The rains have, by and large, receded, save for last Sunday when it managed to pour from 5am until after midnight, a “farmer’s rain” they say, steady, accompanied by flashes of lightening and frequent losses of power. Now the powerful eastern winds are back, cooling us down, forcibly driving the rampant humidity of last week towards the Pacific coast (where it belongs; the surfers are less likely to notice.)
The last couple weeks have been hectic, as much from running about getting things accomplished as from a generous helping of socializing, involving locals, ex-pats, and visitors alike. The first fete was held over on Ometepe Island, a combination birthday party and housewarming for our friends Cindi and Brian, who generally live in New Mexico, but plan to spend as much time as they can down here. Edwin has nearly completed the house, designed by Brian with its location and their needs firmly in mind. With the lake higher than it has been in recorded history, her property seems somewhat foreshortened from when we saw it last spring, but the sight of the water lapping up through the trees is lovely, and they have far less distance to travel for a swim.
Over a dozen ‘extranjeros’ showed up, plus Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, for a lively afternoon of conversation, food and drink. As Cindi was still ill-equipped to cook for so many, we formed a wobbly column and marched the mile or so up and around to a rustic little lakeside restaurant where we happily gnawed on tender chicken and succulent tilapia as the air filled with thousands of fireflies and the Cumbia throbbed deep into our bellies. We then headed off to various beds, with none so lovely as those at La Omaja, a mini-resort with seven individual bungalows, each with its own hot shower, a luxury for many locals.
It was during the meal that we met Dennis and Julie, a couple from the Seattle area (Bellingham and North Bend respectively) who recently bought some land south of San Juan del Sur (on the Pacific coast). They had ten days or so to get to know the area better, and start thinking about what sort of house they might eventually build. A week or so later, they called us and we arranged to take them up to see our friend Fred’s place (mentioned here and there over the course of this blog) on the edge of the Laguna de Apoyo, a deep and beautiful crater lake, also home to the Belgian Vortex with whom Pat and I stayed (and labored for) last spring. Fred welcomed the company, giving them the full tour, complete with detailed explanations of his water storage system, a necessity in this part of the country renowned for shortages. He constructed his house so that it sits above several huge storage tanks, fed by rain water during the wet season, and able to hold enough to support him, his wife, her cousin, and assorted guests, for at least six months (or until the next rainy season). San Juan del Sur and its environs are also plagued by water deficits for much of the year, and as ecologically-oriented types, Dennis and Julie are planning to build as responsibly and practically as they can.
The day after our return from the Isla, we were invited to accompany Edwin’s family to a victory party being held by the current Buenos Aires mayor, in honor of her newly elected replacement. Both are fervent members of the FSLN, aka the Sandinistas, whose party swept many of the recent municipal elections throughout the country. Some of you may have followed the aftermath on the news, but please let me reassure you that most of what you saw or read in the US media was complete and utter rubbish. There were some incidents in a few Managua barrios involving the throwing of rocks and the immolation of one or two unfortunate vehicles, but upon investigation these turned out to be staged events, perpetrated by the PLC, the party that ended up with considerably fewer votes than expected. That this was likely the result of fraud on the part of the FSLN might explain their actions, but nothing short of a secondary election, closely monitored by an international board of observers, will ever prove it.
At any rate, on this particular Sunday, several hundred of Buenos Aires’ prominent citizens assembled on the spacious lawn of the mayor’s lakeside estate to listen patiently to endless victory speeches, knowing said patience would soon be rewarded when the countless cases of Flor de Caña were breached and the rum (the smooth, golden 7 year) began to flow. There was food as well, thank god, in the form of beef stew and chewy fried tacos. It wasn’t long before the patio-cum-dance floor was churning with wriggling bums and giggling children, and we passed the afternoon in a pleasant haze of schmoozing, boozing, and people-watching. We have known the mayor-elect, Valdivion, since we arrived, and have always been on good terms with him. So in spite of any doubts we harbor about the future of Nicaragua under Ortega’s questionable leadership, the fate of Buenos Aires appears to be in reasonably good hands.
A few days later we were invited over to Edwin's aunt Paola's place to celebrate her son, Josue's, high school graduation. The local mariachi boys were there, 'giving it loudy' as Pat would say, and keeping everyone hopping in the small, overheated living room. It was sort of a double celebration, as Josue will be one of our Sprout students, without which help he wouldn't be continuing his education. A very bright kid, he's won a partial scholarship as well, and will be fulfilling his service to Sprout by serving as my office assistant. (More Sprout news soon to come.)
As for the house, Daniel (our worker) has completed the enclosure of the formerly open space between the roof beams and the top of the walls, and has begun construction of the building that will contain the water tank (450 gal.) and storage for tools, etc. Once that’s done, and he and Pat have sorted out the twisted web of pipes that were in place when we bought the house, we should have actual water running directly into the house. I realize this may not seem like cause for celebration to the majority of you reading this, but I gotta tell you, after living without indoor plumbing for over 10 years in Homer, it’s nothing short of a goddam miracle to me. Viva Nicaragua!
