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.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Feliz Año Nuevo!
Happy 2009!
I had planned to have two blogs done by now, but life interfered so you’ll have to bear with me as I catch up on the last few weeks. I’ll tackle it chronologically, going on the pictures to refresh my memory.
Back in mid-December, I was invited to attend a celebration of literacy here in Buenos Aires. It was to mark the culmination in a four-year campaign to eradicate ‘analfabetismo’ (literally, ‘without alphabet’) throughout the district. According to the statistics touted in several of the speeches made, it was a successful drive, resulting in 93% literacy. The festivities kicked off with the arrival of the ‘torch of literacy’, supposedly carried on foot from town to town, complete with a police escort. The mayor, vice mayor/mayor elect, and a dozen other people from as near as Rivas and as far as Cuba (where the original campaign, “¡Si, yo puedo!” “Yes, I can!” was conceived) were in attendance. The orations were broken up by a traditional Nicaraguan dance performed by two adorable local girls, swirling about the stage in billowing white skirts, and the unfurling of a huge banner lauding Buenos Aires for its success. Although I was very happy to know such things were afoot, I felt a bit skeptical that only 7% of my friends and neighbors remained in the darkness of illiteracy, remembering the intake process at a free vision check clinic I helped register people for a couple years ago. One of the questions asked clients if they could read, and I am fairly certain, particularly out in Tolasmaydas, that the number was just a wee bit (25%+/-) higher…
Soon afterwards, Nicaragua embraced the holiday season, including colorful lights on many houses and businesses, and even Santa making an appearance in the town square. On the same day we spotted St. Nick bouncing bairns in his red velvet suit, just across the park another ‘santa’, Santa Guadalupe—aka The Virgin of Guadalupe-- was also having her day. As the patron saint of Mexico, her likeness adorns everything from taxi cabs to birthday cakes up there. Here, she has less of a following, but Nicaraguans are generous in their embrace of all things Catholic and colorful, and so they dressed up their children in brilliant traditional outfits and had them photographed in front of life-sized portraits of the Virgin, often while sitting astride tiny wooden horses.
Pat responded to excited voices out the back door the other morning, arriving to find Sergio, the caretaker, jumping about waving a rake and pointing into the storage shed. “Hay un serpiente muy grande!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with the rake. Pat went into the shed where he found a young boa, maybe four feet long, cut nearly in half and writhing in pain. He pulled it out with the rake, then reached down and grabbed it behind the head, holding it up for me to see. I snapped a quick picture before he ended its misery with a well-placed machete blow, then translated for him as he patiently explained to Sergio that these sorts (and sizes) of boas are no danger to humans, and are in fact an important part of the ecosystem, playing a necessary role in keeping down the rodent population. Sergio nodded his head, absorbing the lecture. Several days later, Dennis told us that Sergio had killed a second, smaller snake that had the misfortune to cross his path while he was watering the tomatoes. A beautifully constructed wasps’ nest met a similar fate, in spite of the three weeks’ labor that went into its creation. A few minutes on google informed us that these were a species of miniature wasps, that, in addition to being stingless, also perform useful tasks in the ecosystem, and should, given the choice, be left alone. But we learned very quickly down here that Nicaraguans approach nature with a “kill it first, eat or ignore it later” policy that extends to everything from caterpillars to iguanas and even ground squirrels. Pat & I have tried to prevent the slaughter of innocent beasties out at our place, explaining to the local kids that it’s not an altogether bad thing to live and let live. This is generally met witheye rolling and sniggering, and a sagacity beyond their years, implying that we will change our tune when some of these same beasties start preying on us.
We are moving ahead on our house, completing the water storage tank, which means all that stands between us and running water is something to run it into, such as a toilet or sink. In the meantime, we drove up to the outskirts of Granada where we picked up 43 bundles of 24 cane rods that will eventually become our ceiling. First it’s painted with a lovely mixture of insecticide and diesel to protect it from some of the above-mentioned beasties. This takes a few days to soak in and the fumes to evaporate, at which time it is suspended from the ceiling using 2x2’s, then a clear varnish is sprayed on as a final protective coat. It should look pretty cool, and as we have low ceilings, will ideally make the place feel more open.
