Back in Alaska. In fact I’ll probably have seen some of you by the time you read this, but that’s ok. It’s June 25, the sun is shining 20+ hours a day, and it’s not 98 degrees. I’m happy.
The last few weeks in Nicaragua were hectic, mainly due to last minute SPROUT activity. Seven of our eight university students needed their tuitions paid up through August, along with assorted other requests. I’m happy to report that at the ‘end’ of our first year in the non-profit game, we’re in the black and have met the needs of nine post-high school students, and approximately 35 school students. If all goes according to plan, that second number stands to quadruple in the 2010 school year; I’ll keep you posted. We should be getting a new-and-improved website by the end of August, so please take a look. www.sproutnicaragua.org
One morning near the end of our stay, as we sat on our porch sipping our daily smoothies (every morning I’d fling some combination of fresh pineapple, passion fruit, banana, melon, mango, ginger, etc. into our aging blender for what soon became an addiction. Best part: buying all those fruits and more, plus veggies, for around $2-$3. ALL of them.), when a couple of young men showed up in the basketball/soccer court carrying several piñatas. There were three clowns, a Miss Kitty, and what was probably meant to be a Winnie the Pooh, but more resembled the honey pot. The young men, all volunteers for the local FSLN (Sandinista) office, strung the cheerful effigies up to the basketball hoops and a couple nearby trees. The finished effect was a bit gruesome, kind of like that scene at the beginning of Braveheart where the young Wiliam Wallace finds the bodies of his fellow clansmen swaying in the abandoned hut…anyway, it wasn’t long before the square began filling with children. Hundreds of children. I spotted Reyna with her younger daughter, Milagro, and asked what was up. “It’s to celebrate Children’s Day,” she said. “I thought that was last week?”..”It was, but the mayor was busy so they’re celebrating today.” Fair enough. I returned to the porch just as the first echoes of a drum beat floated overhead. “This must be it!” I said to Pat. “What? The Apocalypse?” “No, no, the Buenos Aires Marching Band—this must be what they’ve been practicing for the last couple months. We’ll finally get to see them in action.” See, since around February, Buenos Aires’ residents have been treated to the sounds of drums nearly every afternoon and all day Saturday. We don’t see the perpetrators, however, as they remain sequestered behind the high, broken glass topped walls of the local school. But boy do we hear them. And for the most part, it wasn’t all that promising. But I knew the town was proud to have its own band, the only one in SW Nicaragua, and so I was curious to finally see them strut their stuff.
Eventually the park was packed with hundreds of kids and many parents as well. Most of the kids were preoccupied by trying to cover every square inch of grass in cellophane wrappers from the individual packets of crackers some Einstein had passed out, but a few were clearly planning their piñata assault strategies. And then the drums grew louder, and we all leaned forward to peer down the road where the first flag-bearers had just become visible. Behind them, a bevy of dancing girls, ranging in age from seven to seventeen, and including Edwin & Reyna’s older daughter, Rosita. Behind them, a line of teens with what appeared to be very large cheese graters, from which they extracted a pleasantly rhythmic jangly sound. And at last, the drums. Somewhere around 50 drummers, toting drums of all shapes and sizes, and all, amazingly enough, in near-perfect harmony. They were closely followed by the brass: a few horns, a tuba, and a couple trumpets. All those months and hours of practice paid off; they sounded spectacular. Reyna told me that this was in fact a sort of dress rehearsal, that they’d been invited to perform in Rivas for National Teachers’ Day on June 29th, and then again, as part of a nationwide competition in Managua on Sept. 14, Nicaraguan Independence Day. And with three more months of practice ahead, I think they may just stand a chance.
June was also a month of parties, including one for a friend’s nine year old. When Barefoot Jim asked her what she wanted, she replied, “Mono-polio”. This, it turned out, was not a request for two serious diseases, but the Spanish-language version of Monopoly, apparently all the rage nowadays, and locally available for the bargain price of $6. We also threw a party, a sort of combination birthday (mine)/buen viaje/barbeque over at our friend Carolyn’s place. We’d initially wanted to have pelibuey again, the fleece-less sheep/goat beastie we served last year, but laying our hands on one proved impossible. Pat and Reyna made two or three trips out to the farm that purportedly sells them, but each time were told to come back in a few hours. It seems the flock had gone astray. Patrick started muttering about lost tribes of peliguey roaming the cane fields of Buenos Aires, while Reyna suggested we’d have better luck if we just cruised around until we spotted one and tossed it in the back of the jeep. In the end, we settled on Carolyn’s succulent Beer-Butt Chicken, which I can assure you tastes far better than its ignoble name suggests.