We are back to relying on our own pedal-power for getting around; Pat and the jeep had an unfortunate accident a couple weeks back. The cause is unclear, although Edwin’s cousin Donald, who had been doing some work on it involving the drive shaft, suggested that Pat may have hit a pothole (it was dark) which caused the temporarily connected shaft to shift, forcing the wheel hard to the left, and causing the jeep to partially slam into a fence post, blowing out the front right tire, which in turn knocked it off balance enough that it rolled over, ending up on its side in the midst of a field of young plantains. Through luck, karma, or divine intervention (there has been much talk here about Pat’s guardian angel and how hard he works), Pat walked away with nothing more than a few bruised ribs and a wee gash on his right temple. The jeep, sadly, did not fare quite so well. We’re awaiting an estimate from Edwin's mechanic cousin Donald as to the repairs, and then will decide how or if to proceed. Edwin had been driving behind Pat at the time, and so was there to help him home, and the next day arranged to have the jeep towed to his place (by a tractor), and paid off the field owner for damages to his fence: $5. Apparently all these months of waving to every guard in the fields paid off, and Pat was deemed a ‘local’ rather than a rich gringo, and therefore spared the sort of extortionate behavior often enacted upon the latter. So we’re back to the bikes, not altogether a bad thing most of the time.
You might notice a few more typos than usual in this blog, the result of trying to write amidst the jubilant celebrations of the Novena going on all around us. On the 7th of December, Nicaragua celebrated Purisima, apparently the day of the Immaculate Conception. The nine days leading up to the 7th are filled with parades of Virgin-hauling devotees, trailing flatbeds festooned with blue and white ribbons and balloons, slowly making their way from one temporarily constructed shrine to another. Once there, the masses take turns singing special Virgin-worshipping songs and responding to the query “Who is the cause of our happiness?” (ans: The Virgin Mary!!) in return for handouts of fruit, sugar cane, and if they are very lucky, a few coins. One of these shrines has traditionally been erected just outside the gates of this house we’re staying in, and so it was again this year after representatives of the local Catholic Church stopped by for permission. By four in the afternoon, no less than 250 people, mainly women and children, had gathered outside the gates, patiently awaiting their turn to croon at the Virgin’s freshly painted feet. To my mind, this particular Virgin bore more than a passing likeness to Jacqlyn Smith, formerly of Charlie’s Angels, but this did not seem to deter the crowd. The next day Pat, Edwin and I were on our way home from Rivas when we were forced to pull over and wait the passing of one of the Virgin-in-Motion trucks and its trail of adorers. I asked Edwin why the Nicaraguan police and the Virgin used the same color: light blue. He grinned and replied, “It’s because both of them routinely hit you with fines.”
Rosita, Edwin’s older daughter, joined thousands of other little girls across Nicaragua the morning of the 8th to receive her first communion. Dressed in miles of white satin and tulle, festooned with plastic seed pearls, hair curled and looped and ringed with tiaras of white flowers, the tiny bride-lets drifted up the church aisle, clutching candles and giggling nervously, until they reached the priest, took the sacrament, and wafted back to their seats. Later in the evening, Edwin & Reyna hosted a fiesta in honor of Purisima and Rosita’s latest ascension up the R.C. ladder. There was much rum involved, though whether to comfort the believers or convert the skeptics, I cannot say.
Pat actually had an ecclesiastical moment of sorts over on the island, when riding in the back of Grant’s pickup truck. A dog was running along side, and then as we slowed, passed us. Pat’s eyes grew wide and he said, “Holy shit! That dog’s ass has the face of Jesus!” We all looked, but by then the dog had swerved off into a field, lost among the pungent tobacco leaves. Pat's first thought was to alert the media, but we quickly realized that perhaps it was something best kept to ourselves. After all, thousands of pilgrims making their way to a small Nicaraguan island to worship a dog’s bum was sure to end badly, at least for the dog.
Finally, on a sad note, I must report the passing of El Cid. Poor little bugger fought for his life, assisted by daily shots of vitamins and antibiotics, but in the end, his tiny lungs weren’t strong enough to sustain him and he elected to chase dust bunnies in heaven. (Just let me believe that, ok?) His absence was particularly hard the first days after our return from Scotland as a new kitten had appeared on the scene: Cali. She was a gift to Carolyn, the owner of this house, from friends in Managua, and she at first appeared to be a sort of ‘anti-Cid’: well-fed, well cared for, round, soft, fluffy, guileless. We resented her immensely. For about 12 hours. At which point we rationalized that Cid’s death couldn’t really be pinned on her, and that he would have wanted us to share our pent up kitty love, right? And so, as tends to happen when one admits one pound balls of fluff into one’s heart, she has us besotted. All the kitten, none of the responsibility—it’s a pretty good deal. We’re like godparents, I guess, ready to assume full care for her should the need arise. And yes, we will be ready.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Oct. 14, 2008
Oct. 12, 2008
Writing from the comparative luxury of the Managua Best Western, conveniently located directly across the highway from the airport. We’ve avoided it up till now, thanks to Edwin’s family putting us up, but this time decided just to bite the bullet (our room here costs the same as the one in London we should be in a couple days hence…) and fork over the cash. We are intending to get our money’s worth, using the pool, gym, etc. Well, Pat’s happy right here in the room as there is cable and European soccer is on.
