Food in Nicaragua is different. Which means attempting to be a vegetarian in Nicaragua is different. Depending on with whom you’re talking, the word “vegetarian” can take on a variety of meanings. Anything from “you don’t eat beef but you’ll eat chicken” to “ok so you eat your meat with vegetables” seems to be an acceptable definition. Originally I had decided to forgo being a vegetarian for fear of insulting anyone or appearing as more of an outsider than I already was. I wanted to be accepted so I decided I would eat what was given to me and be grateful for it. In fact, this was brought up during the interview process for Peace Corps. After divulging that I was indeed a vegetarian I had to respond to a number of “likely” scenarios as a way to evaluate how offensive I might actually be in a given community. Now I’m only paraphrasing here and I went through this process about two years ago, but I believe some of these “likely” scenarios involved situations such as having the entire village scrape together what little they had to buy and slaughter an enormous animal for my arrival, a group of elders directing me to the front of an expectant crowd of hundreds, being served a large portion of this beast, and having everyone looking on disappointedly as I slowly nudge the plate away and twist my face in disgust. “How would I react to this situation?” I was asked.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I immediately begged for forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to be so offensive (sniffle) I’ll eat the meat (sniffle sniffle).” So that’s pretty much how it went…I think. Anyway, that’s where it all started. That’s when I first caved.
Well there never was any big welcome feast. But during one of my first few weeks in Nicaragua, I was asked if I would like to go shopping for food at the market in Masaya with a friend I had made from my town. I had already been to the market with others from Peace Corps but I went in hopes of seeing it from the perspective of someone who had made a weekly habit out of the trip and thus knew the market inside and out. And he did. He snaked his way without pause or hesitation through the maze (and I mean maze) of tiny shops and stores packed together as tightly as the people on the buses they took to get there. I struggled to follow him through the throng of shoppers occupying the network of narrow alleys connecting the different sections hidden behind the entrances. The market is a collection of individual stores, with individual owners, under individual zinc roofs, but somehow they’re all intertwined and connected so that each roof covering each store supports the others around it to make one enormous life form. It can be hot and crowded but it’s all quite manageable…that is until you find yourself in the butchers’ alley. The step between slaughter and supermarket that exists in the United States is noticeably absent here…or should I say noticeably apparent? There’s no refrigeration for the meat and on hot days the odor, to put it gently, can make your knees buckle. The proprietors keep the flies off the freshly stripped carcasses with thin towels or feathers tied to sticks. All parts of the animals are present because they are all in demand. The bits and pieces that may seem worthless are perfect for making into soups. Chicken heads and feet are readily available because they’re cheaper to buy for your dog than a bag of Alpo. And I’m still unsure what the purpose is of the pig heads with the tongues hanging out. I paint this picture not to persuade or dissuade anyone from anything, but I think it’s important to realize that certain things are much bloodier messes than they may first appear, literally.But I must have successfully stifled my gasps of horror and held myself together pretty well because my friend said with a completely straight face, “This is where Hooper goes when he wants to get meat.”
And I said, “Ummm...”
And I find the presentation of meat in my town to be no more appetizing. There is a family in my community that raises pigs and sells the meat. It’s not a large-scale operation so you can’t just show up at their home whenever you’re looking for some ribs. Rather, when they’re ready, they bring the meat to you. And tons of stuff, almost everything, is sold door to door here. All kinds of food, kitchen supplies, movies, mattresses, produce, just about anything can be bought from the comfort of your own home. I guess it’s sort of like the Internet. So there’s no reason to be surprised that raw pork makes the list as well. And it’s wheeled down the street in a wooden wagon big enough for an entire butchered pig. I’ve peered into the cart pretending to be an interested customer, but I really just wanted to see. All parts seemed to be present; they were just out of order. And all the while, as I cringed at the carnage, I imagined a giant “Eat Local” sticker pasted to the side of the cart and splattered with blood. And I imagined this because I knew where this pig came from. And I am also quite sure this pig was fattened up on watermelon rinds, cornhusks, old beans and rice, and anything else that would otherwise end up in the garbage. And I believe this because pigs, like chickens, eat absolutely anything. Waste goes unwasted, people get food, and a family has a business.
And these are just a couple of examples of a collection of experiences I’ve had and observations I’ve made that have shaped my views regarding vegetarianism in Nicaragua. Though through it all I’ve largely confused myself. These experiences have grayed the line between right and wrong. I still struggle with how I should resolve these conflicting thoughts. And what adds to the difficulty is that I still enjoy the taste of meat. Even after seeing a chicken that was tied to a stake in the ground and plucked from the waist down, then later split down the middle and hung over my fence to dry. Or seeing a dog lick blood off the inside of a wheelbarrow used to sell pieces of a pig from door to door. Or still being able to recall the stench of that market with alarming clarity. And I tell myself that if I eat chicken this one time at my neighbor’s house, I may as well not worry about eating beef at a birthday party or pork at my old host family’s house. Because it’s just the way it goes here. And the cycle never stops. So I have decided the only way to reconcile my feelings and find peace of mind is to take a stance and hold firm. Cold turkey…errrr carrot.(thanks for letting me use your photos without asking, Pops!)