Christmas finally arrived, although it was a bit of a non-event. Christmas Eve is the real celebration, with families and friends gathering for extended dinners and parties lasting into the wee hours when Midnight Masses are attended. We joined a herd of other ex-pats and a handful of Nicas for a delicious potluck meal, after which we piled into Edwin’s truck and headed back to Buenos Aires to listen to a troupe of locals dressed up like extras from The Last Temptation of Christ and singing what I assume were Christmas songs but sung so off-key our ears bled. Giving thanks for being so late we missed most of the performance, we returned to Edwin’s house, set up plastic chairs in the street, and sat around for an hour or so then went home to bed. Christmas day itself was like any other Sunday, and it passed us by without making a sound.
And then came the wedding! Scott, a good friend of ours formerly from L.A., now of Gig Harbor, WA, who has spent the last six or seven summers up in Homer, first at Coal Point, then as a kayak guide for True North, and his new bride Amanda, spent a few weeks in Nicaragua a couple years back and so loved it they decided to hold their wedding here. They chose a lovely spot called Selva Negra, which those of you who have read along for a while will remember as the German-Nica run coffee plantation we visited last fall. It boasts a lovely little chapel ideal for small weddings, and with an impressive 23 guests down from the US, it was perfect. Most of the attendees were from Amanda’s large Chinese-American family, and came together from L.A. Scott’s parents made the trek from New Hampshire, and along with two other couples, us, and his good friend Scott who also spends his summers toiling at Coal Point in Homer, comprised his side of the aisle. It was a beautiful wedding, drawing on an assortment of traditions from the Christian church to Native American to ancient Celtic. I believe there was a bit of the I Ching in there as well, plus a love song performed by a local Nica woman, and a Scottish ballad about herring performed by Pat. (Since we all met through fish, it seemed oddly appropriate.)
There was a 10-member marimba band at the reception, including drums, guitars, and assorted percussion instruments. Their repertoire ran from local classics, well-known Mexican numbers, and a somewhat disturbing version of “My Way”. Although the wedding had been moved from 4pm to 10:30am, everyone was more than ready to shake their respective tail feathers, grateful for the cooler air found at 4000 feet. We spent a couple days up there, getting to know the families and having a really relaxing time. And for once, rather than driving ourselves (although I am very happy to report that the jeep is up and running again, good as new), we traveled by chicken bus for most of the trip, other than joining the wedding party in Granada for the leg up to Selva Negra in a comfy air conditioned mini-bus. In spite of the name, the only live chickens we actually saw were in the back of Edwin’s truck on the way down from Managua…
We were in Managua for a day, running about looking for extractor fans for our house, and then for ventilation ducting for our friends’ new hot water heater out on Ometepe Island. We had more luck with our quest, finding a place to fabricate what we need. The ducting, however, was non-existent, something which Brian did not want to believe until he had no choice…when the salesman in the shop selling other hot water heaters that require ducting admitted they not only didn’t sell it, he had no idea where to find it, and perhaps it would be best to get someone local to fabricate it…which is just what Edwin and Pat told him at the outset, and which Edwin will now do….
Finally, New Year’s Eve. The noisiest night of the year bar none, a sort of melding of the 4th of July, Guy Fawkes Day, and our own version of Dec. 31st. The bombas (small exploding rockets) start early and go late, as people gather with friends and family to eat, drink, dance, and kill time until the clock strikes 12. At this point even more flying exploding things are lit and flung, and effigies of “El Viejo”, the old man representing the past year made by stuffing old clothes with paper and fireworks, is set alight and the new year is formerly welcomed as he lays burning and popping in the street. We’d bought a couple bottles of cheap champagne in Managua, and delighted everyone (we spent the evening at Edwin’s with his family and friends) by pouring cups and having a joyous toast. One of the teens had never seen it before, and asked his mom what it was. “It’s a kind of fancy cane alcohol,” she replied. We celebrated till 2, then wobbled home to face what we hope will be an entertaining and rewarding 2009.
All the best!
I had planned to have two blogs done by now, but life interfered so you’ll have to bear with me as I catch up on the last few weeks. I’ll tackle it chronologically, going on the pictures to refresh my memory.
