Nicaragua prides itself on being “the safest country in Central America”, and statistics seem to back up the claim. But it is a claim much along the lines of being the most honest politician or the least fattening brand of ice cream. The truth is, Nicaragua has no shortage of crime, although the further removed one is from Managua, the less violent it tends to be. In the nearly two and a half years (minus trips north) we’ve been here, crime of any kind has given us a wide berth. If things have gone missing from time to time, we haven’t missed them, nor have we ever been directly approached or threatened in any way. That is, until the wee hours of Monday morning, when a loud noise woke us here at the school. Pat immediately sat up and said, “I think someone just kicked our door in. Stay here.” Buck naked, he jumped from the bed (not an easy feat considering the double layer of mosquito netting), grabbed his trusty machete, and rounded the corner into the main room. Sure enough, the door was wide open, and a splintered bit of wood containing the unmolested female side of the bolt lay on the floor. He ran outside, but there was no one to be seen. He came back in, pulled on his shorts, and said, “He’ll be back. Stay in the bedroom.” We kept the lights off, and he set up a chair near the door. I went back to bed, and had just about dozed off when another loud noise roused me. I got to the door of the main room just in time to see Pat take off out the door, barefoot in pursuit of the intruder. Then I noticed the machete still on the table, and felt my first (and only) wave of fear. What if it was a set up, and around the corner awaited a gang (Buenos Aires has one sort of lethargic mini-gang, comprised mainly of 15-20 year old unemployed glue sniffers. You know what I mean.) I paced back and forth in front of the machete, and he eventually returned. The guy had gotten away, disappearing down an alley and probably finding refuge under his mother’s bed.
By now several of the neighbors were up; it was nearly light, and the roosters were “giving it loudy”. Of the awake and curious neighbors, there was one notable absence: the police. We live right next door to the Buenos Aires Police Station. The room in which the on duty officer sleeps can’t be more than 100 feet from our place. Of course, “sleeps” would be the critical word in that sentence. According to pretty much everyone we talked to that day, sleeping is what the local cops do best. In any case, I asked some neighbors if I should bother alerting them. They said, “Yes, not because they’ll actually be able to do anything, but because maybe it’ll make them feel bad that it happened right next door, and to our town’s only foreigners.” Pat was off biking around the neighborhood, but called to tell me he’d seen the lieutenant (“Teniente Jorge”) out back polishing his shoes. So I walked over and called out “Buenos”, the standard attention-getter. He couldn’t see me, just called back that I should wait a minute. He eventually emerged, still in his t-shirt, carrying the shimmering shoes. When he saw it was me, he immediately began apologizing for keeping me waiting and ushered me over to the desk. I explained what happened and he chastised me for not notifying him directly. When I said, “Well, the door was closed; I didn’t think anyone was here.” He looked abashed and explained how the on duty cop stays awake until 1am, and rises at 5, and how it was unfortunate the transgression occurred within those few short hours of well-deserved rest. We then spent the next half hour filling out forms, and I had to relate the events in detail several times. He told me it was most likely one of the mini-gang members, and told me they usually were content to steal bananas and chickens, the odd small appliance, but clearly the lure of rich Gringos was irresistible. Then he asked if I was certain nothing had been taken. I said I was sure. “Not the television?” “We don’t have a television.” “The stereo?” “We don’t have a stereo.” “What about a radio? “Nope, no radio.” “Cash?” “No, we keep our money in the bank.” “It seems you have less of value in your home than most of your neighbors,” he noted, looking perplexed. “Well,” I said, “we came down here to have a simple life. And in any case, we’re running a non-profit, remember?” He nodded and made a few more notes in his battered black book, and finally let me go. An hour later he showed up at the front door and made me reenact exactly what happened…
Word travels fast around here, and by noon it seemed everyone had heard about it. I stopped in at one of the little neighborhood shops, maybe six or seven blocks from here, and the owner wanted all the details. When Pat went by later, she pantomimed that he should have a gun so he could have blown the miscreant away. She is a sweet, gray-haired lady, but she’s been broken into twice, with no help from the cops. Our friend’s nine year old, when I was telling her mom about my visit to the police, interrupted to say, “Why would you tell them? Everyone knows they never do anything!” And one of the aunties from whom we rent this place came by to tell me we ought to run a string from our place into the roof of the cop shop with a bell at the end, so that next time something happens, we can just pull the string and be sure to wake them up.
We had been talking about getting Edwin to weld us up a steel gate for the door at some point; most houses have them, including the immediate neighbors, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Well, we have one now. We painted it bright blue and it looks just lovely. Pat still feels that while the gate is a necessity, had he actually gotten a hold of the would-be thief, he would’ve sent an equally powerful message out to the community of potential unwanted visitors that this is not a house to fuck with. Oh yes—I nearly forgot the best part! When we were talking to Teniente Jorge, Pat asked what his rights as a homeowner were in these situations. At first Jorge merely said it was best to try to contain the criminal and send immediately for the police. “OK,” Pat said, “and what if he’s armed and attacks me?” “Ah, well, in that case of course you can defend yourself. But, umm, it would be best if you just roughed him up a bit. If you actually kill him, it does make for an awful lot of paperwork….”
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Looking a Gift Pig in the Mouth
Another month gone; a volcano having its moment in Alaska; protests still sprouting in Managua over questionable mayoral elections…and then there’s the global economy, but let’s not go there. For the moment, prices have come down a bit here in Nicaragua, at least for building materials. A bag of cement, for example, hit nearly $10 a few months back, but can now be had for the bargain price of $8.50. (It was around $4.75 when we began our project in Jan. ’07.) Nevertheless, it’s a promising start, along with greatly reduced gas and diesel prices, and an unexpected upswing in tourism. When I flew back down here after two weeks in NYC and Chicago in early March, the plane was maybe 10% Nica. Of the other 90%, I’d say, conservatively, 60% were traveling as part of a mission, volunteer org., or for some other altruistic motive. The other 30% were comprised of surfers and travelers, and a smattering of business types, evident for their briefcases and neatly tucked in golf shirts. I sat between an 18 year old Nicaraguan-Peruvian girl born and raised in the US, but going to visit her dad’s family for spring break, and a Rotarian from Texas with whom I chatted most of the trip, and from whom I received some good Sprout-oriented ideas. (Also good to know Rotary International is active in Nicaragua, though not in the Rivas area. (http://www.fonclub.org/ for more info.)
It was good to be back here after my visit north, not only to retreat from the cold, but to resume my various activities with Sprout and AES (Alaska English School) re-energized. The school is slowly growing, as things do here, and I expect within a year or so I will have all the students I can handle. Since I must leave for 3+ months this summer/fall, I am not aggressively recruiting students but still they trickle in. Just the other day as I bicycled into town a man pulled up alongside me on a motorcycle with a couple young boys on the back and asked me (in Spanish) if I were the English teacher. When I said yes, he proceeded to tell me all about his older son who wanted to enter a prestigious bilingual university in Honduras, but really needed to improve his English skills. I agreed to stop by later in the week to discuss it with them, and off he went. The next day, an American friend told me, “Hey, I met my neighbor to the rear. He’s very charming and speaks perfect English. He said he’d just met you as well.” I realized it had to be the same guy, and was amused he had given me no indication of his English abilities. When I did go over to talk to them, I asked him about it, and he just smiled and shrugged and said, “Well, I figure you foreigners need to practice your Spanish since you’re living here…” Looks like I’ll be privately tutoring his son, Dani, a fútbol fanatic who now cannot wait to meet Patrick (whom I may have described as a Scottish pro) three times a week in their large, 200+ year old beautiful traditional house (pictures next time).
Last Sunday was the Hipica again, the annual horse-worshipping event here in town. I wrote about it a couple years back, but it was much better this time around, in large part because the school is right on the main square, so I invited a bunch of people over to watch in comfort as over 40 beautiful, highly trained Arabians pranced and danced their way around the park. If you’ve ever had the opportunity to watch the famed Lippizzaner Stallions from Vienna, you’ll have some idea what these Nica ponies were capable of. There was even one horse that performed an intricate Flamenco-like dance with his trainer not on his back but standing nearby, issuing a series of whistles and clicks. Very cool. Of course the day would’ve lacked something without the ornate-yet-rustic caravan of scantily-clad “Toña Girls”, wriggling about on their platforms, encouraging everyone to slake their thirst, if not their desires, with tantalizingly cool cans of Toña beer, conveniently available from any one of the dozen or so pushcarts endlessly circling the square. And then came “La Gigantona” and her odd little sidekick, “”La Cabeza”. You’ll need to scroll down for the pics of these two, but apparently the giantess brings luck, and the wee man makes trouble. For a buck or so, along with their three piece band and the announcer, they’ll give “private” performances, which include the announcer reciting assorted risqué and amusing limericks and poems, often catered to the specific audience. I was seated next to Kyle, the 20 y.o. son of some Canadian friends, and he was singled out for his bright blue eyes and baseball cap; another friend, Eric, a 60+ expat, was roasted for his full white beard and still-pale legs. At the end of the dance between the two, there was a brief sexual component which I’d not seen before, in which the giant head (worn by a 12 or 13 y.o. kid) lay prone on the ground as the giantess danced back and forth over him, stopping to wriggle up and down along the way. The Nica audience loved it, so perhaps it’s not unusual; I just didn’t expect it in front of such a child-heavy crowd, but then in spite of its dominant Catholicism, Nicaragua has a much more open and accepting attitude toward the existence of sex than her puritanical neighbor to the north….