The last few days were spent cleaning and securing the school/apartment for our absence. Edwin welded up sturdy steel gates for the back and connecting doors, and we hauled our bikes and my folding tables over to Carolyn’s for safe keeping. Beyond that, we don’t really have much of value other than the fridge, which aside from being a bit bulky to steal, has a tendency to freeze my veggies even after four visits from the repairman, and would not be that great of a loss. While we’re really not too worried about leaving the place, the reactions of Edwin’s father Reynaldo, and his wife Reyna, to my mentioning that the local police lieutenant, ‘Teniente Jorge’, promised to keep an eye on the place, was not especially reassuring. Both spontaneously burst out laughing—no—guffawing, Reynaldo to the point of tears. Once he regained control, he muttered something about Jorge being unfit to keep an eye on his own ass and left the room shaking his head and sniggering… In the cleaning process, Pat discovered the reason behind the increased field mouse activity we’d noted over the past week: five baby mice nestled in a hand-carved gourd we’d received as a gift the previous year. We were well aware that we had a couple mice; between finding mouse shit everywhere and actually seeing them dash about the place left little doubt. And we had planned to try and humanely trap and relocate them before we left, but now with the wee’uns, we knew we had to act. So Pat gently placed the babes into an empty cardboard container, and we set out a couple strips of “Papel de Gato”,or super-adhesive paper, around the lair. Sure enough, once mama realized her little ones were gone, she bolted, and found herself firmly attached to the goo. Pat managed to extricate her without damage to either of them, put her in the box with the mice-lets, and after dark, carried them a few blocks away to a field and left the open box hidden in some high grass. A couple hours later the papa mouse showed up, frantically looking for his family. We couldn’t catch him, but hopefully he’ll track them to their new digs for a joyful reunion. Of course we never would have had a mouse problem if I’d followed Reyna’s advice. I was over at her place a while back and noticed the stove was facing a different direction. When I asked about it, she said, “Well you have to rotate your stove and fridge every few weeks to confuse the mice. Then they won’t stay in your house.” If only I’d listened…
The blog'll be back in the fall! Have a great summer and thanks for reading.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Crash
For over two years we’ve been riding our bikes through the streets of Rivas. We learned early on that it very important to stay alert during these excursions, mainly because no one else is. We watch as cars routinely screech to a halt in the middle of the road, either so the driver can chat with a nearby pedestrian, or so a passenger can disembark if the vehicle happens to be a taxi. We’ve observed motorcycles carving swathes through the traffic, slicing between cars both stationary and in motion, and seen any number of clipped bumpers and whacked side mirrors. This on occasion results in a shout or a honk, but on the whole, passes unpunished. Other bicyclists seem to believe that from the moment they assume the saddle, they are given supernatural powers, including invisibility, hyperspeed, and a sort of impenetrable force field off of which other, larger vehicles will helplessly bounce. The riders, however, maintain an iota of doubt in said powers, resulting in frequent sudden braking, abrupt swerving, and a fair amount of fist shaking after disappearing bumpers. In any case, we have learned to both take some necessary risks required to actually get anywhere, while remaining cautious and very aware. But you can’t account for everything, and a few days ago, I met the unexpected. A taxi had just pulled into a line up of taxis, parked under some trees for their lunchtime snooze. I managed to avoid his sudden maneuver into the spot, but when his door flew open, I had no choice but to meet it head on. I flew! Just for a second, before the ground rose up and slammed me in the chin. Moment of blackness, then pain and confusion and blood. A lot of blood. From my chin, which Pat took one look at, blanched, and said, “Oh shit.” Not exactly the words of comfort one hopes to hear while lying on the street surrounded by concerned and curious taxi drivers and a smattering of fruit vendors. “Your chin’s split. It looks deep. Needs stitches. Let’s go.” He handed me a clean handkerchief which I pressed to the wound and he helped me to my feet. The taxi driver was hovering, apologizing, and offered to drive us to the hospital. Around this time I began to notice other bits of me hurt as well. A good sized piece of my inner right knee appeared to have been left on the pavement, along with other bits from other unfortunate appendages. I couldn’t move my jaw very well, although I could talk. I think the first thing I said was, “No hospital! Take us to the new clinic!” Though I expect it sounded more like “NO ostital! Ooh kinik!”