Back in mid-December, I was invited to attend a celebration of literacy here in Buenos Aires. It was to mark the culmination in a four-year campaign to eradicate ‘analfabetismo’ (literally, ‘without alphabet’) throughout the district. According to the statistics touted in several of the speeches made, it was a successful drive, resulting in 93% literacy. The festivities kicked off with the arrival of the ‘torch of literacy’, supposedly carried on foot from town to town, complete with a police escort. The mayor, vice mayor/mayor elect, and a dozen other people from as near as Rivas and as far as Cuba (where the original campaign, “¡Si, yo puedo!” “Yes, I can!” was conceived) were in attendance. The orations were broken up by a traditional Nicaraguan dance performed by two adorable local girls, swirling about the stage in billowing white skirts, and the unfurling of a huge banner lauding Buenos Aires for its success. Although I was very happy to know such things were afoot, I felt a bit skeptical that only 7% of my friends and neighbors remained in the darkness of illiteracy, remembering the intake process at a free vision check clinic I helped register people for a couple years ago. One of the questions asked clients if they could read, and I am fairly certain, particularly out in Tolasmaydas, that the number was just a wee bit (25%+/-) higher…
Soon afterwards, Nicaragua embraced the holiday season, including colorful lights on many houses and businesses, and even Santa making an appearance in the town square. On the same day we spotted St. Nick bouncing bairns in his red velvet suit, just across the park another ‘santa’, Santa Guadalupe—aka The Virgin of Guadalupe-- was also having her day. As the patron saint of Mexico, her likeness adorns everything from taxi cabs to birthday cakes up there. Here, she has less of a following, but Nicaraguans are generous in their embrace of all things Catholic and colorful, and so they dressed up their children in brilliant traditional outfits and had them photographed in front of life-sized portraits of the Virgin, often while sitting astride tiny wooden horses.
Pat responded to excited voices out the back door the other morning, arriving to find Sergio, the caretaker, jumping about waving a rake and pointing into the storage shed. “Hay un serpiente muy grande!” he shouted, gesturing wildly with the rake. Pat went into the shed where he found a young boa, maybe four feet long, cut nearly in half and writhing in pain. He pulled it out with the rake, then reached down and grabbed it behind the head, holding it up for me to see. I snapped a quick picture before he ended its misery with a well-placed machete blow, then translated for him as he patiently explained to Sergio that these sorts (and sizes) of boas are no danger to humans, and are in fact an important part of the ecosystem, playing a necessary role in keeping down the rodent population. Sergio nodded his head, absorbing the lecture. Several days later, Dennis told us that Sergio had killed a second, smaller snake that had the misfortune to cross his path while he was watering the tomatoes. A beautifully constructed wasps’ nest met a similar fate, in spite of the three weeks’ labor that went into its creation. A few minutes on google informed us that these were a species of miniature wasps, that, in addition to being stingless, also perform useful tasks in the ecosystem, and should, given the choice, be left alone. But we learned very quickly down here that Nicaraguans approach nature with a “kill it first, eat or ignore it later” policy that extends to everything from caterpillars to iguanas and even ground squirrels. Pat & I have tried to prevent the slaughter of innocent beasties out at our place, explaining to the local kids that it’s not an altogether bad thing to live and let live. This is generally met witheye rolling and sniggering, and a sagacity beyond their years, implying that we will change our tune when some of these same beasties start preying on us.
We are moving ahead on our house, completing the water storage tank, which means all that stands between us and running water is something to run it into, such as a toilet or sink. In the meantime, we drove up to the outskirts of Granada where we picked up 43 bundles of 24 cane rods that will eventually become our ceiling. First it’s painted with a lovely mixture of insecticide and diesel to protect it from some of the above-mentioned beasties. This takes a few days to soak in and the fumes to evaporate, at which time it is suspended from the ceiling using 2x2’s, then a clear varnish is sprayed on as a final protective coat. It should look pretty cool, and as we have low ceilings, will ideally make the place feel more open.