I just finished what might very well be the best book written about the era of the Sandinistas, from the early 70’s through 2006. Called Blood of Brothers, by journalist Stephen Kinzer, it maintains its objectivity and clearly shows how things went down over that turbulent 20+ year period, and why Nicaragua is still in the state it’s in today. I spoke about bits I read with people here, people from all sides of the political spectrum, and was gratified to find Kinzer’s findings dove-tailing with my own. The two saddest aspects were the Sandinista’s immaturity and inability to govern in a realistic and equitable manner, without alienating and ultimately losing the support of the vast majority of Nicas, nearly 90% of whom had fully supported them immediately after the revolution in ’79. And secondly, and in part as a result of the first (but far from entirely), the (Reagan-led) US government’s decision to squash any hope of success in the name of eradicating Communism from the continent and playing out the Cold War closer to home (not to mention the whole Iran-Contra component…). How differently everything could have turned out for this country had these circumstances been otherwise…and how far Nicaragua still needs to travel to achieve its many and not altogether unrealistic goals for the 21st century… I suppose that, in part, is why we chose to come here, over and above the obvious benefits of warm weather and low overhead. As more and more European countries sever their aid packages in response to a much older but no wiser Ortega, the average Nica finds life that little bit harder. The government recently launched a program called “Hambre Cero”, or “Zero Hunger”, involving the widespread distribution of cows, pigs, and chickens to impoverished campesinos, the vast majority of whom are very grateful, but who are more likely to immediately slaughter and eat or sell their new livestock rather than try to sustain them. One response to this has been to make sure the cows and pigs are pregnant upon arriving at their new homes, the idea being the poor farmers will at least wait until the babes are born before firing up the barbeque, and this has, in fact, helped somewhat. But in the end, hunger will trump practicality, and the majority of gifted livestock will have been digested long before their offspring can make any sustainable difference.
On a lighter note, Semana Santa is nearly upon us, that Holiest of Holy weeks, when one can show his or her appreciation of all those Biblical dudes & dudettes by flocking to the beaches, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and dancing till dawn. Sadly, I will be in Florida, while Pat will still be in Homer, but at least we will be contributing to the madness via our power line, firing up the tiny palm-leaf bars along our strip of beach. So why not celebrate Easter the Nica way; toss aside your chocolate bunnies and cheerfully painted eggs in lieu of a rum & coke and the irresistible beat of Cumbia! (You can always seek forgiveness Monday morning.)
It was good to be back here after my visit north, not only to retreat from the cold, but to resume my various activities with Sprout and AES (Alaska English School) re-energized. The school is slowly growing, as things do here, and I expect within a year or so I will have all the students I can handle. Since I must leave for 3+ months this summer/fall, I am not aggressively recruiting students but still they trickle in. Just the other day as I bicycled into town a man pulled up alongside me on a motorcycle with a couple young boys on the back and asked me (in Spanish) if I were the English teacher. When I said yes, he proceeded to tell me all about his older son who wanted to enter a prestigious bilingual university in Honduras, but really needed to improve his English skills. I agreed to stop by later in the week to discuss it with them, and off he went. The next day, an American friend told me, “Hey, I met my neighbor to the rear. He’s very charming and speaks perfect English. He said he’d just met you as well.” I realized it had to be the same guy, and was amused he had given me no indication of his English abilities. When I did go over to talk to them, I asked him about it, and he just smiled and shrugged and said, “Well, I figure you foreigners need to practice your Spanish since you’re living here…” Looks like I’ll be privately tutoring his son, Dani, a fútbol fanatic who now cannot wait to meet Patrick (whom I may have described as a Scottish pro) three times a week in their large, 200+ year old beautiful traditional house (pictures next time).
Last Sunday was the Hipica again, the annual horse-worshipping event here in town. I wrote about it a couple years back, but it was much better this time around, in large part because the school is right on the main square, so I invited a bunch of people over to watch in comfort as over 40 beautiful, highly trained Arabians pranced and danced their way around the park. If you’ve ever had the opportunity to watch the famed Lippizzaner Stallions from Vienna, you’ll have some idea what these Nica ponies were capable of. There was even one horse that performed an intricate Flamenco-like dance with his trainer not on his back but standing nearby, issuing a series of whistles and clicks. Very cool. Of course the day would’ve lacked something without the ornate-yet-rustic caravan of scantily-clad “Toña Girls”, wriggling about on their platforms, encouraging everyone to slake their thirst, if not their desires, with tantalizingly cool cans of Toña beer, conveniently available from any one of the dozen or so pushcarts endlessly circling the square. And then came “La Gigantona” and her odd little sidekick, “”La Cabeza”. You’ll need to scroll down for the pics of these two, but apparently the giantess brings luck, and the wee man makes trouble. For a buck or so, along with their three piece band and the announcer, they’ll give “private” performances, which include the announcer reciting assorted risqué and amusing limericks and poems, often catered to the specific audience. I was seated next to Kyle, the 20 y.o. son of some Canadian friends, and he was singled out for his bright blue eyes and baseball cap; another friend, Eric, a 60+ expat, was roasted for his full white beard and still-pale legs. At the end of the dance between the two, there was a brief sexual component which I’d not seen before, in which the giant head (worn by a 12 or 13 y.o. kid) lay prone on the ground as the giantess danced back and forth over him, stopping to wriggle up and down along the way. The Nica audience loved it, so perhaps it’s not unusual; I just didn’t expect it in front of such a child-heavy crowd, but then in spite of its dominant Catholicism, Nicaragua has a much more open and accepting attitude toward the existence of sex than her puritanical neighbor to the north….
I just finished what might very well be the best book written about the era of the Sandinistas, from the early 70’s through 2006. Called Blood of Brothers, by journalist Stephen Kinzer, it maintains its objectivity and clearly shows how things went down over that turbulent 20+ year period, and why Nicaragua is still in the state it’s in today. I spoke about bits I read with people here, people from all sides of the political spectrum, and was gratified to find Kinzer’s findings dove-tailing with my own. The two saddest aspects were the Sandinista’s immaturity and inability to govern in a realistic and equitable manner, without alienating and ultimately losing the support of the vast majority of Nicas, nearly 90% of whom had fully supported them immediately after the revolution in ’79. And secondly, and in part as a result of the first (but far from entirely), the (Reagan-led) US government’s decision to squash any hope of success in the name of eradicating Communism from the continent and playing out the Cold War closer to home (not to mention the whole Iran-Contra component…). How differently everything could have turned out for this country had these circumstances been otherwise…and how far Nicaragua still needs to travel to achieve its many and not altogether unrealistic goals for the 21st century… I suppose that, in part, is why we chose to come here, over and above the obvious benefits of warm weather and low overhead. As more and more European countries sever their aid packages in response to a much older but no wiser Ortega, the average Nica finds life that little bit harder. The government recently launched a program called “Hambre Cero”, or “Zero Hunger”, involving the widespread distribution of cows, pigs, and chickens to impoverished campesinos, the vast majority of whom are very grateful, but who are more likely to immediately slaughter and eat or sell their new livestock rather than try to sustain them. One response to this has been to make sure the cows and pigs are pregnant upon arriving at their new homes, the idea being the poor farmers will at least wait until the babes are born before firing up the barbeque, and this has, in fact, helped somewhat. But in the end, hunger will trump practicality, and the majority of gifted livestock will have been digested long before their offspring can make any sustainable difference.
On a lighter note, Semana Santa is nearly upon us, that Holiest of Holy weeks, when one can show his or her appreciation of all those Biblical dudes & dudettes by flocking to the beaches, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and dancing till dawn. Sadly, I will be in Florida, while Pat will still be in Homer, but at least we will be contributing to the madness via our power line, firing up the tiny palm-leaf bars along our strip of beach. So why not celebrate Easter the Nica way; toss aside your chocolate bunnies and cheerfully painted eggs in lieu of a rum & coke and the irresistible beat of Cumbia! (You can always seek forgiveness Monday morning.)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
You Would Think...