On a culinary note, an ex-pat known by the name of Barefoot Jim (he usually is) has moved from San Juan del Sur to Buenos Aires and opened up a tiny restaurant on his porch. He serves 3 things: hamburgers, chorizo sandwiches, and chorizo spaghetti. And he makes a wicked loaf of chocolate banana bread. Everything costs $2, and includes endless ice tea refills (anything more is BYOB, but he’ll supply the mixer). We have been spending a lot of time over there. The place is called Restaurante de Cabra, in honor of Billy, his pet goat. It may be in memory of Billy pretty soon, as even to my untrained eye, Billy is one sorry-lookin’ goat. (But he photographs well.) In addition to his tasty food, Jim is an entertaining raconteur, particularly on the topic of wacked (or just wacky) expats he’s come across over the years. My favorite yarns involve a fellow generally referred to as Crackhead Ken. Seems the guy is on a $2500/mo. pension, most of which goes toward earning his nickname. The cops all know him, including which days his pension checks hit the local bank. Within a few days, they arrest him on one charge or another, and while he’s in the brig, subtly mention how they’re a bit short of gas for the one patrol car, or perhaps that the station needs a new coffee machine…Ken’s out in short order, and the cops get what they need.
The US isn't the only country in the midst of election mania. Down here, it's time for the mayoral race, and every town and city has been plastered with campaign posters, for the most part depicting candidates from the two leading parties: FSLN (the Sandinistas) and PLC (mostly former Sandinistas disgusted with Daniel Ortega and in favor of keeping the US as an ally). Buenos Aires has been host to rallies for both parties, and while I was caught without my camera when the FSLN swarmed the streets, Pat and I were walking home as the PLC mob were just getting started. Every form of transport in town NOT owned by a Sandinista was out in force, often hauling far more passengers than the engineers or designers could ever have imagined. Friends of ours were out in front, and encouraged us to join the parade, but although we too are fed up with Ortega's bullshit, we've decided not to take a political stand publicly...just not worth alienating anyone in this small town. Reyna happily marched, or rode, in both events, claiming that since it really wouldn't make any difference which one won, she may as well have fun circling the town with her friends. In fact, this thinking is far from rare, and there were many people loudly cheering both candidates.
Almost as depressing as a local cop shop is the Rivas Hospital, where a friend of ours, Edwin’s aunt Paola, recently had to undergo surgery. She was told she had a massive tumor in her uterus, and would need a complete hysterectomy, as well as a biopsy of the mass. Once they were inside, however, the docs discovered that the “tumor” was in fact a piece of the placenta from the birth of her son, 16 years earlier. The delivering doctor had missed it, and over the years, it had grown and grown (or things grew around it—not really clear on the details) until reaching its gargantuan proportions. So they cut it out, washed all of her female bits, put them back, and stitched her up; an incision running nearly from hip bone to hip bone. We went to visit her a few times—her son Josue, the one who thoughtlessly left his placenta behind, will be a Sprout student—and I think while I was there I counted at least 20 roaches scurrying about. Josue, who had been sleeping on the floor next to his mum’s bed (in a room with five other patients), told me it was much worse at night once the lights were off. We promptly went out and bought him a foam mattress, figuring at least it would elevate him a few inches above the masses, as well as cushioning the cement tile floor somewhat. Man, there are some seriously devoted sons in this country…
Out at our place, I am very happy to report that the septic tank has been completed. It took the local brick manufacturer four trips, using four different horses to haul what appeared to be the same wobbly wooden cart, to deliver 1120 of the 1200 bricks required—Edwin had to fetch the final 80 in his truck. All that remains now is the water tank, installing a pump in the well, and hooking it all together. Throw in an actual toilet, and oh my god we’ll be ready to flush for the first time in over ten years. Daniel, the young guy working for us, is a treasure. Not only a hard, conscientious worker, but such a sweetie that he’s won over the neighborhood as well. All the kids want to be his helpers, the woman next door will no longer accept money to feed him, and the teenage girls on the block are trying to drag him to an “occult”, aka an Evangelist revival meeting. While we’re away, we’ve arranged for him to stay on in our house and renovate the crumbling remains of another neighbor, Angela’s, house. She’s the mother of Edwin2 and Sofia, and it’s more on their account than hers that we’re bothering. The roof could be cut into small squares and sold for sieves, and while it was originally constructed of brick 22 years ago, most of the mortar has long since departed, resulting in very loose bricks, many of which have the disconcerting habit of flinging themselves to the floor, often narrowly missing a child’s head. The whole project, including Daniel’s wages, should come to less than $2000, and while we don’t really have money to burn these days, this is something we can do.