Christmas finally arrived, although it was a bit of a non-event. Christmas Eve is the real celebration, with families and friends gathering for extended dinners and parties lasting into the wee hours when Midnight Masses are attended. We joined a herd of other ex-pats and a handful of Nicas for a delicious potluck meal, after which we piled into Edwin’s truck and headed back to Buenos Aires to listen to a troupe of locals dressed up like extras from The Last Temptation of Christ and singing what I assume were Christmas songs but sung so off-key our ears bled. Giving thanks for being so late we missed most of the performance, we returned to Edwin’s house, set up plastic chairs in the street, and sat around for an hour or so then went home to bed. Christmas day itself was like any other Sunday, and it passed us by without making a sound.
And then came the wedding! Scott, a good friend of ours formerly from L.A., now of Gig Harbor, WA, who has spent the last six or seven summers up in Homer, first at Coal Point, then as a kayak guide for True North, and his new bride Amanda, spent a few weeks in Nicaragua a couple years back and so loved it they decided to hold their wedding here. They chose a lovely spot called Selva Negra, which those of you who have read along for a while will remember as the German-Nica run coffee plantation we visited last fall. It boasts a lovely little chapel ideal for small weddings, and with an impressive 23 guests down from the US, it was perfect. Most of the attendees were from Amanda’s large Chinese-American family, and came together from L.A. Scott’s parents made the trek from New Hampshire, and along with two other couples, us, and his good friend Scott who also spends his summers toiling at Coal Point in Homer, comprised his side of the aisle. It was a beautiful wedding, drawing on an assortment of traditions from the Christian church to Native American to ancient Celtic. I believe there was a bit of the I Ching in there as well, plus a love song performed by a local Nica woman, and a Scottish ballad about herring performed by Pat. (Since we all met through fish, it seemed oddly appropriate.)
There was a 10-member marimba band at the reception, including drums, guitars, and assorted percussion instruments. Their repertoire ran from local classics, well-known Mexican numbers, and a somewhat disturbing version of “My Way”. Although the wedding had been moved from 4pm to 10:30am, everyone was more than ready to shake their respective tail feathers, grateful for the cooler air found at 4000 feet. We spent a couple days up there, getting to know the families and having a really relaxing time. And for once, rather than driving ourselves (although I am very happy to report that the jeep is up and running again, good as new), we traveled by chicken bus for most of the trip, other than joining the wedding party in Granada for the leg up to Selva Negra in a comfy air conditioned mini-bus. In spite of the name, the only live chickens we actually saw were in the back of Edwin’s truck on the way down from Managua…
We were in Managua for a day, running about looking for extractor fans for our house, and then for ventilation ducting for our friends’ new hot water heater out on Ometepe Island. We had more luck with our quest, finding a place to fabricate what we need. The ducting, however, was non-existent, something which Brian did not want to believe until he had no choice…when the salesman in the shop selling other hot water heaters that require ducting admitted they not only didn’t sell it, he had no idea where to find it, and perhaps it would be best to get someone local to fabricate it…which is just what Edwin and Pat told him at the outset, and which Edwin will now do….
Finally, New Year’s Eve. The noisiest night of the year bar none, a sort of melding of the 4th of July, Guy Fawkes Day, and our own version of Dec. 31st. The bombas (small exploding rockets) start early and go late, as people gather with friends and family to eat, drink, dance, and kill time until the clock strikes 12. At this point even more flying exploding things are lit and flung, and effigies of “El Viejo”, the old man representing the past year made by stuffing old clothes with paper and fireworks, is set alight and the new year is formerly welcomed as he lays burning and popping in the street. We’d bought a couple bottles of cheap champagne in Managua, and delighted everyone (we spent the evening at Edwin’s with his family and friends) by pouring cups and having a joyous toast. One of the teens had never seen it before, and asked his mom what it was. “It’s a kind of fancy cane alcohol,” she replied. We celebrated till 2, then wobbled home to face what we hope will be an entertaining and rewarding 2009.
All the best!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Hail Mary, Bringer of Joy
The rains have, by and large, receded, save for last Sunday when it managed to pour from 5am until after midnight, a “farmer’s rain” they say, steady, accompanied by flashes of lightening and frequent losses of power. Now the powerful eastern winds are back, cooling us down, forcibly driving the rampant humidity of last week towards the Pacific coast (where it belongs; the surfers are less likely to notice.)