Any illusions we had about moving to Nicaragua to simplify our lives have now proven themselves just that. Sprout hit its high season (Dec.-Feb.), the English school has opened, we have changed ‘temporary’ residences yet again, and work on the house continues. Often, all of these things manage to occur simultaneously. At least it feels that way. Nevertheless, in spite of finding ourselves living an unexpectedly hectic life, we are happy, and, dare I say it, even fulfilled. Well, I am. Pat’s still working on that one, but in general, he’s content. He has a somewhat lower threshold for life in a country whose motto should be SNAFU. Although he recognizes that we’re not in Kansas anymore, he is reluctant to let go of the idea that things do have the potential to go as planned if the people involved actually gave the matter some conscious thought. If we thought we started too many sentences with “You would think…” when we lived in Japan, we were pathologically ignorant. OK, here are just a couple examples:
1. Building quality. We are now living in the back of the school. The family who owns the building is middle class by Nica standards. But to save money, they ‘hired’ a son-in-law, a 21 year old kid, to do most of the work. They apparently based this decision not only on the fiscal advantages, but on the fact that he once helped his uncle build a shed. Needless to say, his plumbing and electrical skills have not yet reached their apex. Since moving in, we’ve found three leaks inside, and one in the outer wall. Figuring out which light switch (all of which are set slightly askew and covered in lime-coated switch plates) activated which bare bulb was fun, especially as the wee devil delighted in placing each one as far from its partner as possible. No, Pat says, that’s wrong. That implies conscious thought, the very thing lacking from the equation. Well, overall the place is fine, but Pat spent most of last week fixing it. Oh yeah, the back door is just a few boards nailed together, hinged, and held shut by two large nails punched into the door jamb. A security issue? Possibly, although we have the advantage of living next door to the police station, and are assiduously cultivating a friendly relationship with the lieutenant…
2. Informing customers of inventory at any point prior to paying for an item. I can’t tell you how many times we have gone to a shop, indicated to the salesperson which of the samples up on the wall or on the shelf we want, been directed to the person who writes up the bill, trotted to the back to the cashier to pay for the item, returned to the store front to pick up the item, only to be told it’s out of stock. On occasion, there is something else actually in stock we need and an exchange is enacted. But more often, it means retracing our steps, collecting our money, and trying a different shop. Since most places have as many employees as possible, and no one does any one else’s job, and since communication can be a bit dodgy down here at times, no one knows what’s in stock until someone requests it. Even this will often not result in the item being ordered, so that the same customer can find himself having the same experience over the same item week after week.
3. Driving etiquette. Ok, I’ve complained about bad drivers in New York and Florida, and as many readers know, Homer has its share of oblivious menaces (all tourists of course), but Nicaragua takes driving badly to a new level. From what I can gather after sending two friends to driving school (it costs around $150 for the course, test, and license), they are taught useful things like which pedal does what, and even given some pointers on rules of the road, such as the red octagonal sign encourages stopping, and men in light blue waving fluorescent batons should not be run over, but what they are NOT taught are things we take for granted, like using your turn signals (or even having them); not passing on the inside, especially when a large truck is coming and there are small children on bicycles already on the shoulder; giving way to anyone at anytime for any reason (a sign of weakness!), lowering your brights when another car approaches (or at any other time); not stopping suddenly in the middle of the road for what is probably a very good reason, like needing to hop out and take a piss against a nearby tree; tying down your load in order to avoid leaving a Hansel and Gretel-like trail of trash or scrap metal or plantains from Rivas to Managua; and not using your horn for every breath you take.
I’ll stop there. Because really, most of the time, we either no longer notice, or if we notice, don’t dwell on these things. All part of life in Nicaragua and therefore part of the experience. But hey, if you can’t bitch once in a while….to be honest, we probably spend more time moaning about some of the other expats down here than anything local. Like the 61 y.o. Oregonian truck driver who has had three lovely young Nica wives in two years, treated each like shit, left each for the next, and still spends most of his time drinking and looking for more girls. Or the 50+ Canadian who’s been down here for years, encouraged a friend to come down, get some land, build a house, and when the friend arrived, threw him out after a month, just after selling him a crap piece of land for $1500 more than the $3000 asking price, and then barely helped the non-Spanish speaking rube get anything done. Or the other 60+ Canadian who got into a dispute with his Nica neighbors over some rocks he’d painted white and used to edge his property. When some of the rocks turned up on the neighbors’ side, they said it was the wind…he wasn’t amused and went out with a baseball bat and smashed up the concrete wash stands the women use to earn a living taking in laundry. Over some rocks!! They retaliated by attempting to set his car on fire, but made the mistake of trying to ignite the front tire and the smell of burning rubber alerted the guy who then called the cops. Most of them won’t tip waiters so as “not to ruin it for everyone else”; spend 80% of their waking hours bobbing about in bottles of cheap rum (and the other 20% seducing 15 year olds, with unfortunate success rates as the girls look beyond the wrinkled flesh and the red noses and only see the wallets); and refer to the locals as “these people”, as in “You can’t trust these people for anything.” Sigh. It’s so hard being superior to everyone….
What else. Ah, last weekend Buenos Aires (it’s so good to be back!) welcomed an actual singing sensation to the local hall. Gustavo Leyton hales from Managua, and has made a successful career from giving lively concerts of Cumbia and other popular hits on a stage swarming with scantily clad lovelies who spend most of the show hypnotizing the crowd with their undulating backsides. Rancho de Pancho, Edwin’s bar/restaurant now being leased by a real pro, has karaoke every Friday, with a big screen set up and between what passes for singing from customers (the drinkers are almost as bad as the Evangelists), he runs music videos and this guy is a favorite. He is in the process of performing in a couple towns in all 16 departments of Nicaragua, and somehow little Buenos Aires snagged him. The banner said the show began at 8pm. We (Pat, our friend Dave from S.C., Edwin, Abel (Edwin’s older brother from up north), and me arrived at 9. The show had begun, but 90% of the people were standing around outside. Edwin told us confidently that at 9:30, people would begin to enter. He and Pat elected to go next door and play pool, so Dave, Abel and I went in. It was quite a show! There were only three girls, but they compensated by moving around constantly, and kept the males in the audience happy while the women swooned over Gustavo. At one point he invited this little old guy up on stage (there were people there from 4 to 84) and gave him the equivalent of $15 for singing a bit of a song, doing a wee dance (you could tell he had been quite the hoofer in his day), and making everyone laugh with his answers to a few questions. Abel leaned over and told me the man was nearly deaf which made it all the funnier. What was interesting was that although normally when his songs come on in a club or at a party, everyone jumps up to dance, but here, everyone just stood facing the stage, watching the show. Only during the break, when the DJ put on recorded music, did people dance. We stayed for a couple hours, till it got really packed and airless, then wandered home.
Sprout is doing great, and it looks like we’ll be modifying the program a bit for next year. Once word got out in Tolasmaidas, our little beach community, what we were doing, the requests for uniforms and school supplies started coming in fast and furious. We helped around 25 kids, but then announced that was it for this year. What we’ll do now is get organized and be ready to help the majority of the 110 kids in the local school next year. We’ll be emulating a program called 1 Starfish in another town, and should be able to really made a difference. I estimate that to outfit and provide school supplies for everyone who needs it, we’ll need approximately $5000. That would cover all the elementary schools kids and the two dozen or so high schoolers as well. We’ll continue with the university scholarships, ideally by finding individual sponsors for each student. This year we have three sponsors, and it seems to be working out very well. So a few days ago we called for a meeting at the wee school and nearly 100 people showed up, mainly mothers and children (this is a community rife with “madres solteras”, single moms), and we handed out the guidelines to the “SPROUT in the School” program. It’ll be some work coordinating it all, but I’m enthusiastic to finally be able to do something useful that focuses on the kids, helps out the moms, and puts education first. Dave, the S.C. guy I mentioned above, also has property out near us, and he is very interested in helping us with this project. He’ll use the data I collect and do some fundraising for us, and with any luck, between us, we’ll reach our goal.
The next day found Dave and me at another meeting, this one organized by the mayor’s office, to figure out how to improve tourism in Buenos Aires. It was a typical meeting, lots of talk, ideas thrown around, and at the end, a commission was put together of representatives of each community—restaurants, fishing, artists, education, government, and hey—the foreign perspective. That would be me. I’m sure it’ll be interesting…
Damn—nearly forgot! The great iguana rescue! Last Friday Pat was out at the beach and one of the kids grabbed him and pulled him up the street to her house. There, he was shown four iguanas of various sizes, from maybe 2’ to 5’ including tail. The family managed to convey to him they were for sale, most likely to end up on someone’s plate—or worse, just their eggs (two were pregnant, and their eggs are a delicacy here.) He asked how much, and was first told $7 each, but eventually managed to negotiate three for $15—they wouldn’t sell the last one. He shows up back at the last house we were staying in with a large bag, turns it out in the screened in porch, and deposits three very irritated iguanas on the floor. Their front feet had been pulled back along their sides and tied to their back feet, effectively immobilizing them. Their tails, however, were free, and Pat quickly felt the strength of one when he got too close, trying to pick one up. Between him and Dave, they managed to sever the bindings one by one, and finally released the ungrateful beasties outside. One fled immediately, the smallest, but the two larger hung around for at least half an hour before dashing off in different directions (“Lets split up!”) It’s very likely they will just be re-caught and resold, but at least they enjoyed a respite from captivity for a few days. Maybe even learned from the experience and will evade the boys and their slingshots next time.