It is now the planting season, especially this week with the full moon, and everyone we know is out plowing and sowing and so on. Our landlady’s caretaker took it upon himself to organize the planting of about half an acre of red beans, and Theresa, the former manager of the B&B, went out to watch, getting some great pictures of the process. Pat and I have become bean planters as well, or at least bean investors, going halves with some neighbors on the planting of about four acres. The land belongs to the mother, and is overseen by her uncle. If all goes to plan, we *should* see our seed money (ha) doubled by New Year’s, in which case we’ll probably do it again.
Last week, as we were enjoying a burger at Jim’s place, Pat looked down and saw what appeared to be a very large and furry beetle. On closer inspection, it proved to be a very small, very scrawny kitten. Some bastard had singed off his whiskers and some of his facial fur, and he hopped rather than walked, due to unusually long back legs. We put him on the table and watched him eat most of my lunch, punctuated by loud sneezes leaving behind ribbons of greenish snot. We scooped him up and took him to the local vet, recommended by Howard, the guy with the small jungle cats. Vet said, he’s got pneumonia. One or two more days and he’d be dead. He gave him an injection of antibiotics and a tiny crumb of a pill, and sent us home with instructions to continue the shots and pills for five more days. “If he’s still alive by Monday, bring him back.” By Monday, he could have passed for a kitten in a pet store window. Five days of regular feedings and endless affection have resulted in a great little cat. We named him El Cid, and if he remembers us when we get back from Britain, we’re keeping him. (If not, Carolyn, our landlady, will be happy to have him. But I think we made an impression on the little bugger.)
Finally, something you English speakers may not know: "Jesus" (given the Spanish pronunciation of ‘hey-sus’) "es Cheese en Ingles." Sofia and Yancy announced this to us one day, proud of themselves and grinning from ear to ear. "What?" I said. "Que?" "Hey-sus es CHEESE en Ingles!!" they repeated. Then it dawned: to them, our pronunciation of Jesus *does* sound a lot like the word "cheese". But personally, I just kind of like thinking of him as a dairy product...
Writing from the comparative luxury of the Managua Best Western, conveniently located directly across the highway from the airport. We’ve avoided it up till now, thanks to Edwin’s family putting us up, but this time decided just to bite the bullet (our room here costs the same as the one in London we should be in a couple days hence…) and fork over the cash. We are intending to get our money’s worth, using the pool, gym, etc. Well, Pat’s happy right here in the room as there is cable and European soccer is on.
On a culinary note, an ex-pat known by the name of Barefoot Jim (he usually is) has moved from San Juan del Sur to Buenos Aires and opened up a tiny restaurant on his porch. He serves 3 things: hamburgers, chorizo sandwiches, and chorizo spaghetti. And he makes a wicked loaf of chocolate banana bread. Everything costs $2, and includes endless ice tea refills (anything more is BYOB, but he’ll supply the mixer). We have been spending a lot of time over there. The place is called Restaurante de Cabra, in honor of Billy, his pet goat. It may be in memory of Billy pretty soon, as even to my untrained eye, Billy is one sorry-lookin’ goat. (But he photographs well.) In addition to his tasty food, Jim is an entertaining raconteur, particularly on the topic of wacked (or just wacky) expats he’s come across over the years. My favorite yarns involve a fellow generally referred to as Crackhead Ken. Seems the guy is on a $2500/mo. pension, most of which goes toward earning his nickname. The cops all know him, including which days his pension checks hit the local bank. Within a few days, they arrest him on one charge or another, and while he’s in the brig, subtly mention how they’re a bit short of gas for the one patrol car, or perhaps that the station needs a new coffee machine…Ken’s out in short order, and the cops get what they need.
The US isn't the only country in the midst of election mania. Down here, it's time for the mayoral race, and every town and city has been plastered with campaign posters, for the most part depicting candidates from the two leading parties: FSLN (the Sandinistas) and PLC (mostly former Sandinistas disgusted with Daniel Ortega and in favor of keeping the US as an ally). Buenos Aires has been host to rallies for both parties, and while I was caught without my camera when the FSLN swarmed the streets, Pat and I were walking home as the PLC mob were just getting started. Every form of transport in town NOT owned by a Sandinista was out in force, often hauling far more passengers than the engineers or designers could ever have imagined. Friends of ours were out in front, and encouraged us to join the parade, but although we too are fed up with Ortega's bullshit, we've decided not to take a political stand publicly...just not worth alienating anyone in this small town. Reyna happily marched, or rode, in both events, claiming that since it really wouldn't make any difference which one won, she may as well have fun circling the town with her friends. In fact, this thinking is far from rare, and there were many people loudly cheering both candidates.