I found I was clutching my still mostly frozen bottle of water, and held it to the various parts that seemed most likely to bruise. This required moving the bottle around a great deal, which was painful in itself, but kept me distracted from my chin and the sodden, no longer white handkerchief jammed there. We arrived at the clinic, recently built by the Sandinistas supposedly to give the poor equal opportunity for healthcare. The emergency room reception girls took one look at me and herded me into the exam room, in spite of some protests from people already waiting. I think I heard them saying, “The Gringita’s bleeding! We’ll be right with you!” And felt guilt at being helped first, relief at being helped first, and touched by being called “Gringita”, a sort of affectionate form of “Gringa”. The nurse made me remove the soggy rag and peered down. She didn’t wince, which I thought a good sign, merely told me in order to clean it effectively she would have to give me a local anesthetic. That hurt as well, but paled in comparison with everything else. Meanwhile, two other nurses were working on my assorted abrasions, covering my knees, elbows, and palms with betadine. Once the anesthetic took effect, I felt the rasping of the gauze as she diligently removed the section of road I carried with me. Once cleaned to her satisfaction, she told me I would need at least three stitches. This may astound some readers, but these are the first non-surgical stitches I’ve ever had. So actually, I was kind of excited about it. She promised to make them very neat so I wouldn’t have much of a scar. I said (tried to say), “Oh good, because I wouldn’t want to give up my dream of being a supermodel.” She smiled at me as one smiles at a particularly retarded dog, one to whom ‘paper-trained’ means putting just one’s front paws on the paper…
It was over quickly. I asked where I should pay and was told there was no charge for emergencies. Something Ortega passed last year, to mixed results. Obviously, in the cases of real emergencies, it is a very good thing. However, as there remain charges of between $10-$20 for regular visits, many people show up at the ER’s for routine checkups or other non-threatening conditions. Depending on how busy they are, the ER’s can decide to treat them, or to send them down the hall to the regular clinic.
The taxi driver was still waiting outside, and after placing my bike in the trunk, drove me home as Pat followed on his bike. He apologized at least 30 times, swearing it was an accident, that he’d just forgotten to look… Once in, I popped a strong pain killer from a stash we’ve been hoarding for just this sort of thing, crawled into the hammock, and began roughly 36 hrs of sleeping, interrupted for cleaning the wounds, eating bits of tasty Pat-prepared morsels, drinking a lot, and trying to chat with the parade of visitors who stopped by as word spread. Now, three days later, I am feeling better. I can move my jaw almost normally, and the lesser bruises have diminished considerably (yea, Arnica!) Only the tennis ball-sized abrasion on my inner right knee still hurts like hell (and looks worse), but even it has begun to heal. The stitches come out next Monday. Pat says it will hurt a lot, but I’m assuming he’s just being horrid. Overall, I just keep thinking how lucky I was, and how much worse it could’ve been…knocked out teeth, broken bones, split head, etc. Really, considering the impact, I got off easy. And although we are always cautious, we’ll step it up a notch from here on in, and hope to avoid any repeats. At least for another two years.
Getting the stitches out was even simpler. I rode a few blocks over to the Buenos Aires Centro de Salud where I was cordially greeted by at least six nurses. I was the only patient, the Swine Flu panic of the last few weeks having subsided once everyone realized no one actually had it. They arranged me on a table, and with a few quick, stinging snips, one of them removed the three bits of thread. Another nurse dabbed on some more betadine, while a third gently applied a fresh bandaid. And once again, when I asked where and what to pay, they all just smiled and shook their heads.
On my 2nd night of recuperation I had a bit of a set back. As we settled in to watch a dvd and get to bed early, Pat came in looking perplexed and told me “They’re setting up a large screen in the basketball court.” The court is approximately 50 feet from our door. This was not a promising development. But we went ahead setting up our own tiny cinema in the hopes that the events across the street would be anything other than what they in fact were: a genuine Evangelist free-for-all. Within twenty minutes the court was partially ringed with huge speakers generally associated with Woodstock-like extravaganzas, and a generic Latino man in a shiny suit and shinier hair was prancing determinedly across a gleaming white stage filled with flowers and backed by luminescent curtains that floated from above like the wings of a thousand angels (getting the picture?) He began calmly enough, addressing both the live and remote audiences (which in the case of Buenos Aires consisted of the three guys who set up the screen and a couple glue-sniffers too stoned to crawl away; did I mention that the court is also part of the Central Park, which is bordered along its entire eastern side by the Catholic church?), but before long his gentle inquiries became demanding rants. He shook his fist, clutched the mike forcefully, and strode faster and faster across the heavenly stage. Before long his voice had grown hoarse, but he was just getting started. By now even the glue-sniffers had managed to roll towards home, while all the other houses surrounding the square had done like we had: closed doors and windows as though preparing for a tornado. It didn’t really help as most houses are built to allow the passage of air between the roof and walls, and actual windows are a luxury few can afford, but at least we all presented a united front of refusal. It didn’t help. The barrage continued for 90 minutes, until any “amor” I once had in my “corazon” had been so battered and abused, all that remained was a cold hard nugget of loathing for whatever inconsiderate bastard had wrought this travesty of noise pollution upon us. Pat and I cowered in the back room, headphones in, volume up to 10 (wishing for the elusive ‘11’), trying to focus on the inanity that made up the movie “State of Play” our local bootlegger had recently sold us. By the time the film reached its far-fetched conclusion, the televangelist too had issued forth his ferocious finale. We were all saved, though from what, I cannot say.