1. Building quality. We are now living in the back of the school. The family who owns the building is middle class by Nica standards. But to save money, they ‘hired’ a son-in-law, a 21 year old kid, to do most of the work. They apparently based this decision not only on the fiscal advantages, but on the fact that he once helped his uncle build a shed. Needless to say, his plumbing and electrical skills have not yet reached their apex. Since moving in, we’ve found three leaks inside, and one in the outer wall. Figuring out which light switch (all of which are set slightly askew and covered in lime-coated switch plates) activated which bare bulb was fun, especially as the wee devil delighted in placing each one as far from its partner as possible. No, Pat says, that’s wrong. That implies conscious thought, the very thing lacking from the equation. Well, overall the place is fine, but Pat spent most of last week fixing it. Oh yeah, the back door is just a few boards nailed together, hinged, and held shut by two large nails punched into the door jamb. A security issue? Possibly, although we have the advantage of living next door to the police station, and are assiduously cultivating a friendly relationship with the lieutenant…
2. Informing customers of inventory at any point prior to paying for an item. I can’t tell you how many times we have gone to a shop, indicated to the salesperson which of the samples up on the wall or on the shelf we want, been directed to the person who writes up the bill, trotted to the back to the cashier to pay for the item, returned to the store front to pick up the item, only to be told it’s out of stock. On occasion, there is something else actually in stock we need and an exchange is enacted. But more often, it means retracing our steps, collecting our money, and trying a different shop. Since most places have as many employees as possible, and no one does any one else’s job, and since communication can be a bit dodgy down here at times, no one knows what’s in stock until someone requests it. Even this will often not result in the item being ordered, so that the same customer can find himself having the same experience over the same item week after week.
3. Driving etiquette. Ok, I’ve complained about bad drivers in New York and Florida, and as many readers know, Homer has its share of oblivious menaces (all tourists of course), but Nicaragua takes driving badly to a new level. From what I can gather after sending two friends to driving school (it costs around $150 for the course, test, and license), they are taught useful things like which pedal does what, and even given some pointers on rules of the road, such as the red octagonal sign encourages stopping, and men in light blue waving fluorescent batons should not be run over, but what they are NOT taught are things we take for granted, like using your turn signals (or even having them); not passing on the inside, especially when a large truck is coming and there are small children on bicycles already on the shoulder; giving way to anyone at anytime for any reason (a sign of weakness!), lowering your brights when another car approaches (or at any other time); not stopping suddenly in the middle of the road for what is probably a very good reason, like needing to hop out and take a piss against a nearby tree; tying down your load in order to avoid leaving a Hansel and Gretel-like trail of trash or scrap metal or plantains from Rivas to Managua; and not using your horn for every breath you take.
I’ll stop there. Because really, most of the time, we either no longer notice, or if we notice, don’t dwell on these things. All part of life in Nicaragua and therefore part of the experience. But hey, if you can’t bitch once in a while….to be honest, we probably spend more time moaning about some of the other expats down here than anything local. Like the 61 y.o. Oregonian truck driver who has had three lovely young Nica wives in two years, treated each like shit, left each for the next, and still spends most of his time drinking and looking for more girls. Or the 50+ Canadian who’s been down here for years, encouraged a friend to come down, get some land, build a house, and when the friend arrived, threw him out after a month, just after selling him a crap piece of land for $1500 more than the $3000 asking price, and then barely helped the non-Spanish speaking rube get anything done. Or the other 60+ Canadian who got into a dispute with his Nica neighbors over some rocks he’d painted white and used to edge his property. When some of the rocks turned up on the neighbors’ side, they said it was the wind…he wasn’t amused and went out with a baseball bat and smashed up the concrete wash stands the women use to earn a living taking in laundry. Over some rocks!! They retaliated by attempting to set his car on fire, but made the mistake of trying to ignite the front tire and the smell of burning rubber alerted the guy who then called the cops. Most of them won’t tip waiters so as “not to ruin it for everyone else”; spend 80% of their waking hours bobbing about in bottles of cheap rum (and the other 20% seducing 15 year olds, with unfortunate success rates as the girls look beyond the wrinkled flesh and the red noses and only see the wallets); and refer to the locals as “these people”, as in “You can’t trust these people for anything.” Sigh. It’s so hard being superior to everyone….
What else. Ah, last weekend Buenos Aires (it’s so good to be back!) welcomed an actual singing sensation to the local hall. Gustavo Leyton hales from Managua, and has made a successful career from giving lively concerts of Cumbia and other popular hits on a stage swarming with scantily clad lovelies who spend most of the show hypnotizing the crowd with their undulating backsides. Rancho de Pancho, Edwin’s bar/restaurant now being leased by a real pro, has karaoke every Friday, with a big screen set up and between what passes for singing from customers (the drinkers are almost as bad as the Evangelists), he runs music videos and this guy is a favorite. He is in the process of performing in a couple towns in all 16 departments of Nicaragua, and somehow little Buenos Aires snagged him. The banner said the show began at 8pm. We (Pat, our friend Dave from S.C., Edwin, Abel (Edwin’s older brother from up north), and me arrived at 9. The show had begun, but 90% of the people were standing around outside. Edwin told us confidently that at 9:30, people would begin to enter. He and Pat elected to go next door and play pool, so Dave, Abel and I went in. It was quite a show! There were only three girls, but they compensated by moving around constantly, and kept the males in the audience happy while the women swooned over Gustavo. At one point he invited this little old guy up on stage (there were people there from 4 to 84) and gave him the equivalent of $15 for singing a bit of a song, doing a wee dance (you could tell he had been quite the hoofer in his day), and making everyone laugh with his answers to a few questions. Abel leaned over and told me the man was nearly deaf which made it all the funnier. What was interesting was that although normally when his songs come on in a club or at a party, everyone jumps up to dance, but here, everyone just stood facing the stage, watching the show. Only during the break, when the DJ put on recorded music, did people dance. We stayed for a couple hours, till it got really packed and airless, then wandered home.
Sprout is doing great, and it looks like we’ll be modifying the program a bit for next year. Once word got out in Tolasmaidas, our little beach community, what we were doing, the requests for uniforms and school supplies started coming in fast and furious. We helped around 25 kids, but then announced that was it for this year. What we’ll do now is get organized and be ready to help the majority of the 110 kids in the local school next year. We’ll be emulating a program called 1 Starfish in another town, and should be able to really made a difference. I estimate that to outfit and provide school supplies for everyone who needs it, we’ll need approximately $5000. That would cover all the elementary schools kids and the two dozen or so high schoolers as well. We’ll continue with the university scholarships, ideally by finding individual sponsors for each student. This year we have three sponsors, and it seems to be working out very well. So a few days ago we called for a meeting at the wee school and nearly 100 people showed up, mainly mothers and children (this is a community rife with “madres solteras”, single moms), and we handed out the guidelines to the “SPROUT in the School” program. It’ll be some work coordinating it all, but I’m enthusiastic to finally be able to do something useful that focuses on the kids, helps out the moms, and puts education first. Dave, the S.C. guy I mentioned above, also has property out near us, and he is very interested in helping us with this project. He’ll use the data I collect and do some fundraising for us, and with any luck, between us, we’ll reach our goal.
The next day found Dave and me at another meeting, this one organized by the mayor’s office, to figure out how to improve tourism in Buenos Aires. It was a typical meeting, lots of talk, ideas thrown around, and at the end, a commission was put together of representatives of each community—restaurants, fishing, artists, education, government, and hey—the foreign perspective. That would be me. I’m sure it’ll be interesting…
Damn—nearly forgot! The great iguana rescue! Last Friday Pat was out at the beach and one of the kids grabbed him and pulled him up the street to her house. There, he was shown four iguanas of various sizes, from maybe 2’ to 5’ including tail. The family managed to convey to him they were for sale, most likely to end up on someone’s plate—or worse, just their eggs (two were pregnant, and their eggs are a delicacy here.) He asked how much, and was first told $7 each, but eventually managed to negotiate three for $15—they wouldn’t sell the last one. He shows up back at the last house we were staying in with a large bag, turns it out in the screened in porch, and deposits three very irritated iguanas on the floor. Their front feet had been pulled back along their sides and tied to their back feet, effectively immobilizing them. Their tails, however, were free, and Pat quickly felt the strength of one when he got too close, trying to pick one up. Between him and Dave, they managed to sever the bindings one by one, and finally released the ungrateful beasties outside. One fled immediately, the smallest, but the two larger hung around for at least half an hour before dashing off in different directions (“Lets split up!”) It’s very likely they will just be re-caught and resold, but at least they enjoyed a respite from captivity for a few days. Maybe even learned from the experience and will evade the boys and their slingshots next time.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Things that Creep & Crawl
Entomology 101
It feels as though we haven’t stopped moving since the holidays began, and yet as I review the pictures for the blog, they all seem to be of various insects…two of which were found on Ometepe Island, and the third, nasty thing, landed on my skirt up at Laguna de Apoyo. But more about that later.
