Brigit's Flame September Week One
Conquering mud
by JellybeanChiChi
The following is my entry for Brigit's Flame September Week One. The prompt was mud. Thanks to Margaret and Ruth for Beta work.
It wouldn’t have mattered if the digital camera was set for color or black and white - the landscape would have looked stark no matter what.
The merciless rays of the sun pounded the ground. It didn’t offer any radiance to the environment; it offered a harsh glow. So much so, that the only color that seeped through the camera lens was the pale orange of the dried mud.
Mud. Not grass. Not vegetation. Not even sand or dirt. But mud.
The substance swallowed this portion of Nicaragua when Hurricane Mitch’s fury caused mudslides that ravaged the low-lying regions of the Central American country. I visited the area a year after the 1998 storm.
A year later and the mud still reigned supreme.
The dried mud offered no traction. When I walked on its terrain in that hot sun, I slid wildly down inclines and struggled for traction up inclines. Every step lifted a fine, yet dense, dust on my body and clung to my clothes and sweaty arms. The dry bitterness crept in my mouth and nose.
One gentleman put things into perspective about this area - his hometown. A year before Mitch, the area was lush with vegetation, homes, schools, farms, areas for livestock. But mudslides buried everything in their wake.
The man witnessed a neighbor washed away holding a child in his arms. He watched helplessly as homes were decimated. He recalled the terrifying sounds of the winds.
He would never forget the smell of death in the immediate aftermath of Mitch. And he fought rage and sadness as he witnessed the snail’s pace of recovery thanks to governmental apathy and red tape and the unforgiving nature of the mud that swallowed whole villages.
“I’ve been through civil wars, earthquakes, storms, but nothing compared to Mitch,” the man told me.
There in Nicaragua, “mud in your eye” was not a pleasant phrase.
It was a pleasant sound that prompted me to take my eyes off the merciless terrain and toward an oasis of hope. Two boys, about 8 years old, were helping rebuild a community center, which at that moment was nothing but foundation that was six feet off the ground - enough space to prevent flooding during another storm.
“Oy,” one exclaimed.
A brick would be thrown.
“Ya,” the other boy said, as he caught the brick and put it in a makeshift wheelbarrow to haul it and other bricks to the other end of the job site.
Over and over they worked a that task. Through it all they smiled. They laughed, and when they saw me, they waved.
Both boys had lanky bodies and their arms were tanned and toned. They may have look thin, but they were all muscle
When I asked if they minded the labor, they both shook their heads and agreed it was good to help. They didn’t have a schoolhouse anymore, and they only had a few books for studies at home.
One boy said, “This is our school.” I asked him to explain and he took me to see his father who was making the bricks the boys hauled from one side of the side to another.
“How does he make the bricks?” I asked in Spanish.
“From the mud,” the boy said with a fair amount of “duh” in his tone.
They would take the dried mud that was in great supply, add water, mold the bricks and then bake them.
Mud bricks. Using mud to build up what it had swallowed up.
I was going to ask the father about the irony of the situation, but we were both interrupted by sounds of laughter.
The water buckets were supposed to be used to rehydrate mud to make more bricks. Instead, the boys created a few puddles and jumped in them to see who could make the biggest, muddiest splash.
Mud bricks could wait for a short while.
And, at last, my camera lens was filled with vibrant colors.
by JellybeanChiChi
The following is my entry for Brigit's Flame September Week One. The prompt was mud. Thanks to Margaret and Ruth for Beta work.
It wouldn’t have mattered if the digital camera was set for color or black and white - the landscape would have looked stark no matter what.
The merciless rays of the sun pounded the ground. It didn’t offer any radiance to the environment; it offered a harsh glow. So much so, that the only color that seeped through the camera lens was the pale orange of the dried mud.
Mud. Not grass. Not vegetation. Not even sand or dirt. But mud.
The substance swallowed this portion of Nicaragua when Hurricane Mitch’s fury caused mudslides that ravaged the low-lying regions of the Central American country. I visited the area a year after the 1998 storm.
A year later and the mud still reigned supreme.
The dried mud offered no traction. When I walked on its terrain in that hot sun, I slid wildly down inclines and struggled for traction up inclines. Every step lifted a fine, yet dense, dust on my body and clung to my clothes and sweaty arms. The dry bitterness crept in my mouth and nose.
One gentleman put things into perspective about this area - his hometown. A year before Mitch, the area was lush with vegetation, homes, schools, farms, areas for livestock. But mudslides buried everything in their wake.
The man witnessed a neighbor washed away holding a child in his arms. He watched helplessly as homes were decimated. He recalled the terrifying sounds of the winds.
He would never forget the smell of death in the immediate aftermath of Mitch. And he fought rage and sadness as he witnessed the snail’s pace of recovery thanks to governmental apathy and red tape and the unforgiving nature of the mud that swallowed whole villages.
“I’ve been through civil wars, earthquakes, storms, but nothing compared to Mitch,” the man told me.
There in Nicaragua, “mud in your eye” was not a pleasant phrase.
It was a pleasant sound that prompted me to take my eyes off the merciless terrain and toward an oasis of hope. Two boys, about 8 years old, were helping rebuild a community center, which at that moment was nothing but foundation that was six feet off the ground - enough space to prevent flooding during another storm.
“Oy,” one exclaimed.
A brick would be thrown.
“Ya,” the other boy said, as he caught the brick and put it in a makeshift wheelbarrow to haul it and other bricks to the other end of the job site.
Over and over they worked a that task. Through it all they smiled. They laughed, and when they saw me, they waved.
Both boys had lanky bodies and their arms were tanned and toned. They may have look thin, but they were all muscle
When I asked if they minded the labor, they both shook their heads and agreed it was good to help. They didn’t have a schoolhouse anymore, and they only had a few books for studies at home.
One boy said, “This is our school.” I asked him to explain and he took me to see his father who was making the bricks the boys hauled from one side of the side to another.
“How does he make the bricks?” I asked in Spanish.
“From the mud,” the boy said with a fair amount of “duh” in his tone.
They would take the dried mud that was in great supply, add water, mold the bricks and then bake them.
Mud bricks. Using mud to build up what it had swallowed up.
I was going to ask the father about the irony of the situation, but we were both interrupted by sounds of laughter.
The water buckets were supposed to be used to rehydrate mud to make more bricks. Instead, the boys created a few puddles and jumped in them to see who could make the biggest, muddiest splash.
Mud bricks could wait for a short while.
And, at last, my camera lens was filled with vibrant colors.