Almost as depressing as a local cop shop is the Rivas Hospital, where a friend of ours, Edwin’s aunt Paola, recently had to undergo surgery. She was told she had a massive tumor in her uterus, and would need a complete hysterectomy, as well as a biopsy of the mass. Once they were inside, however, the docs discovered that the “tumor” was in fact a piece of the placenta from the birth of her son, 16 years earlier. The delivering doctor had missed it, and over the years, it had grown and grown (or things grew around it—not really clear on the details) until reaching its gargantuan proportions. So they cut it out, washed all of her female bits, put them back, and stitched her up; an incision running nearly from hip bone to hip bone. We went to visit her a few times—her son Josue, the one who thoughtlessly left his placenta behind, will be a Sprout student—and I think while I was there I counted at least 20 roaches scurrying about. Josue, who had been sleeping on the floor next to his mum’s bed (in a room with five other patients), told me it was much worse at night once the lights were off. We promptly went out and bought him a foam mattress, figuring at least it would elevate him a few inches above the masses, as well as cushioning the cement tile floor somewhat. Man, there are some seriously devoted sons in this country…
Out at our place, I am very happy to report that the septic tank has been completed. It took the local brick manufacturer four trips, using four different horses to haul what appeared to be the same wobbly wooden cart, to deliver 1120 of the 1200 bricks required—Edwin had to fetch the final 80 in his truck. All that remains now is the water tank, installing a pump in the well, and hooking it all together. Throw in an actual toilet, and oh my god we’ll be ready to flush for the first time in over ten years. Daniel, the young guy working for us, is a treasure. Not only a hard, conscientious worker, but such a sweetie that he’s won over the neighborhood as well. All the kids want to be his helpers, the woman next door will no longer accept money to feed him, and the teenage girls on the block are trying to drag him to an “occult”, aka an Evangelist revival meeting. While we’re away, we’ve arranged for him to stay on in our house and renovate the crumbling remains of another neighbor, Angela’s, house. She’s the mother of Edwin2 and Sofia, and it’s more on their account than hers that we’re bothering. The roof could be cut into small squares and sold for sieves, and while it was originally constructed of brick 22 years ago, most of the mortar has long since departed, resulting in very loose bricks, many of which have the disconcerting habit of flinging themselves to the floor, often narrowly missing a child’s head. The whole project, including Daniel’s wages, should come to less than $2000, and while we don’t really have money to burn these days, this is something we can do.
It is now the planting season, especially this week with the full moon, and everyone we know is out plowing and sowing and so on. Our landlady’s caretaker took it upon himself to organize the planting of about half an acre of red beans, and Theresa, the former manager of the B&B, went out to watch, getting some great pictures of the process. Pat and I have become bean planters as well, or at least bean investors, going halves with some neighbors on the planting of about four acres. The land belongs to the mother, and is overseen by her uncle. If all goes to plan, we *should* see our seed money (ha) doubled by New Year’s, in which case we’ll probably do it again.
Last week, as we were enjoying a burger at Jim’s place, Pat looked down and saw what appeared to be a very large and furry beetle. On closer inspection, it proved to be a very small, very scrawny kitten. Some bastard had singed off his whiskers and some of his facial fur, and he hopped rather than walked, due to unusually long back legs. We put him on the table and watched him eat most of my lunch, punctuated by loud sneezes leaving behind ribbons of greenish snot. We scooped him up and took him to the local vet, recommended by Howard, the guy with the small jungle cats. Vet said, he’s got pneumonia. One or two more days and he’d be dead. He gave him an injection of antibiotics and a tiny crumb of a pill, and sent us home with instructions to continue the shots and pills for five more days. “If he’s still alive by Monday, bring him back.” By Monday, he could have passed for a kitten in a pet store window. Five days of regular feedings and endless affection have resulted in a great little cat. We named him El Cid, and if he remembers us when we get back from Britain, we’re keeping him. (If not, Carolyn, our landlady, will be happy to have him. But I think we made an impression on the little bugger.)
Finally, something you English speakers may not know: "Jesus" (given the Spanish pronunciation of ‘hey-sus’) "es Cheese en Ingles." Sofia and Yancy announced this to us one day, proud of themselves and grinning from ear to ear. "What?" I said. "Que?" "Hey-sus es CHEESE en Ingles!!" they repeated. Then it dawned: to them, our pronunciation of Jesus *does* sound a lot like the word "cheese". But personally, I just kind of like thinking of him as a dairy product...
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Back Again.
(Just a note to remember all pictures come at the end.)