We returned to Ometepe twice in early January. The first time so Pat could assist in the installation of an on-demand propane-fired hot water heater at our friend Cindi’s house and so we could take a leisurely (ha!) bike ride around the southern volcano, Maderas, with Cindi and her professional cyclist boyfriend Brian. Ok, maybe he’s no longer an active professional, but he is very serious about bicycles and biking, which was a good thing for my poor abused bike as he took one look at the gears, cringed, took a deep breath, and tackled them head-on. As a result, they actually shift again, beyond the three or four gears I’d become accustomed to using. This turned out to be a very good thing indeed once the ride began, and rather than the coast-hugging dirt road we’d imagined, it was more like one of those mountain bike parks, with actual inclines and occasional declines, dips, bumps, holes, crevasses, gravel, sand, puddles, and of course the usual collection of cows, chickens, pigs, horses, kids, drunks, and the odd cat or two. Oh, and stunning views of the lake, the volcano, the mainland… About one hour into the four hour ride, as we bumped our way down one of the rare descents, Pat’s front tire hit a coconut husk and over he went, ending up with the right handle bar more or less lodged in his chest. Or it would’ve been had his end caps not been firmly in place. As it was, he had a hell of a bruise, but it didn’t keep him from climbing back on and continuing the ride. I stopped at the next ‘pulperia’, or little shop in someone’s home, and asked the woman if she had anything for pain. She looked blank and said, “Que?” I asked again, rewording the request a bit. “Que dice? (What did you say?) No Inglés.” I was getting frustrated, but fortunately there was a local couple also waiting at the window, and the man said to her, “She needs something for pain. She’s speaking Spanish!” The woman looked skeptical, but went to the back and returned with two small reddish pills labeled “Dolofin”. Since the word for pain is ‘dolor’, and the word for end is ‘fin’, they seemed promising. Pat gobbled them down and professed to feel less pain (until the following morning…)
The rest of the ride was uneventful if a bit challenging, and we were very happy when we finally arrived at El Encanto, a local guesthouse run by an Aussie/El Salvadoran couple. We’d stayed there a couple times, and were well acquainted with their excellent alternatives to standard Nicaraguan cuisine. Nothing like a chicken curry after a long, hot ride!
We returned to Ometepe just a couple days later, this time with the Scotts and Amanda in tow. (You may recall from the last blog that one of the Scotts and Amanda are newlyweds; the other Scott was a best man.) We had the pleasure of riding the big new ferry again, and once again were left shaking our heads as this massive craft “docked” on a spit of sand. We then met our pre-arranged minibus to drive us out to Cindi’s place, about 1.5hrs south. (The island is bigger than you’d think, plus the roads on the southern end are wretched.) In the afternoon, we thought it might be fun to rent kayaks and head up the Rio Istiam, a river supposedly loaded with indigenous birds and beasties, including caymen. We ambled over to the restaurant/kayak rental place only to be told they had just rented out their last four kayaks. This news was met with more elation than I’d have expected—turned out everyone was relieved to have an excuse to just relax for a change. After finishing lunch there, Pat went for a wander and returned to the table clutched in the pincers of a gigantic beetle. A slight exaggeration, but not much. This beetle he found was about the size of my cheapie non-flip cell phone, and weighed four times as much. I’ll let the picture speak for itself here. Even the guys who run the restaurant were surprised by its size, and almost everyone wanted to pick it up and take its picture. After blinding it with flashes and traumatizing it with curiosity, and after it did in fact nip Pat with its pincers, he scooped it up and carried it back to an undisclosed location.
The next morning some of us went on a hike to and through the property of another expat couple, where we encountered a form of thorn tree, swollen with the rains of a long wet season, and many platano (plantain) trees dropping their huge, erotic pods. In the evening, we wandered down the road to a tiny restaurant where Pat and I had had an excellent traditional Nica dinner last year. They often have fish as well, but on this occasion, told us they only had chicken. What they failed to specify was that they meant that literally. They had a chicken. Just the one. For all seven of us. Yeah…I got the back. I didn’t immediately realize it was the back as it was creatively covered in a mass of sautéed onions and tomatoes. I kept trying to cut off a piece of actual meat with no success. When I finally scraped off the sauce, I beheld a fragile skeleton of grilled bones, and a bit of skin. This is very unusual! In all the many, many, many chicken meals we’ve had since arriving in Nicaragua, there has been a broad range of flavors, but there has always, always, been meat. Other people chimed in after I voiced my dismay. “I think I got the ribcage.” “I got part of a wing and something else…” “Ha! I got a leg!” Whoever got the breast was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Fortunately the rest of the meal was plentiful and delicious; gallo pinto (red beans and rice) being a hell of a filler.
We left the island on one of the smallest ferries, a first for all of us. Other than the noise of the engines, it was a good ride. Fast, not too rough, and the seats from the old US school busses were comfortable enough. Once back on the mainland, we took them on a whirlwind tour of our place out in Tolasmaydas, to Jim’s restaurant for burgers, and then we piled into the jeep and headed north, to Laguna de Apoyo and our friend Fred’s place. It was here I encountered the evil bug. We had been told in November to watch out for a certain type of caterpillar: large, bright green (sometimes with spots of other colors), and very fuzzy. Their fuzz is coated with something extremely toxic, and any contact with it results the skin turning bright red and massive levels of burning, stinging pain. Pat came across one out by the house one day and the kids immediately slaughtered it. More recently, we were told their season was over, and I was sorry I never got to see one. Umm hmm…so we are all standing around out in Fred’s courtyard, and I am talking to Carmen, his wife, when I feel something on my skirt, just below-right of my left hipbone. I brush at it absently, too dark to see, and in the middle of a conversation. It doesn’t move and now the last two fingers on my right hand hurt. I turn into the light and look down—and there it is, firmly attached to me—a 3” bright green furry thing. Carmen screams, I jump back, Fred rushes over and begins furiously prodding it with a stick until it falls off at which point he stomps on it. “Wait!” I cry, “Let me at least get a picture of it.” I dig out the camera and manage to get a shot in before Carmen grabs Fred’s beloved cane walking stick and begins bashing the hell out of the crumpled wad of green slime. Fred grabs the cane, tells Carmen to calm down, and stomps on the beastie a few more times. “It’s like trying to stomp on a piece of rubber,” he announces. By now the backs of my two fingers and the adjoining knuckles are burning and throbbing. Carmen hands me a tub of ice, and I immerse the afflicted hand. It brings some relief. I keep my hand in the ice for the next hour, off and on, until I fall asleep (where I dream of butterflies), and when I awake the next morning, the pain is gone.
We deposit the Scotts and Amanda at the Managua airport, worn out from their trip but professing to have enjoyed every minute in Nicaragua. Grabbing a detailed map of the city, we head out on a search for shower tile. Our options seem limited to either hideous generic shiny white or faux-hand painted ceramic, or insanely overpriced, imported from Italy glass. We are rethinking the shower. The ceiling, however, is coming along very well. Pat and Daniel have finished the bedroom and have begun work in the living room. It has been a more complex job than anticipated as the cane is highly irregular and the wood needed for the frames was tweaked and bent. But in spite of the obstacles, it looks beautiful. Once it’s done, Pat will begin work in either the kitchen or bathroom…at last, the end is in sight.
On the political front, I attended the swearing in of the new mayor of Buenos Aires last weekend. (Pat had planned to go until he found out there would be no food, no drinks, and no shortage of long speeches.) We’d been invited by a guy we call Sandino, after Nicaragua’s early-20th-century hero, and from whom the Sandinistas took their name. His real name is Orlando, but once he learned of our nickname for him, he became even friendlier. Apparently he’s a guard for one of the big plantations out here, but his heart lies with the FSLN, and he seems to play a role in each administration. One night we were up at Rancho de Pancho with Edwin and Reyna and he sat down at our table. That he’d already been drinking for a while became clear as he alternately accused me of working for the CIA and quoting me the poetry of Rubén Darío, Nicaragua’s foremost poet. “Ud. es C-Uh, no?” (You’re CIA, right?”) That their pronunciation of CIA is identical to the word for chair (silla) made things a bit confusing at first, but once we were on the same page, I began with denials, but eventually gave up as he didn’t believe me anyway, and at one point as he was telling me he knew I was CIA because there was no other reason for me to be in Nicaragua if I wasn’t a missionary, I reached down, pulled off my flip flop, held it to my ear, and said, “Si, si el está aquí. Si, está hablando de asuntos…” (Yes, yes, he’s here. He’s talking about matters…) He just stared at me for a minute, eyes wide, mouth agape, and then began to laugh. At least as of this writing, he hasn’t brought up the CIA again.
As for the swearing in, it was about as expected. A few hundred people gathered, speeches were made, a local woman danced. The new mayor apparently thanked me in his speech, something about gratitude toward the North American woman who had become part of their small community and hoped to make a difference. I missed it as at that moment I was trying to salvage what remained of Milagro’s ice cream cone, the majority of which had relocated to her lap. Still, it did explain why at one point all these heads turned in my direction…
Finally, the big news: the Sprout office and newly opened Alaska English School are in business. I found a place to rent right on the main square in Buenos Aires, next to the Police, across the park form City Hall. A friend and cousin of Edwin’s painted the signs (although he didn’t quite finish due to a powerful hangover that had him show up at 1pm rather than 8am the day of the 3pm opening), and we had a small open house last Sunday. I hired a neighbor to do the cooking, just hors d'oeuvres, finger foods. For this she told me she’d need a lot of toothpicks. I brought two boxes that claimed to have 250each. She called me later to tell me she needed more. “How can you have used 500 toothpicks, Mari?” “No, no,” she explained patiently, “the 250 refers to how many pointed ends there are! So each box actually only contains 125 toothpicks.” Since a box costs roughly 40¢, I’m going on the assumption this was not a crafty plan on her part to exploit my generosity…nevertheless, Pat was so bemused by this account that he bought another box and sat in the jeep counting them. He found 250.
