Hail Mary, Bringer of Joy

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.