Aside from this, we’ve attended a wedding, which was small and lovely. The groom a bilingual tour guide we’ve know a while; his new bride a beautiful, pregnant, graphic designer. It was both casual and formal, the women dressed to the 9’s, but the tables rented plastic and a shortage of booze.
We also took a trip over to Ometepe Island, where Pat is overseeing a cane ceiling being installed in our friend Cindi’s house. On the way back to the port where we needed to catch the last daily ferry, the accelerator cable in the jeep snapped. Pat tried to fix it, but each time we got just a mile before it gave way again. Finally, he found some steel cable in the back, attached it directly to the accelerator in the motor, and drove the rest of the trip controlling the acceleration by pulling on the cable. In addition to shifting gears and steering, he had his hands full (we tried it with me shifting, but it didn’t quite work out.), but as always, he managed with aplomb. We happened to have three hitchhikers with us at the time; two young American women med-students and their local guide. They photographed the whole thing and were thrilled to have had such a ‘uniquely Nica experience’. I think their favorite part was when we approached the bottom of a steep hill. An old man was just dismounting his bike to begin the long trek to the top. Pat said, “Ask him if he wants a ride up.” I did, and he gave me a big toothless smile, hopped up on the running board grasping the door frame with his left hand while hoisting up his bike in his right. We chugged our way up and stopped to let him off. He grinned some more, bobbed his head a few times, and waved us on our way. “Oh my god, that was like the kindest thing I’ve ever seen!” said Anya. Pat just winked at me and we continued our rush for the ferry.
I found I was clutching my still mostly frozen bottle of water, and held it to the various parts that seemed most likely to bruise. This required moving the bottle around a great deal, which was painful in itself, but kept me distracted from my chin and the sodden, no longer white handkerchief jammed there. We arrived at the clinic, recently built by the Sandinistas supposedly to give the poor equal opportunity for healthcare. The emergency room reception girls took one look at me and herded me into the exam room, in spite of some protests from people already waiting. I think I heard them saying, “The Gringita’s bleeding! We’ll be right with you!” And felt guilt at being helped first, relief at being helped first, and touched by being called “Gringita”, a sort of affectionate form of “Gringa”. The nurse made me remove the soggy rag and peered down. She didn’t wince, which I thought a good sign, merely told me in order to clean it effectively she would have to give me a local anesthetic. That hurt as well, but paled in comparison with everything else. Meanwhile, two other nurses were working on my assorted abrasions, covering my knees, elbows, and palms with betadine. Once the anesthetic took effect, I felt the rasping of the gauze as she diligently removed the section of road I carried with me. Once cleaned to her satisfaction, she told me I would need at least three stitches. This may astound some readers, but these are the first non-surgical stitches I’ve ever had. So actually, I was kind of excited about it. She promised to make them very neat so I wouldn’t have much of a scar. I said (tried to say), “Oh good, because I wouldn’t want to give up my dream of being a supermodel.” She smiled at me as one smiles at a particularly retarded dog, one to whom ‘paper-trained’ means putting just one’s front paws on the paper…
It was over quickly. I asked where I should pay and was told there was no charge for emergencies. Something Ortega passed last year, to mixed results. Obviously, in the cases of real emergencies, it is a very good thing. However, as there remain charges of between $10-$20 for regular visits, many people show up at the ER’s for routine checkups or other non-threatening conditions. Depending on how busy they are, the ER’s can decide to treat them, or to send them down the hall to the regular clinic.
The taxi driver was still waiting outside, and after placing my bike in the trunk, drove me home as Pat followed on his bike. He apologized at least 30 times, swearing it was an accident, that he’d just forgotten to look… Once in, I popped a strong pain killer from a stash we’ve been hoarding for just this sort of thing, crawled into the hammock, and began roughly 36 hrs of sleeping, interrupted for cleaning the wounds, eating bits of tasty Pat-prepared morsels, drinking a lot, and trying to chat with the parade of visitors who stopped by as word spread. Now, three days later, I am feeling better. I can move my jaw almost normally, and the lesser bruises have diminished considerably (yea, Arnica!) Only the tennis ball-sized abrasion on my inner right knee still hurts like hell (and looks worse), but even it has begun to heal. The stitches come out next Monday. Pat says it will hurt a lot, but I’m assuming he’s just being horrid. Overall, I just keep thinking how lucky I was, and how much worse it could’ve been…knocked out teeth, broken bones, split head, etc. Really, considering the impact, I got off easy. And although we are always cautious, we’ll step it up a notch from here on in, and hope to avoid any repeats. At least for another two years.