Too early to tell how many students I will get, but there does seem to be interest. On Monday I stopped by the main Rivas Police station and after wandering through its maze-like hallways for a while, eventually found the 2nd in command. He was very interested, and talked of pulling together a group of 20 cops, ten from Rivas, ten more from the five main cities in the district. I am hoping this works out, as it would be a solid regular class, and also, it never hurts to get to know your local police force. Sprout is doing great as I mentioned in the email; with any luck the economy will rebound and charity giving will once again become a popular activity.
It feels as though we haven’t stopped moving since the holidays began, and yet as I review the pictures for the blog, they all seem to be of various insects…two of which were found on Ometepe Island, and the third, nasty thing, landed on my skirt up at Laguna de Apoyo. But more about that later.
We returned to Ometepe twice in early January. The first time so Pat could assist in the installation of an on-demand propane-fired hot water heater at our friend Cindi’s house and so we could take a leisurely (ha!) bike ride around the southern volcano, Maderas, with Cindi and her professional cyclist boyfriend Brian. Ok, maybe he’s no longer an active professional, but he is very serious about bicycles and biking, which was a good thing for my poor abused bike as he took one look at the gears, cringed, took a deep breath, and tackled them head-on. As a result, they actually shift again, beyond the three or four gears I’d become accustomed to using. This turned out to be a very good thing indeed once the ride began, and rather than the coast-hugging dirt road we’d imagined, it was more like one of those mountain bike parks, with actual inclines and occasional declines, dips, bumps, holes, crevasses, gravel, sand, puddles, and of course the usual collection of cows, chickens, pigs, horses, kids, drunks, and the odd cat or two. Oh, and stunning views of the lake, the volcano, the mainland… About one hour into the four hour ride, as we bumped our way down one of the rare descents, Pat’s front tire hit a coconut husk and over he went, ending up with the right handle bar more or less lodged in his chest. Or it would’ve been had his end caps not been firmly in place. As it was, he had a hell of a bruise, but it didn’t keep him from climbing back on and continuing the ride. I stopped at the next ‘pulperia’, or little shop in someone’s home, and asked the woman if she had anything for pain. She looked blank and said, “Que?” I asked again, rewording the request a bit. “Que dice? (What did you say?) No Inglés.” I was getting frustrated, but fortunately there was a local couple also waiting at the window, and the man said to her, “She needs something for pain. She’s speaking Spanish!” The woman looked skeptical, but went to the back and returned with two small reddish pills labeled “Dolofin”. Since the word for pain is ‘dolor’, and the word for end is ‘fin’, they seemed promising. Pat gobbled them down and professed to feel less pain (until the following morning…)
The rest of the ride was uneventful if a bit challenging, and we were very happy when we finally arrived at El Encanto, a local guesthouse run by an Aussie/El Salvadoran couple. We’d stayed there a couple times, and were well acquainted with their excellent alternatives to standard Nicaraguan cuisine. Nothing like a chicken curry after a long, hot ride!
We returned to Ometepe just a couple days later, this time with the Scotts and Amanda in tow. (You may recall from the last blog that one of the Scotts and Amanda are newlyweds; the other Scott was a best man.) We had the pleasure of riding the big new ferry again, and once again were left shaking our heads as this massive craft “docked” on a spit of sand. We then met our pre-arranged minibus to drive us out to Cindi’s place, about 1.5hrs south. (The island is bigger than you’d think, plus the roads on the southern end are wretched.) In the afternoon, we thought it might be fun to rent kayaks and head up the Rio Istiam, a river supposedly loaded with indigenous birds and beasties, including caymen. We ambled over to the restaurant/kayak rental place only to be told they had just rented out their last four kayaks. This news was met with more elation than I’d have expected—turned out everyone was relieved to have an excuse to just relax for a change. After finishing lunch there, Pat went for a wander and returned to the table clutched in the pincers of a gigantic beetle. A slight exaggeration, but not much. This beetle he found was about the size of my cheapie non-flip cell phone, and weighed four times as much. I’ll let the picture speak for itself here. Even the guys who run the restaurant were surprised by its size, and almost everyone wanted to pick it up and take its picture. After blinding it with flashes and traumatizing it with curiosity, and after it did in fact nip Pat with its pincers, he scooped it up and carried it back to an undisclosed location.
The next morning some of us went on a hike to and through the property of another expat couple, where we encountered a form of thorn tree, swollen with the rains of a long wet season, and many platano (plantain) trees dropping their huge, erotic pods. In the evening, we wandered down the road to a tiny restaurant where Pat and I had had an excellent traditional Nica dinner last year. They often have fish as well, but on this occasion, told us they only had chicken. What they failed to specify was that they meant that literally. They had a chicken. Just the one. For all seven of us. Yeah…I got the back. I didn’t immediately realize it was the back as it was creatively covered in a mass of sautéed onions and tomatoes. I kept trying to cut off a piece of actual meat with no success. When I finally scraped off the sauce, I beheld a fragile skeleton of grilled bones, and a bit of skin. This is very unusual! In all the many, many, many chicken meals we’ve had since arriving in Nicaragua, there has been a broad range of flavors, but there has always, always, been meat. Other people chimed in after I voiced my dismay. “I think I got the ribcage.” “I got part of a wing and something else…” “Ha! I got a leg!” Whoever got the breast was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Fortunately the rest of the meal was plentiful and delicious; gallo pinto (red beans and rice) being a hell of a filler.
We left the island on one of the smallest ferries, a first for all of us. Other than the noise of the engines, it was a good ride. Fast, not too rough, and the seats from the old US school busses were comfortable enough. Once back on the mainland, we took them on a whirlwind tour of our place out in Tolasmaydas, to Jim’s restaurant for burgers, and then we piled into the jeep and headed north, to Laguna de Apoyo and our friend Fred’s place. It was here I encountered the evil bug. We had been told in November to watch out for a certain type of caterpillar: large, bright green (sometimes with spots of other colors), and very fuzzy. Their fuzz is coated with something extremely toxic, and any contact with it results the skin turning bright red and massive levels of burning, stinging pain. Pat came across one out by the house one day and the kids immediately slaughtered it. More recently, we were told their season was over, and I was sorry I never got to see one. Umm hmm…so we are all standing around out in Fred’s courtyard, and I am talking to Carmen, his wife, when I feel something on my skirt, just below-right of my left hipbone. I brush at it absently, too dark to see, and in the middle of a conversation. It doesn’t move and now the last two fingers on my right hand hurt. I turn into the light and look down—and there it is, firmly attached to me—a 3” bright green furry thing. Carmen screams, I jump back, Fred rushes over and begins furiously prodding it with a stick until it falls off at which point he stomps on it. “Wait!” I cry, “Let me at least get a picture of it.” I dig out the camera and manage to get a shot in before Carmen grabs Fred’s beloved cane walking stick and begins bashing the hell out of the crumpled wad of green slime. Fred grabs the cane, tells Carmen to calm down, and stomps on the beastie a few more times. “It’s like trying to stomp on a piece of rubber,” he announces. By now the backs of my two fingers and the adjoining knuckles are burning and throbbing. Carmen hands me a tub of ice, and I immerse the afflicted hand. It brings some relief. I keep my hand in the ice for the next hour, off and on, until I fall asleep (where I dream of butterflies), and when I awake the next morning, the pain is gone.
We deposit the Scotts and Amanda at the Managua airport, worn out from their trip but professing to have enjoyed every minute in Nicaragua. Grabbing a detailed map of the city, we head out on a search for shower tile. Our options seem limited to either hideous generic shiny white or faux-hand painted ceramic, or insanely overpriced, imported from Italy glass. We are rethinking the shower. The ceiling, however, is coming along very well. Pat and Daniel have finished the bedroom and have begun work in the living room. It has been a more complex job than anticipated as the cane is highly irregular and the wood needed for the frames was tweaked and bent. But in spite of the obstacles, it looks beautiful. Once it’s done, Pat will begin work in either the kitchen or bathroom…at last, the end is in sight.
On the political front, I attended the swearing in of the new mayor of Buenos Aires last weekend. (Pat had planned to go until he found out there would be no food, no drinks, and no shortage of long speeches.) We’d been invited by a guy we call Sandino, after Nicaragua’s early-20th-century hero, and from whom the Sandinistas took their name. His real name is Orlando, but once he learned of our nickname for him, he became even friendlier. Apparently he’s a guard for one of the big plantations out here, but his heart lies with the FSLN, and he seems to play a role in each administration. One night we were up at Rancho de Pancho with Edwin and Reyna and he sat down at our table. That he’d already been drinking for a while became clear as he alternately accused me of working for the CIA and quoting me the poetry of Rubén Darío, Nicaragua’s foremost poet. “Ud. es C-Uh, no?” (You’re CIA, right?”) That their pronunciation of CIA is identical to the word for chair (silla) made things a bit confusing at first, but once we were on the same page, I began with denials, but eventually gave up as he didn’t believe me anyway, and at one point as he was telling me he knew I was CIA because there was no other reason for me to be in Nicaragua if I wasn’t a missionary, I reached down, pulled off my flip flop, held it to my ear, and said, “Si, si el está aquí. Si, está hablando de asuntos…” (Yes, yes, he’s here. He’s talking about matters…) He just stared at me for a minute, eyes wide, mouth agape, and then began to laugh. At least as of this writing, he hasn’t brought up the CIA again.
