The narrow black and white tiled sidewalks of Granada, Nicaragua are a steeplechase of potholes and revolutions past. They are slim margins — embankments on streets that stream diesel exhaust, horseshit, prostitutes, beggars, spit, cigarette butts, sewers, dust. Lost dreams and hopes. Under the relentless equatorial sun, taxi drivers with red-rimmed eyes and gold-rimmed teeth careen in the traffic of bicycles and buggies, uniform-clad school children, vendors selling fried meat and ice, stray dogs, SUVs, the cowboy and the air-conditioned tourist buses.

In Granada live too gringo real-estate gold diggers, missionaries, surfers, peace corp vols and ex-pats who survive by the sole desire to expire their livers and sun-leathered skins in the shade of mango trees and colonial fantasies. Meanwhile local church processionals, replete with brass bands, heft wine-colored velvet-robed manikin Jesus-es, carrying his cross. Spontaneously (it seems) they parade and amble through congregational neighborhoods, at all hours of a day and night. Neighbors come out of their homes to watch, join, or not.

If it wasn’t for the right-angled grid pattern of Granada’s city plan, laid down by Spanish founders in 1524, and the gravitational pull that is the ocher-drenched Cathedral of Granada, pinning down the east side of Parque Central – it is as if this dizzying stew of humanity and faith, culture urbane, profane and ancient, the rich and the poor, would all just melt-slide into the murky shores of Lake Nicaragua. Or be blown away — buried by the volcano Mombacho that lies high above in the clouds, in watch and wait, over all of it.

These are the streets in which chavalos roam. These are the sidewalks upon which so many chavalos sleep. Los chavalos roughly translates into ‘young kid’. In Nicaragua – a country second only to Haiti in the western hemisphere’s statistics of poverty — there is no good estimation of the thousands of children who live out their short life expectancies in these streets. Their stories are of abuse, abandonment and addiction. Sex trade, drug trafficking and gangs.

Individually, each story is heartbreaking in the most visceral sense of the word. Collectively, they are overwhelming. A dispiriting musical score of desolation that makes the listener go deaf.

The sense of powerlessness to help, apathy, breeds particularly well when encased in rationalizations such as: Tough break. Tough love. Born-into. I can’t. Fate. Luck of the draw. There by the Grace of God go I. Los chavalos’ stories could very well dead-end right there. The vapors of the glue they sniff, deadens appetites of both hunger and spirit. And without those, nothing happens. Nothing matters and nothing happens. And so… so it goes….why should it be any different…

Yet…and still, there are more than a few people who refuse the defeat-isms of the supposed no-way-outs. There is Donna Tabor. Petite and grandmotherly, she hails from Pittsburgh, PA (and likes her Primanti with onions-no egg). After more than a dozen+ years of living and doing non-profit work in Nicaragua and at 67 years old, Donna in the confluence of these streets, these sidewalks, opened a restaurant. She christened it Café Chavalos. Therein beyond the margins, lies the community of the kitchen, the sustenance that truly feeds hearts and souls.

‘Crazy’ I may have heard her say once. But only once. Donna will be the first to admit she didn’t know what she’s doing. She’d only known it’d help get some los chavalos off the streets.

As Project Director of the non-profit Building New Hope, her years have included starting schools in the barrios, running a vet clinic for the workhorses that are the origins of the local economy, the legs of its transportation. She’s organized shipping used baseball equipment down from the States for Nica’s little leagues. Her most recent project focuses on the spay and neutering of the stray cats and dogs in the city. She, along with her board, have learned that even shoe-string budgets (and some dedicated volunteers) can be effective when the programs are run with the sort of common sense determination and commitment that Donna embodies.

The Chavalos respect and laugh alongside their unlikely, fearless grey-haired 5’ 4’’ lady leader. These boys-to-men who do the work of Café, are learning to do it all. They plan the menus and go on shopping trips to Managua for provisions. They stand by the stove reducing sauces, baking cakes, roasting meat and vegetables. They take the orders and serve up plated meals. They wash dishes. At the end of the night they wash the floors and when they begin the next day, they wash them all over again.

The Café’s recidivism rate is nearly nonexistent. One boy went back to coke. Strung out and embarrassed, he went into hiding until he got himself clean again, in order to come back to work. Most Chavalos have returned to school or, have started it for the first time.

Each Chavalos has developed his own specialty in the kitchen and it is a kitchen that even a housewife in Akron would envy — a new six-burner commercial stove, two ovens, stainless steel sinks along with all the accoutrements and gadgetry. Donations in kind and in cash, have come from everywhere including Bill Kreutzmann of the Grateful Dead and a Whole Foods in Pittsburgh.

Oscar, one of the founding Chavalos, listens to reggaeton and dances while he makes the sauces: moles and salsas nuance the flavors and textures of main courses like the chicken saltimbocca and chille rellanos that Luis makes. Moises, baby-faced like Ponyboy of the Outsiders, makes soups. His puree-ed gazpacho is pink-spicy yet soft and supple. Juan Carlos’ specialties are desserts – his dark chocolate cake soufflés and cheesecakes have their own following. Elizer cooks the appetizers and sides like fish cakes and julienned vegetables. Another Luis works the front of the house – tending to the tables, he carefully lays out each place setting and keeps the customers thirsty with sea-salty baskets of yucca chips so they’ll drink more home-brewed Rose of Jamaica iced tea.

What the Chavalos need now is more training, more guidance in the ways of restaurateur-ship. They need help in learning how to cook with all the bounties of local fresh ingredients found in the markets – the tropical fruits, like papaya and pineapple that “tastes like spun gold” describes Donna. Squashes of all shapes and colors. Beans, grains and rices. Leafy greens. Garlic, onions, bags of herbs and spices. Mint. Limes. Melons. Meat, fish, poultry. Local small batch cheeses. Organic fair trade coffee from the highlands and homegrown chocolate.

Now the Chavalos want to open a gift store. They want to learn how to market and sell their soursop salsas, hot sauces and coconut biscotti. There’s a cookbook to write to tell their stories and share their recipes. There are dreams of a cooking / language school. There is much to do yet what they really need is still simple. The small things. Like, a sign.

On this night, the lights flicker off in a power outage. The blender shuts down, leaving Moises’s gazpacho momentarily not smooth – not the way he likes it. Freezers, fridge, fans, go quiet. The music stops. But it’ll probably be short-lived. People say it looks like Ortega is bringing more electricity into Granada, you can see the power lines along the highway being built.

One of the Chavalos takes the break that complete darkness demands, and goes outside to sit on the corner. A barely-there moon hangs in purple twilight. Tonight, the east wind off the lake cools gentle in release and possibility. Wearing baggy jeans, an untucked t-shirt and a clean apron, this Chavalos waits for the first customers of his night to walk through the door.


On February 12, 2008, in Washington DC, Donna Tabor was one of six honorees awarded the first-ever National Awards for Citizen Diplomacy, by the U.S. Center for Citizen Diplomacy.

For more information about Cafe Chavalos and volunteer job descriptions, contact: donna@buildingnewhope.org