Getting the stitches out was even simpler. I rode a few blocks over to the Buenos Aires Centro de Salud where I was cordially greeted by at least six nurses. I was the only patient, the Swine Flu panic of the last few weeks having subsided once everyone realized no one actually had it. They arranged me on a table, and with a few quick, stinging snips, one of them removed the three bits of thread. Another nurse dabbed on some more betadine, while a third gently applied a fresh bandaid. And once again, when I asked where and what to pay, they all just smiled and shook their heads.
On my 2nd night of recuperation I had a bit of a set back. As we settled in to watch a dvd and get to bed early, Pat came in looking perplexed and told me “They’re setting up a large screen in the basketball court.” The court is approximately 50 feet from our door. This was not a promising development. But we went ahead setting up our own tiny cinema in the hopes that the events across the street would be anything other than what they in fact were: a genuine Evangelist free-for-all. Within twenty minutes the court was partially ringed with huge speakers generally associated with Woodstock-like extravaganzas, and a generic Latino man in a shiny suit and shinier hair was prancing determinedly across a gleaming white stage filled with flowers and backed by luminescent curtains that floated from above like the wings of a thousand angels (getting the picture?) He began calmly enough, addressing both the live and remote audiences (which in the case of Buenos Aires consisted of the three guys who set up the screen and a couple glue-sniffers too stoned to crawl away; did I mention that the court is also part of the Central Park, which is bordered along its entire eastern side by the Catholic church?), but before long his gentle inquiries became demanding rants. He shook his fist, clutched the mike forcefully, and strode faster and faster across the heavenly stage. Before long his voice had grown hoarse, but he was just getting started. By now even the glue-sniffers had managed to roll towards home, while all the other houses surrounding the square had done like we had: closed doors and windows as though preparing for a tornado. It didn’t really help as most houses are built to allow the passage of air between the roof and walls, and actual windows are a luxury few can afford, but at least we all presented a united front of refusal. It didn’t help. The barrage continued for 90 minutes, until any “amor” I once had in my “corazon” had been so battered and abused, all that remained was a cold hard nugget of loathing for whatever inconsiderate bastard had wrought this travesty of noise pollution upon us. Pat and I cowered in the back room, headphones in, volume up to 10 (wishing for the elusive ‘11’), trying to focus on the inanity that made up the movie “State of Play” our local bootlegger had recently sold us. By the time the film reached its far-fetched conclusion, the televangelist too had issued forth his ferocious finale. We were all saved, though from what, I cannot say.
Aside from this, we’ve attended a wedding, which was small and lovely. The groom a bilingual tour guide we’ve know a while; his new bride a beautiful, pregnant, graphic designer. It was both casual and formal, the women dressed to the 9’s, but the tables rented plastic and a shortage of booze.
We also took a trip over to Ometepe Island, where Pat is overseeing a cane ceiling being installed in our friend Cindi’s house. On the way back to the port where we needed to catch the last daily ferry, the accelerator cable in the jeep snapped. Pat tried to fix it, but each time we got just a mile before it gave way again. Finally, he found some steel cable in the back, attached it directly to the accelerator in the motor, and drove the rest of the trip controlling the acceleration by pulling on the cable. In addition to shifting gears and steering, he had his hands full (we tried it with me shifting, but it didn’t quite work out.), but as always, he managed with aplomb. We happened to have three hitchhikers with us at the time; two young American women med-students and their local guide. They photographed the whole thing and were thrilled to have had such a ‘uniquely Nica experience’. I think their favorite part was when we approached the bottom of a steep hill. An old man was just dismounting his bike to begin the long trek to the top. Pat said, “Ask him if he wants a ride up.” I did, and he gave me a big toothless smile, hopped up on the running board grasping the door frame with his left hand while hoisting up his bike in his right. We chugged our way up and stopped to let him off. He grinned some more, bobbed his head a few times, and waved us on our way. “Oh my god, that was like the kindest thing I’ve ever seen!” said Anya. Pat just winked at me and we continued our rush for the ferry.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Crime and...?
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….”
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….”
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!
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