As for the swearing in, it was about as expected. A few hundred people gathered, speeches were made, a local woman danced. The new mayor apparently thanked me in his speech, something about gratitude toward the North American woman who had become part of their small community and hoped to make a difference. I missed it as at that moment I was trying to salvage what remained of Milagro’s ice cream cone, the majority of which had relocated to her lap. Still, it did explain why at one point all these heads turned in my direction…
Finally, the big news: the Sprout office and newly opened Alaska English School are in business. I found a place to rent right on the main square in Buenos Aires, next to the Police, across the park form City Hall. A friend and cousin of Edwin’s painted the signs (although he didn’t quite finish due to a powerful hangover that had him show up at 1pm rather than 8am the day of the 3pm opening), and we had a small open house last Sunday. I hired a neighbor to do the cooking, just hors d'oeuvres, finger foods. For this she told me she’d need a lot of toothpicks. I brought two boxes that claimed to have 250each. She called me later to tell me she needed more. “How can you have used 500 toothpicks, Mari?” “No, no,” she explained patiently, “the 250 refers to how many pointed ends there are! So each box actually only contains 125 toothpicks.” Since a box costs roughly 40¢, I’m going on the assumption this was not a crafty plan on her part to exploit my generosity…nevertheless, Pat was so bemused by this account that he bought another box and sat in the jeep counting them. He found 250.
Too early to tell how many students I will get, but there does seem to be interest. On Monday I stopped by the main Rivas Police station and after wandering through its maze-like hallways for a while, eventually found the 2nd in command. He was very interested, and talked of pulling together a group of 20 cops, ten from Rivas, ten more from the five main cities in the district. I am hoping this works out, as it would be a solid regular class, and also, it never hurts to get to know your local police force. Sprout is doing great as I mentioned in the email; with any luck the economy will rebound and charity giving will once again become a popular activity.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Feliz Año Nuevo!
Happy 2009!
I had planned to have two blogs done by now, but life interfered so you’ll have to bear with me as I catch up on the last few weeks. I’ll tackle it chronologically, going on the pictures to refresh my memory.
Back in mid-December, I was invited to attend a celebration of literacy here in Buenos Aires. It was to mark the culmination in a four-year campaign to eradicate ‘analfabetismo’ (literally, ‘without alphabet’) throughout the district. According to the statistics touted in several of the speeches made, it was a successful drive, resulting in 93% literacy. The festivities kicked off with the arrival of the ‘torch of literacy’, supposedly carried on foot from town to town, complete with a police escort. The mayor, vice mayor/mayor elect, and a dozen other people from as near as Rivas and as far as Cuba (where the original campaign, “¡Si, yo puedo!” “Yes, I can!” was conceived) were in attendance. The orations were broken up by a traditional Nicaraguan dance performed by two adorable local girls, swirling about the stage in billowing white skirts, and the unfurling of a huge banner lauding Buenos Aires for its success. Although I was very happy to know such things were afoot, I felt a bit skeptical that only 7% of my friends and neighbors remained in the darkness of illiteracy, remembering the intake process at a free vision check clinic I helped register people for a couple years ago. One of the questions asked clients if they could read, and I am fairly certain, particularly out in Tolasmaydas, that the number was just a wee bit (25%+/-) higher…
Soon afterwards, Nicaragua embraced the holiday season, including colorful lights on many houses and businesses, and even Santa making an appearance in the town square. On the same day we spotted St. Nick bouncing bairns in his red velvet suit, just across the park another ‘santa’, Santa Guadalupe—aka The Virgin of Guadalupe-- was also having her day. As the patron saint of Mexico, her likeness adorns everything from taxi cabs to birthday cakes up there. Here, she has less of a following, but Nicaraguans are generous in their embrace of all things Catholic and colorful, and so they dressed up their children in brilliant traditional outfits and had them photographed in front of life-sized portraits of the Virgin, often while sitting astride tiny wooden horses.
Pat responded to excited voices out the back door the other morning, arriving to find Sergio, the caretaker, jumping about waving a rake and pointing into the storage shed. “Hay un serpiente muy grande!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with the rake. Pat went into the shed where he found a young boa, maybe four feet long, cut nearly in half and writhing in pain. He pulled it out with the rake, then reached down and grabbed it behind the head, holding it up for me to see. I snapped a quick picture before he ended its misery with a well-placed machete blow, then translated for him as he patiently explained to Sergio that these sorts (and sizes) of boas are no danger to humans, and are in fact an important part of the ecosystem, playing a necessary role in keeping down the rodent population. Sergio nodded his head, absorbing the lecture. Several days later, Dennis told us that Sergio had killed a second, smaller snake that had the misfortune to cross his path while he was watering the tomatoes. A beautifully constructed wasps’ nest met a similar fate, in spite of the three weeks’ labor that went into its creation. A few minutes on google informed us that these were a species of miniature wasps, that, in addition to being stingless, also perform useful tasks in the ecosystem, and should, given the choice, be left alone. But we learned very quickly down here that Nicaraguans approach nature with a “kill it first, eat or ignore it later” policy that extends to everything from caterpillars to iguanas and even ground squirrels. Pat & I have tried to prevent the slaughter of innocent beasties out at our place, explaining to the local kids that it’s not an altogether bad thing to live and let live. This is generally met witheye rolling and sniggering, and a sagacity beyond their years, implying that we will change our tune when some of these same beasties start preying on us.
We are moving ahead on our house, completing the water storage tank, which means all that stands between us and running water is something to run it into, such as a toilet or sink. In the meantime, we drove up to the outskirts of Granada where we picked up 43 bundles of 24 cane rods that will eventually become our ceiling. First it’s painted with a lovely mixture of insecticide and diesel to protect it from some of the above-mentioned beasties. This takes a few days to soak in and the fumes to evaporate, at which time it is suspended from the ceiling using 2x2’s, then a clear varnish is sprayed on as a final protective coat. It should look pretty cool, and as we have low ceilings, will ideally make the place feel more open.
Christmas finally arrived, although it was a bit of a non-event. Christmas Eve is the real celebration, with families and friends gathering for extended dinners and parties lasting into the wee hours when Midnight Masses are attended. We joined a herd of other ex-pats and a handful of Nicas for a delicious potluck meal, after which we piled into Edwin’s truck and headed back to Buenos Aires to listen to a troupe of locals dressed up like extras from The Last Temptation of Christ and singing what I assume were Christmas songs but sung so off-key our ears bled. Giving thanks for being so late we missed most of the performance, we returned to Edwin’s house, set up plastic chairs in the street, and sat around for an hour or so then went home to bed. Christmas day itself was like any other Sunday, and it passed us by without making a sound.
And then came the wedding! Scott, a good friend of ours formerly from L.A., now of Gig Harbor, WA, who has spent the last six or seven summers up in Homer, first at Coal Point, then as a kayak guide for True North, and his new bride Amanda, spent a few weeks in Nicaragua a couple years back and so loved it they decided to hold their wedding here. They chose a lovely spot called Selva Negra, which those of you who have read along for a while will remember as the German-Nica run coffee plantation we visited last fall. It boasts a lovely little chapel ideal for small weddings, and with an impressive 23 guests down from the US, it was perfect. Most of the attendees were from Amanda’s large Chinese-American family, and came together from L.A. Scott’s parents made the trek from New Hampshire, and along with two other couples, us, and his good friend Scott who also spends his summers toiling at Coal Point in Homer, comprised his side of the aisle. It was a beautiful wedding, drawing on an assortment of traditions from the Christian church to Native American to ancient Celtic. I believe there was a bit of the I Ching in there as well, plus a love song performed by a local Nica woman, and a Scottish ballad about herring performed by Pat. (Since we all met through fish, it seemed oddly appropriate.)
There was a 10-member marimba band at the reception, including drums, guitars, and assorted percussion instruments. Their repertoire ran from local classics, well-known Mexican numbers, and a somewhat disturbing version of “My Way”. Although the wedding had been moved from 4pm to 10:30am, everyone was more than ready to shake their respective tail feathers, grateful for the cooler air found at 4000 feet. We spent a couple days up there, getting to know the families and having a really relaxing time. And for once, rather than driving ourselves (although I am very happy to report that the jeep is up and running again, good as new), we traveled by chicken bus for most of the trip, other than joining the wedding party in Granada for the leg up to Selva Negra in a comfy air conditioned mini-bus. In spite of the name, the only live chickens we actually saw were in the back of Edwin’s truck on the way down from Managua…
We were in Managua for a day, running about looking for extractor fans for our house, and then for ventilation ducting for our friends’ new hot water heater out on Ometepe Island. We had more luck with our quest, finding a place to fabricate what we need. The ducting, however, was non-existent, something which Brian did not want to believe until he had no choice…when the salesman in the shop selling other hot water heaters that require ducting admitted they not only didn’t sell it, he had no idea where to find it, and perhaps it would be best to get someone local to fabricate it…which is just what Edwin and Pat told him at the outset, and which Edwin will now do….