The last couple weeks have been hectic, as much from running about getting things accomplished as from a generous helping of socializing, involving locals, ex-pats, and visitors alike. The first fete was held over on Ometepe Island, a combination birthday party and housewarming for our friends Cindi and Brian, who generally live in New Mexico, but plan to spend as much time as they can down here. Edwin has nearly completed the house, designed by Brian with its location and their needs firmly in mind. With the lake higher than it has been in recorded history, her property seems somewhat foreshortened from when we saw it last spring, but the sight of the water lapping up through the trees is lovely, and they have far less distance to travel for a swim.
Over a dozen ‘extranjeros’ showed up, plus Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, for a lively afternoon of conversation, food and drink. As Cindi was still ill-equipped to cook for so many, we formed a wobbly column and marched the mile or so up and around to a rustic little lakeside restaurant where we happily gnawed on tender chicken and succulent tilapia as the air filled with thousands of fireflies and the Cumbia throbbed deep into our bellies. We then headed off to various beds, with none so lovely as those at La Omaja, a mini-resort with seven individual bungalows, each with its own hot shower, a luxury for many locals.
It was during the meal that we met Dennis and Julie, a couple from the Seattle area (Bellingham and North Bend respectively) who recently bought some land south of San Juan del Sur (on the Pacific coast). They had ten days or so to get to know the area better, and start thinking about what sort of house they might eventually build. A week or so later, they called us and we arranged to take them up to see our friend Fred’s place (mentioned here and there over the course of this blog) on the edge of the Laguna de Apoyo, a deep and beautiful crater lake, also home to the Belgian Vortex with whom Pat and I stayed (and labored for) last spring. Fred welcomed the company, giving them the full tour, complete with detailed explanations of his water storage system, a necessity in this part of the country renowned for shortages. He constructed his house so that it sits above several huge storage tanks, fed by rain water during the wet season, and able to hold enough to support him, his wife, her cousin, and assorted guests, for at least six months (or until the next rainy season). San Juan del Sur and its environs are also plagued by water deficits for much of the year, and as ecologically-oriented types, Dennis and Julie are planning to build as responsibly and practically as they can.
The day after our return from the Isla, we were invited to accompany Edwin’s family to a victory party being held by the current Buenos Aires mayor, in honor of her newly elected replacement. Both are fervent members of the FSLN, aka the Sandinistas, whose party swept many of the recent municipal elections throughout the country. Some of you may have followed the aftermath on the news, but please let me reassure you that most of what you saw or read in the US media was complete and utter rubbish. There were some incidents in a few Managua barrios involving the throwing of rocks and the immolation of one or two unfortunate vehicles, but upon investigation these turned out to be staged events, perpetrated by the PLC, the party that ended up with considerably fewer votes than expected. That this was likely the result of fraud on the part of the FSLN might explain their actions, but nothing short of a secondary election, closely monitored by an international board of observers, will ever prove it.
At any rate, on this particular Sunday, several hundred of Buenos Aires’ prominent citizens assembled on the spacious lawn of the mayor’s lakeside estate to listen patiently to endless victory speeches, knowing said patience would soon be rewarded when the countless cases of Flor de Caña were breached and the rum (the smooth, golden 7 year) began to flow. There was food as well, thank god, in the form of beef stew and chewy fried tacos. It wasn’t long before the patio-cum-dance floor was churning with wriggling bums and giggling children, and we passed the afternoon in a pleasant haze of schmoozing, boozing, and people-watching. We have known the mayor-elect, Valdivion, since we arrived, and have always been on good terms with him. So in spite of any doubts we harbor about the future of Nicaragua under Ortega’s questionable leadership, the fate of Buenos Aires appears to be in reasonably good hands.
A few days later we were invited over to Edwin's aunt Paola's place to celebrate her son, Josue's, high school graduation. The local mariachi boys were there, 'giving it loudy' as Pat would say, and keeping everyone hopping in the small, overheated living room. It was sort of a double celebration, as Josue will be one of our Sprout students, without which help he wouldn't be continuing his education. A very bright kid, he's won a partial scholarship as well, and will be fulfilling his service to Sprout by serving as my office assistant. (More Sprout news soon to come.)