Thanks to Hurricane Ike, we are back to our old habit of coming and going with a bit of drama. After Houston closed down, all Continental could do was put us on the next available flight—roughly a week later. Since Pat needed to be out of the US by Sept. 16, this posed a bit of a conundrum. In the end, Continental refunded (or said they would—haven’t actually seen the proof) 40% of our original tickets and we bought new ones, one-way, via LA and El Salvador, leaving US airspace around 1am on the 15th. After that, all went smoothly, and it was nice to actually arrive here in the daytime for once.
Our new digs are comparably luxurious, with water 24/7, and even hot showers (what they lovingly refer to as “suicide showers” here; a unit that attaches directly to the showerhead and is wired into the nearest electric source. We’ve seen them where the wires are poking out all over and wearing rubber-soled shoes is a must, but here they did it right, and we’ve yet to experience so much as a tingle.) We also have wireless internet, so I’m becoming spoiled rotten and have not set foot into any of my old haunts. We share cooking duties with the two women here, Carolyn, the owner, and Theresa, who had been hired to eventually run this place as a B&B, but is now heading back to Ontario instead. There are also four dogs, Theresa’s boxer-ridgeback Seda, and her dachshund Gimpie (yes, not a very P.C. name, but when she rescued him in Costa Rica his legs were trashed and he limped about for months. Now, he’s in fine health, but the name stuck.); and Carolyn’s two miniature Schnauzers, Misty and Abby; the latter has been in heat and driving poor neutered Gimpie mad with confused lust all week.
We stored our clothes at our old rental, Edwin’s father’s house, where they were either used as bedding for the resident mouse population, or consumed by mold. I must’ve done 5 loads of laundry when we got here, in their funky little machine, and the less acrid items were hung outside for days to lose their funky aromas. In the days since, we have found several scorpions of varying sizes in our room. The first was so tiny I thought it was a scorpion-shaped spot on the shower floor, barely bigger than my pinky fingernail. He was escorted down the drain. The next I found snuggled up in one of my bras, just as I was putting it into the washer. He was about the size of my thumb. Pat shook the trembling garment out over by the fence, into the neighbor’s plantain field. The last, however, left an impression. After a shower, I pulled on clean clothes and came out here to sit at the kitchen table and play with my newly installed Google Earth (I found both our houses here and in AK, distressing Pat considerably). After about an hour, I went into the bedroom to wake Pat up so he could get ready to go have dinner at a friend’s grand opening of a little café in Buenos Aires. As I was walking back to the computer, I felt something below the small of my back, like the tag from my trousers was rubbing. I slid my left hand in there to smooth it and was met with in intensely painful sting. I knew at once what it had to be, flew out of my pants (fortunately baggy khakis) and hopped around the kitchen screaming and clutching my throbbing finger—the middle one. Pat, Carolyn, and Theresa all came running, one getting ice, another shaking out my pants. I had briefly seen the brute when I first jumped out of my pants, and reckoned he was at least a foot long. Pat eventually found him, planning his next attack from beneath one of the cabinet doors. On closer inspection, he was closer to 3”…but reared up boldly, ready to take on Pat. And Pat, rather stomp him to defend my honor, gently scooped him up with a spatula and carried him outside, once more to the neighbor’s field.
Meanwhile, Theresa had given me a bag of ice, and closely examined my pants before declaring them safe for re-entry. My finger felt as though it were being held over an open flame while some bastard poked it with needles. And my lips had started to feel numb and tingly, convincing me of my imminent demise. I told Pat I loved him and asked him to continue SPROUT without me. He rolled his eyes and said we were late for dinner. We arrived at Jim’s place, where we found Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, and several other friends. Everyone had suggestions for me. “You need sugar!” “No, no, she needs rum!” “I heard lime juice helps…” in the end, Jim made me a drink of rum, Sprite, and lime, figuring it took all the suggestions into account. I can’t say if it helped, but along with the 400mgs of Ibuprofen, I was able to forget about the finger for minutes at a time. Reyna asked if Pat had killed it, but Edwin said, “No, I’ll bet he picked it up, called it a poor little thing (‘pobrecito!’), and let it go.” I said, “Well of course—what else would you expect.” So everyone gave Pat a hard time, but he defended his position, claiming there was no reason for an innocent creature to die simply to avenge his wife. Either way, I was already bitten, right? And to be honest, as painful as it was, I’m almost glad it happened, as it’s been one of my fears since we arrived, and now I both know what it’s like, and also have had a wake up call to always shake out my clothes *before* I put them on. (The fact that the little %&#! was nestled in my waistband for over an hour without stinging me is the real miracle—I shudder to imagine that sting at the base of my spine.)