Finally, New Year’s Eve. The noisiest night of the year bar none, a sort of melding of the 4th of July, Guy Fawkes Day, and our own version of Dec. 31st. The bombas (small exploding rockets) start early and go late, as people gather with friends and family to eat, drink, dance, and kill time until the clock strikes 12. At this point even more flying exploding things are lit and flung, and effigies of “El Viejo”, the old man representing the past year made by stuffing old clothes with paper and fireworks, is set alight and the new year is formerly welcomed as he lays burning and popping in the street. We’d bought a couple bottles of cheap champagne in Managua, and delighted everyone (we spent the evening at Edwin’s with his family and friends) by pouring cups and having a joyous toast. One of the teens had never seen it before, and asked his mom what it was. “It’s a kind of fancy cane alcohol,” she replied. We celebrated till 2, then wobbled home to face what we hope will be an entertaining and rewarding 2009.
All the best!
I had planned to have two blogs done by now, but life interfered so you’ll have to bear with me as I catch up on the last few weeks. I’ll tackle it chronologically, going on the pictures to refresh my memory.
Back in mid-December, I was invited to attend a celebration of literacy here in Buenos Aires. It was to mark the culmination in a four-year campaign to eradicate ‘analfabetismo’ (literally, ‘without alphabet’) throughout the district. According to the statistics touted in several of the speeches made, it was a successful drive, resulting in 93% literacy. The festivities kicked off with the arrival of the ‘torch of literacy’, supposedly carried on foot from town to town, complete with a police escort. The mayor, vice mayor/mayor elect, and a dozen other people from as near as Rivas and as far as Cuba (where the original campaign, “¡Si, yo puedo!” “Yes, I can!” was conceived) were in attendance. The orations were broken up by a traditional Nicaraguan dance performed by two adorable local girls, swirling about the stage in billowing white skirts, and the unfurling of a huge banner lauding Buenos Aires for its success. Although I was very happy to know such things were afoot, I felt a bit skeptical that only 7% of my friends and neighbors remained in the darkness of illiteracy, remembering the intake process at a free vision check clinic I helped register people for a couple years ago. One of the questions asked clients if they could read, and I am fairly certain, particularly out in Tolasmaydas, that the number was just a wee bit (25%+/-) higher…
Soon afterwards, Nicaragua embraced the holiday season, including colorful lights on many houses and businesses, and even Santa making an appearance in the town square. On the same day we spotted St. Nick bouncing bairns in his red velvet suit, just across the park another ‘santa’, Santa Guadalupe—aka The Virgin of Guadalupe-- was also having her day. As the patron saint of Mexico, her likeness adorns everything from taxi cabs to birthday cakes up there. Here, she has less of a following, but Nicaraguans are generous in their embrace of all things Catholic and colorful, and so they dressed up their children in brilliant traditional outfits and had them photographed in front of life-sized portraits of the Virgin, often while sitting astride tiny wooden horses.
Pat responded to excited voices out the back door the other morning, arriving to find Sergio, the caretaker, jumping about waving a rake and pointing into the storage shed. “Hay un serpiente muy grande!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with the rake. Pat went into the shed where he found a young boa, maybe four feet long, cut nearly in half and writhing in pain. He pulled it out with the rake, then reached down and grabbed it behind the head, holding it up for me to see. I snapped a quick picture before he ended its misery with a well-placed machete blow, then translated for him as he patiently explained to Sergio that these sorts (and sizes) of boas are no danger to humans, and are in fact an important part of the ecosystem, playing a necessary role in keeping down the rodent population. Sergio nodded his head, absorbing the lecture. Several days later, Dennis told us that Sergio had killed a second, smaller snake that had the misfortune to cross his path while he was watering the tomatoes. A beautifully constructed wasps’ nest met a similar fate, in spite of the three weeks’ labor that went into its creation. A few minutes on google informed us that these were a species of miniature wasps, that, in addition to being stingless, also perform useful tasks in the ecosystem, and should, given the choice, be left alone. But we learned very quickly down here that Nicaraguans approach nature with a “kill it first, eat or ignore it later” policy that extends to everything from caterpillars to iguanas and even ground squirrels. Pat & I have tried to prevent the slaughter of innocent beasties out at our place, explaining to the local kids that it’s not an altogether bad thing to live and let live. This is generally met witheye rolling and sniggering, and a sagacity beyond their years, implying that we will change our tune when some of these same beasties start preying on us.
We are moving ahead on our house, completing the water storage tank, which means all that stands between us and running water is something to run it into, such as a toilet or sink. In the meantime, we drove up to the outskirts of Granada where we picked up 43 bundles of 24 cane rods that will eventually become our ceiling. First it’s painted with a lovely mixture of insecticide and diesel to protect it from some of the above-mentioned beasties. This takes a few days to soak in and the fumes to evaporate, at which time it is suspended from the ceiling using 2x2’s, then a clear varnish is sprayed on as a final protective coat. It should look pretty cool, and as we have low ceilings, will ideally make the place feel more open.
Christmas finally arrived, although it was a bit of a non-event. Christmas Eve is the real celebration, with families and friends gathering for extended dinners and parties lasting into the wee hours when Midnight Masses are attended. We joined a herd of other ex-pats and a handful of Nicas for a delicious potluck meal, after which we piled into Edwin’s truck and headed back to Buenos Aires to listen to a troupe of locals dressed up like extras from The Last Temptation of Christ and singing what I assume were Christmas songs but sung so off-key our ears bled. Giving thanks for being so late we missed most of the performance, we returned to Edwin’s house, set up plastic chairs in the street, and sat around for an hour or so then went home to bed. Christmas day itself was like any other Sunday, and it passed us by without making a sound.
And then came the wedding! Scott, a good friend of ours formerly from L.A., now of Gig Harbor, WA, who has spent the last six or seven summers up in Homer, first at Coal Point, then as a kayak guide for True North, and his new bride Amanda, spent a few weeks in Nicaragua a couple years back and so loved it they decided to hold their wedding here. They chose a lovely spot called Selva Negra, which those of you who have read along for a while will remember as the German-Nica run coffee plantation we visited last fall. It boasts a lovely little chapel ideal for small weddings, and with an impressive 23 guests down from the US, it was perfect. Most of the attendees were from Amanda’s large Chinese-American family, and came together from L.A. Scott’s parents made the trek from New Hampshire, and along with two other couples, us, and his good friend Scott who also spends his summers toiling at Coal Point in Homer, comprised his side of the aisle. It was a beautiful wedding, drawing on an assortment of traditions from the Christian church to Native American to ancient Celtic. I believe there was a bit of the I Ching in there as well, plus a love song performed by a local Nica woman, and a Scottish ballad about herring performed by Pat. (Since we all met through fish, it seemed oddly appropriate.)
There was a 10-member marimba band at the reception, including drums, guitars, and assorted percussion instruments. Their repertoire ran from local classics, well-known Mexican numbers, and a somewhat disturbing version of “My Way”. Although the wedding had been moved from 4pm to 10:30am, everyone was more than ready to shake their respective tail feathers, grateful for the cooler air found at 4000 feet. We spent a couple days up there, getting to know the families and having a really relaxing time. And for once, rather than driving ourselves (although I am very happy to report that the jeep is up and running again, good as new), we traveled by chicken bus for most of the trip, other than joining the wedding party in Granada for the leg up to Selva Negra in a comfy air conditioned mini-bus. In spite of the name, the only live chickens we actually saw were in the back of Edwin’s truck on the way down from Managua…
We were in Managua for a day, running about looking for extractor fans for our house, and then for ventilation ducting for our friends’ new hot water heater out on Ometepe Island. We had more luck with our quest, finding a place to fabricate what we need. The ducting, however, was non-existent, something which Brian did not want to believe until he had no choice…when the salesman in the shop selling other hot water heaters that require ducting admitted they not only didn’t sell it, he had no idea where to find it, and perhaps it would be best to get someone local to fabricate it…which is just what Edwin and Pat told him at the outset, and which Edwin will now do….
Finally, New Year’s Eve. The noisiest night of the year bar none, a sort of melding of the 4th of July, Guy Fawkes Day, and our own version of Dec. 31st. The bombas (small exploding rockets) start early and go late, as people gather with friends and family to eat, drink, dance, and kill time until the clock strikes 12. At this point even more flying exploding things are lit and flung, and effigies of “El Viejo”, the old man representing the past year made by stuffing old clothes with paper and fireworks, is set alight and the new year is formerly welcomed as he lays burning and popping in the street. We’d bought a couple bottles of cheap champagne in Managua, and delighted everyone (we spent the evening at Edwin’s with his family and friends) by pouring cups and having a joyous toast. One of the teens had never seen it before, and asked his mom what it was. “It’s a kind of fancy cane alcohol,” she replied. We celebrated till 2, then wobbled home to face what we hope will be an entertaining and rewarding 2009.
All the best!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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.
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.
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...
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