As for the house, Daniel (our worker) has completed the enclosure of the formerly open space between the roof beams and the top of the walls, and has begun construction of the building that will contain the water tank (450 gal.) and storage for tools, etc. Once that’s done, and he and Pat have sorted out the twisted web of pipes that were in place when we bought the house, we should have actual water running directly into the house. I realize this may not seem like cause for celebration to the majority of you reading this, but I gotta tell you, after living without indoor plumbing for over 10 years in Homer, it’s nothing short of a goddam miracle to me. Viva Nicaragua!
We are back to relying on our own pedal-power for getting around; Pat and the jeep had an unfortunate accident a couple weeks back. The cause is unclear, although Edwin’s cousin Donald, who had been doing some work on it involving the drive shaft, suggested that Pat may have hit a pothole (it was dark) which caused the temporarily connected shaft to shift, forcing the wheel hard to the left, and causing the jeep to partially slam into a fence post, blowing out the front right tire, which in turn knocked it off balance enough that it rolled over, ending up on its side in the midst of a field of young plantains. Through luck, karma, or divine intervention (there has been much talk here about Pat’s guardian angel and how hard he works), Pat walked away with nothing more than a few bruised ribs and a wee gash on his right temple. The jeep, sadly, did not fare quite so well. We’re awaiting an estimate from Edwin's mechanic cousin Donald as to the repairs, and then will decide how or if to proceed. Edwin had been driving behind Pat at the time, and so was there to help him home, and the next day arranged to have the jeep towed to his place (by a tractor), and paid off the field owner for damages to his fence: $5. Apparently all these months of waving to every guard in the fields paid off, and Pat was deemed a ‘local’ rather than a rich gringo, and therefore spared the sort of extortionate behavior often enacted upon the latter. So we’re back to the bikes, not altogether a bad thing most of the time.
You might notice a few more typos than usual in this blog, the result of trying to write amidst the jubilant celebrations of the Novena going on all around us. On the 7th of December, Nicaragua celebrated Purisima, apparently the day of the Immaculate Conception. The nine days leading up to the 7th are filled with parades of Virgin-hauling devotees, trailing flatbeds festooned with blue and white ribbons and balloons, slowly making their way from one temporarily constructed shrine to another. Once there, the masses take turns singing special Virgin-worshipping songs and responding to the query “Who is the cause of our happiness?” (ans: The Virgin Mary!!) in return for handouts of fruit, sugar cane, and if they are very lucky, a few coins. One of these shrines has traditionally been erected just outside the gates of this house we’re staying in, and so it was again this year after representatives of the local Catholic Church stopped by for permission. By four in the afternoon, no less than 250 people, mainly women and children, had gathered outside the gates, patiently awaiting their turn to croon at the Virgin’s freshly painted feet. To my mind, this particular Virgin bore more than a passing likeness to Jacqlyn Smith, formerly of Charlie’s Angels, but this did not seem to deter the crowd. The next day Pat, Edwin and I were on our way home from Rivas when we were forced to pull over and wait the passing of one of the Virgin-in-Motion trucks and its trail of adorers. I asked Edwin why the Nicaraguan police and the Virgin used the same color: light blue. He grinned and replied, “It’s because both of them routinely hit you with fines.”
Rosita, Edwin’s older daughter, joined thousands of other little girls across Nicaragua the morning of the 8th to receive her first communion. Dressed in miles of white satin and tulle, festooned with plastic seed pearls, hair curled and looped and ringed with tiaras of white flowers, the tiny bride-lets drifted up the church aisle, clutching candles and giggling nervously, until they reached the priest, took the sacrament, and wafted back to their seats. Later in the evening, Edwin & Reyna hosted a fiesta in honor of Purisima and Rosita’s latest ascension up the R.C. ladder. There was much rum involved, though whether to comfort the believers or convert the skeptics, I cannot say.
