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...