Meanwhile, work is progressing out at the house. We’ve brought down Daniel, a young builder Pat worked with up at the Laguna, for the Belgian Vortex last spring. He is a skilled worker, but until the B.V. returns from Spain in December, he is just finding small jobs, and as he supports his mother, two brothers, a sister, a wife, and a child, really needs steadier work. So now he’s here, living out at our house, and getting things done. (I contracted with the neighbors to feed him, a solution I think he prefers after sharing several meals here with us—weird Gringo food…) The septic system is the current project, and should be done by the time we head to Scotland (we will be over there for 3 weeks, mid Oct.-early Nov. This will be Pat’s first trip ‘home’ in 21 years, and my first ever. Several years of hoarding air miles is making it possible, and we are excited, to say the least.), and upon our return, the rains should have lessened to the point we can get the water tank in, and at long last, we will have indoor plumbing.
A couple days after we returned, Edwin brought a chunk of his large extended clan out to our beach for the afternoon. The newest member of the family, Panchito, came too. Panchito is a red squirrel from Ometepe Island, a gift from a worker of Edwin’s to his daughters. He seems to be a very pleasant squirrel—never bites, rarely pees on you. He seems to have taken a liking to Pat, who has long been an ardent admirer of squirrels, and returns Panchito’s affection. Really, if Panchito hadn’t gnawed though half Pat's watch band one day, I’m sure we too would have a squirrel of our own. Instead, we still have Dogüi, our part-time dog. He is confused now as we’re not in the house we should be in, but every time we visit folks in the old neighborhood, he somehow hears about it and bounds up to us, nearly spastic with joy. Little bugger actually followed me on my bike the four miles out to our house the other day. He was so shagged we had to drive him home…
As for SPROUT, I have been looking for a small, cheap room to rent for an office, and also a bilingual assistant to help me out. We’ve already got about five students applying for next school year (begins in Jan.), without any propaganda. Once we return from Scotland, we’ll move into high gear, putting the word out and beginning interviews, etc. For all of you who made or are planning to make donations, I want to assure you that our claim of 95% of funds going directly to the students stands—all other costs, from the business cards, the fundraiser, the office, employees—is out-of-pocket, at least until I either write a successful grant or we get an insanely large and generous donation. And even then, we plan to keep operating expenses as low as we can—no director’s salary, additions to our house, Lear jets or bridges to nowhere; just the basics. That’s the point, right? As soon as I have something to report, I’ll get the newsletter up and running, complete with profiles of specific students, etc. Meantime, if there’s anyone out there who’s not seen the website yet, it’s www.sproutnicaragua.org
Thanks for reading!
Thanks to Hurricane Ike, we are back to our old habit of coming and going with a bit of drama. After Houston closed down, all Continental could do was put us on the next available flight—roughly a week later. Since Pat needed to be out of the US by Sept. 16, this posed a bit of a conundrum. In the end, Continental refunded (or said they would—haven’t actually seen the proof) 40% of our original tickets and we bought new ones, one-way, via LA and El Salvador, leaving US airspace around 1am on the 15th. After that, all went smoothly, and it was nice to actually arrive here in the daytime for once.
Our new digs are comparably luxurious, with water 24/7, and even hot showers (what they lovingly refer to as “suicide showers” here; a unit that attaches directly to the showerhead and is wired into the nearest electric source. We’ve seen them where the wires are poking out all over and wearing rubber-soled shoes is a must, but here they did it right, and we’ve yet to experience so much as a tingle.) We also have wireless internet, so I’m becoming spoiled rotten and have not set foot into any of my old haunts. We share cooking duties with the two women here, Carolyn, the owner, and Theresa, who had been hired to eventually run this place as a B&B, but is now heading back to Ontario instead. There are also four dogs, Theresa’s boxer-ridgeback Seda, and her dachshund Gimpie (yes, not a very P.C. name, but when she rescued him in Costa Rica his legs were trashed and he limped about for months. Now, he’s in fine health, but the name stuck.); and Carolyn’s two miniature Schnauzers, Misty and Abby; the latter has been in heat and driving poor neutered Gimpie mad with confused lust all week.
We stored our clothes at our old rental, Edwin’s father’s house, where they were either used as bedding for the resident mouse population, or consumed by mold. I must’ve done 5 loads of laundry when we got here, in their funky little machine, and the less acrid items were hung outside for days to lose their funky aromas. In the days since, we have found several scorpions of varying sizes in our room. The first was so tiny I thought it was a scorpion-shaped spot on the shower floor, barely bigger than my pinky fingernail. He was escorted down the drain. The next I found snuggled up in one of my bras, just as I was putting it into the washer. He was about the size of my thumb. Pat shook the trembling garment out over by the fence, into the neighbor’s plantain field. The last, however, left an impression. After a shower, I pulled on clean clothes and came out here to sit at the kitchen table and play with my newly installed Google Earth (I found both our houses here and in AK, distressing Pat considerably). After about an hour, I went into the bedroom to wake Pat up so he could get ready to go have dinner at a friend’s grand opening of a little café in Buenos Aires. As I was walking back to the computer, I felt something below the small of my back, like the tag from my trousers was rubbing. I slid my left hand in there to smooth it and was met with in intensely painful sting. I knew at once what it had to be, flew out of my pants (fortunately baggy khakis) and hopped around the kitchen screaming and clutching my throbbing finger—the middle one. Pat, Carolyn, and Theresa all came running, one getting ice, another shaking out my pants. I had briefly seen the brute when I first jumped out of my pants, and reckoned he was at least a foot long. Pat eventually found him, planning his next attack from beneath one of the cabinet doors. On closer inspection, he was closer to 3”…but reared up boldly, ready to take on Pat. And Pat, rather stomp him to defend my honor, gently scooped him up with a spatula and carried him outside, once more to the neighbor’s field.
