the stage clearly taking hold in many of them. I'm proud to report that the group continues to meet today, writing and performing their own material.

I only left Bluefields because it was terribly expensive to live there. Not much grows in the swampy bayous of the Caribbean coast, and so all goods must be shipped from the Pacific coast. As a result, the cost of living is about three times that of the Pacific region. I had to hold onto what little money
I had had left from my time working in St. Louis.

When my time ended in Bluefields, I hitched a ride on a boat to the Corn Islands—two tiny Caribbean islands a couple of hours off the coast of Nicaragua—planning to stay for just a few days before returning to Matagalpa to look for a new volunteer project. It was the first and only “sight-seeing” I had done in over a year of being in Nicaragua, and I had been told that the islands were an absolute must-see before heading home.

The Islands themselves are as close to untouched tropical beauty as I have ever seen. Little Corn, in particular, is less than two square miles, has no infrastructure, no cars, no roads—just white sandy beaches, palm trees, and stunning coral reefs.

When our boat docked, I saw a sign for Casa Iguana—a small eco-lodge on the southeastern corner of the Island. Not having made any reservations, I was intrigued by staying in an eco-lodge, and wandered across the island to take a look.

Something special happened when I met the caretaker, Kelly, a warm-hearted woman from Maine who had been living on the island for a year, and had become deeply involved in the local community on the island. She was passionate about giving back to the local community—not just running a resort for tourists that only drained island resources. She was fascinated by my stories from my year working in the country. Finding a common spirit between us, she invited me to attend a meeting with the community council later that day.

As the community elders talked, I couldn't believe the magnitude of the problems affecting this tiny corner of paradise. US oil companies were pursuing rights to drill just a few miles off the coast. The lobster population was all but decimated (companies like Red Lobster being the primary source of income for these people for decades), and lobster fishermen were being horribly hurt and killed by practicing unsafe scuba diving techniques to augment their catch. The school was in desperate need of instructional assistance, not to mention improvements to their facilities. And the national government had cut off all funding for their waste removal programs, forcing people to burn trash, or dump it in the ocean a few miles offshore. Worst of all, an aggressive non-native species of grass had been introduced to the island swamp—the only freshwater supply—and was rapidly drying out this critical resource.

After the meeting, Kelly turned to me and asked if I wanted to live and work at Casa Iguana, while working with community elders to tackle some of these issues. Though my heart burned for my friends back in Matagalpa, it was an offer I couldn't refuse. Working at Casa Iguana allowed me to save what little money I had left from St. Louis for my plane ticket home. In exchange for 20 hours a week of work at the hotel, Casa Iguana would house and feed me, giving me the freedom to spend another 20 hours a week working on the community projects.

From early September until the end of November, 2008, I stayed on Little Corn Island. I worked with the community leadership to organize tourists and locals to remove the invasive swamp grass, wading into murky water up to our armpits to pull out this six-foot-tall weed out of the mud. Looking back, it was probably the riskiest project I worked on in Nicaragua: We often came across giant hairy tarantulas and boa constrictors while wading through the swamp.

We spent hundreds of hours hacking away at the roots of the grass with machetes, hauling it out onto the beach to dry, and then burning it so it couldn't take root again. In any other country, such work would probably be assisted by modern technology. But on our little island, we labored acre by acre with just sackcloth and machetes, reclaiming the swamp root by root.

I also worked with the local Dive Shop to create educational programming for local lobster fisherman. Scuba diving is a relatively safe sport, so long as one follows the depth and time guidelines established by the scholarly diving community. However, an untrained diver puts himself at serious risk of permanent injury or even death if he doesn't know how to follow these guidelines. Under pressure by big companies like Red Lobster to produce a large enough catch to feed the Northern appetite for lobster, untrained local divers make deep, repetitive dives in search of hidden lobster, putting themselves at risk of decompression sickness, or pulmonary barotraumas (pressure-related lung injuries).

