Delegado Issmarck

         He is the middle-aged, head-of-district for the Ministry of Education. The first time you spoke with him he invited you to a meeting that was to take place minutes later.  In spite of your still very poor Spanish, you agree to stay because you have nothing else to do and because any observational opportunity that presents itself to you is worth taking advantage of. Also, his position of power and influence makes you feel as though you aren’t allowed to say no – that it would be viewed as impolite. A very strong case indeed could be made for deeming it rude to reject an invitation to something that will be taking place in that very room at that very time.

          He has the habit of kissing me far, far too close to my mouth when greeting and saying goodbye – which perhaps would be bearable if it weren’t for the cigarette smoke stuck on his lips and skin. This habit partially explains his distinct thinness. He has a golden grill on his two front teeth, which is half mesmerizing and half unnerving because while it is notably common in Nicaragua, it is fairly new to me.
          Another occasion – Teacher Appreciation Day – he invites me as a special guest to pass out certificates to the teachers as they cross the platform. He sent someone to my home two days in a row to personally hand me the invitation, as the first day I was not home when they called. He didn't know my last name so the paper just read "Licenciada Ilana" Never have I so acutely felt myself so tall and alien as I did standing on the stage in the front of that cement arena and the 500 people in it the afternoon of the event.  It was a kind and generous gesture on his part and at this point I would thoroughly enjoy another invitation - which I do not think I will receive.

          A generally calm - though decidedly energetic - man, he does not rule through fear.  This is obvious based on the behavior of the rest of the employees in the administrative office where he works. They have attitudes of informal respect – he is approachable. He does anger, however, as do we all, and his anger is a quiet kind of beast. Once I went to visit him, having been away for almost 2 months due to surgery, and he did not greet me with the customary kiss. Indeed, he spent two minutes ignoring me and another several asking me questions while still doing things on his computer. I thought I had done something wrong, and I had – I hadn’t come to visit him. The reasons I had for my absence were just, but why would he believe me? Only this present interaction could save me from the extended period of unexplained absence. The meeting ended with the customary kiss, and for once I was grateful of it.

          Though he has a wife and three daughters in one of the communities surrounding the town, this does not stop him from sending me text messages about the fact that he cannot stop thinking about my eyes.  His own eyes always look worn, as though he spends too much time in front of a computer and not enough time sleeping.  I was shocked when I received his intimate text messages, offended, and even slightly scared - would this ruin our working relationship? I had received similar text messages from other men whom I had given my number to, but never from someone in such a high position of power and politics. The culture of text-messaging here is free in a way that allows one to say whatever they want to say, and leaves them unbound by possible repercussions because a large part of the face-to-face culture is “saving face”. Don’t say something that will make the situation awkward. Telling the Delegado to stop sending me flirtatious messages would indeed make the situation… awkward. So what do the women do? Ignore them. Eventually the message is gotten on the other end. This knowledge comes as a bit of a relief to me because at that point I did not have the language to tell him exactly what I felt when reading his piropos.

         His days are spent in a large office with one window above his desk. There is nothing else furnishing the room besides a chair for visitors and several filing cabinets; a set of metal shelves that has papers strewn in a forgotten sort of way. I feel like I am in a submarine in that office, painted all blue inside with only the one window letting in the sunlight. In that office I inevitably think about the social games we must partake in to get what we want. Personal sacrifice often comes into play, regardless of the cultural context.
         There is one memory I have of him that stands out particularly. I was waiting to meet with him and ask for permission to start a certain activity in the schools, and while I was waiting, it started to rain. It began to pour. It was raining so hard that I was certain it was golf-ball sized pieces of hail, and I had never seen or heard of hail in this area. There were maybe 10 people in the office, including the Delegado. We stopped what we were doing, a bit out of necessity (you could not be heard over the noise) but also out of awe. Issmarck came out of his office to join the rest of us in watching the spears of water strike the ground.  I imagined an angry god releasing his anger by pelting the earth with soggy bullets.  It was a similar feeling to standing next to the ocean. It was a reminder, standing perfectly still in the room with a handful of others, and with the Delegado, that nobody is immune to the ultimate power of nature.