Meanwhile, Theresa had given me a bag of ice, and closely examined my pants before declaring them safe for re-entry. My finger felt as though it were being held over an open flame while some bastard poked it with needles. And my lips had started to feel numb and tingly, convincing me of my imminent demise. I told Pat I loved him and asked him to continue SPROUT without me. He rolled his eyes and said we were late for dinner. We arrived at Jim’s place, where we found Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, and several other friends. Everyone had suggestions for me. “You need sugar!” “No, no, she needs rum!” “I heard lime juice helps…” in the end, Jim made me a drink of rum, Sprite, and lime, figuring it took all the suggestions into account. I can’t say if it helped, but along with the 400mgs of Ibuprofen, I was able to forget about the finger for minutes at a time. Reyna asked if Pat had killed it, but Edwin said, “No, I’ll bet he picked it up, called it a poor little thing (‘pobrecito!’), and let it go.” I said, “Well of course—what else would you expect.” So everyone gave Pat a hard time, but he defended his position, claiming there was no reason for an innocent creature to die simply to avenge his wife. Either way, I was already bitten, right? And to be honest, as painful as it was, I’m almost glad it happened, as it’s been one of my fears since we arrived, and now I both know what it’s like, and also have had a wake up call to always shake out my clothes *before* I put them on. (The fact that the little %&#! was nestled in my waistband for over an hour without stinging me is the real miracle—I shudder to imagine that sting at the base of my spine.)
Meanwhile, work is progressing out at the house. We’ve brought down Daniel, a young builder Pat worked with up at the Laguna, for the Belgian Vortex last spring. He is a skilled worker, but until the B.V. returns from Spain in December, he is just finding small jobs, and as he supports his mother, two brothers, a sister, a wife, and a child, really needs steadier work. So now he’s here, living out at our house, and getting things done. (I contracted with the neighbors to feed him, a solution I think he prefers after sharing several meals here with us—weird Gringo food…) The septic system is the current project, and should be done by the time we head to Scotland (we will be over there for 3 weeks, mid Oct.-early Nov. This will be Pat’s first trip ‘home’ in 21 years, and my first ever. Several years of hoarding air miles is making it possible, and we are excited, to say the least.), and upon our return, the rains should have lessened to the point we can get the water tank in, and at long last, we will have indoor plumbing.
A couple days after we returned, Edwin brought a chunk of his large extended clan out to our beach for the afternoon. The newest member of the family, Panchito, came too. Panchito is a red squirrel from Ometepe Island, a gift from a worker of Edwin’s to his daughters. He seems to be a very pleasant squirrel—never bites, rarely pees on you. He seems to have taken a liking to Pat, who has long been an ardent admirer of squirrels, and returns Panchito’s affection. Really, if Panchito hadn’t gnawed though half Pat's watch band one day, I’m sure we too would have a squirrel of our own. Instead, we still have Dogüi, our part-time dog. He is confused now as we’re not in the house we should be in, but every time we visit folks in the old neighborhood, he somehow hears about it and bounds up to us, nearly spastic with joy. Little bugger actually followed me on my bike the four miles out to our house the other day. He was so shagged we had to drive him home…
As for SPROUT, I have been looking for a small, cheap room to rent for an office, and also a bilingual assistant to help me out. We’ve already got about five students applying for next school year (begins in Jan.), without any propaganda. Once we return from Scotland, we’ll move into high gear, putting the word out and beginning interviews, etc. For all of you who made or are planning to make donations, I want to assure you that our claim of 95% of funds going directly to the students stands—all other costs, from the business cards, the fundraiser, the office, employees—is out-of-pocket, at least until I either write a successful grant or we get an insanely large and generous donation. And even then, we plan to keep operating expenses as low as we can—no director’s salary, additions to our house, Lear jets or bridges to nowhere; just the basics. That’s the point, right? As soon as I have something to report, I’ll get the newsletter up and running, complete with profiles of specific students, etc. Meantime, if there’s anyone out there who’s not seen the website yet, it’s www.sproutnicaragua.org
Thanks for reading!
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