I worked with the staff of the Dive Shop (also owned by Casa Iguana) to train local lobster fisherman to dive safely, for free. Because the Dive Shop staff worked almost exclusively with English-speaking tourists, they needed help translating for Spanish-speaking locals. I recruited local fisherman, and helped the instructors translate during class. As a part of this project, I had the privilege of learning to dive myself—earning a professional-level certification by the end of my stay there.

I could have stayed on Little Corn Island for several more months, being economically neutral there. All of my expenses were covered by the hours I put in working in the community and at the eco-lodge. It was a thrilling time. I developed such a love for the local culture and people. I was fiercely dedicated to reclaiming the swamp and helping local fisherman dive safely.

However, my trip was cut short for medical reasons. The warm waters of the Caribbean are teeming with bacteria that often cause ear infections in susceptible people. I suffered several severe and chronic ear infections over my three months on the island, often forcing me to stay out of the ocean and work exclusively in the swamp. The local doctors did their best to treat my infections, but the low-quality antibiotics offered at the public health clinic on the island were simply no match for my infections.

At one point late in November I went to sleep with a horrible earache, and woke in the middle of the night to find the pressure released, but my pillowcase stained with blood and other unsightly secretions. The infection had finally ruptured my eardrum. When I called my doctor back home, he insisted that I get on the first flight back to the United States to be treated properly. I was worried about flying with a ruptured eardrum, but the doctor believed it was far safer to fly when the membrane was already punctured, rather than let it heal a little bit, only to re-rupture when I flew again.

Just like that, my adventure came to an end. Using the very last bit of money I had left, and borrowing some from my parents, I bought a one-way ticket back to the US. It ripped my heart out to leave the country, leaving behind so many beautiful relationships and so many unfinished projects—and so suddenly, too.

I realize now that there will always be unfinished projects: We do as much as we can, and then pass the torch onto the next person who feels passionate about the cause. And the relationships I built don't have to end just because I've returned home. In the Internet age, there are no excuses for not maintaining relationships of value.

That being said, it has taken me several months to get my feet back underneath me. I've moved in with my parents for a while, looking for a job in this unstable economy. But I left so much of my heart in Nicaragua. Though I know I will experience many things in life that will ignite my passion, I'm not sure that I can, or would want to fill the space in my heart left by my time in Nicaragua. Every now and then, I have moments of clarity when a lesson learned in Nicaragua crystallizes in my mind. I'm aware of it most when interacting with other people who have had similar experiences. There's an unspoken feeling of knowing one's place in the world that is so difficult to articulate—and noticeable when absent.

But the rest of the time, I have a hard time articulating what the whole experience has meant, or what exactly I've learned. It's more of a swirling emotion, often triggered by sensory memories, that bangs around inside of me, but doesn't really know how to find its way out. It's full of longing, gratitude, and helplessness. It's knowing how little I am in the world, but also that what little I am or have to give is only given value by the relationships that I build and from which I now draw strength.

When people ask, “How was Nicaragua?”, I'm dumbfounded by my inability to answer the question. “Great,” I tell them. “I learned so much.” “That's just amazing that you did that,” they usually reply. “I'm so impressed.” I smile and thank them, because it's the polite thing to do. But I can't help but feel unsettled, disturbed even, by these superficial interactions. Maybe it's because they force me to accept that I haven't yet fully understood what the experience has meant. Or perhaps it's because there's no real way to communicate the depth and breadth of all the emotion involved.

But this report is a start. It may have taken me several months to get it written, but I honestly can't imagine having been able to complete it any sooner. As it stands now, despite its length, this summary of my time in Nicaragua feels incomplete: There is no summary statement at the end of the road.

And maybe that's okay. Maybe that's the point, actually. My time in Nicaragua, which would have been impossible without the Christianson Grant, was only the starting point of a lifelong journey towards greater understanding. I'll let you know when I figure it all out...