Pat actually had an ecclesiastical moment of sorts over on the island, when riding in the back of Grant’s pickup truck. A dog was running along side, and then as we slowed, passed us. Pat’s eyes grew wide and he said, “Holy shit! That dog’s ass has the face of Jesus!” We all looked, but by then the dog had swerved off into a field, lost among the pungent tobacco leaves. Pat's first thought was to alert the media, but we quickly realized that perhaps it was something best kept to ourselves. After all, thousands of pilgrims making their way to a small Nicaraguan island to worship a dog’s bum was sure to end badly, at least for the dog.
Finally, on a sad note, I must report the passing of El Cid. Poor little bugger fought for his life, assisted by daily shots of vitamins and antibiotics, but in the end, his tiny lungs weren’t strong enough to sustain him and he elected to chase dust bunnies in heaven. (Just let me believe that, ok?) His absence was particularly hard the first days after our return from Scotland as a new kitten had appeared on the scene: Cali. She was a gift to Carolyn, the owner of this house, from friends in Managua, and she at first appeared to be a sort of ‘anti-Cid’: well-fed, well cared for, round, soft, fluffy, guileless. We resented her immensely. For about 12 hours. At which point we rationalized that Cid’s death couldn’t really be pinned on her, and that he would have wanted us to share our pent up kitty love, right? And so, as tends to happen when one admits one pound balls of fluff into one’s heart, she has us besotted. All the kitten, none of the responsibility—it’s a pretty good deal. We’re like godparents, I guess, ready to assume full care for her should the need arise. And yes, we will be ready.
The last couple weeks have been hectic, as much from running about getting things accomplished as from a generous helping of socializing, involving locals, ex-pats, and visitors alike. The first fete was held over on Ometepe Island, a combination birthday party and housewarming for our friends Cindi and Brian, who generally live in New Mexico, but plan to spend as much time as they can down here. Edwin has nearly completed the house, designed by Brian with its location and their needs firmly in mind. With the lake higher than it has been in recorded history, her property seems somewhat foreshortened from when we saw it last spring, but the sight of the water lapping up through the trees is lovely, and they have far less distance to travel for a swim.
Over a dozen ‘extranjeros’ showed up, plus Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, for a lively afternoon of conversation, food and drink. As Cindi was still ill-equipped to cook for so many, we formed a wobbly column and marched the mile or so up and around to a rustic little lakeside restaurant where we happily gnawed on tender chicken and succulent tilapia as the air filled with thousands of fireflies and the Cumbia throbbed deep into our bellies. We then headed off to various beds, with none so lovely as those at La Omaja, a mini-resort with seven individual bungalows, each with its own hot shower, a luxury for many locals.
It was during the meal that we met Dennis and Julie, a couple from the Seattle area (Bellingham and North Bend respectively) who recently bought some land south of San Juan del Sur (on the Pacific coast). They had ten days or so to get to know the area better, and start thinking about what sort of house they might eventually build. A week or so later, they called us and we arranged to take them up to see our friend Fred’s place (mentioned here and there over the course of this blog) on the edge of the Laguna de Apoyo, a deep and beautiful crater lake, also home to the Belgian Vortex with whom Pat and I stayed (and labored for) last spring. Fred welcomed the company, giving them the full tour, complete with detailed explanations of his water storage system, a necessity in this part of the country renowned for shortages. He constructed his house so that it sits above several huge storage tanks, fed by rain water during the wet season, and able to hold enough to support him, his wife, her cousin, and assorted guests, for at least six months (or until the next rainy season). San Juan del Sur and its environs are also plagued by water deficits for much of the year, and as ecologically-oriented types, Dennis and Julie are planning to build as responsibly and practically as they can.
The day after our return from the Isla, we were invited to accompany Edwin’s family to a victory party being held by the current Buenos Aires mayor, in honor of her newly elected replacement. Both are fervent members of the FSLN, aka the Sandinistas, whose party swept many of the recent municipal elections throughout the country. Some of you may have followed the aftermath on the news, but please let me reassure you that most of what you saw or read in the US media was complete and utter rubbish. There were some incidents in a few Managua barrios involving the throwing of rocks and the immolation of one or two unfortunate vehicles, but upon investigation these turned out to be staged events, perpetrated by the PLC, the party that ended up with considerably fewer votes than expected. That this was likely the result of fraud on the part of the FSLN might explain their actions, but nothing short of a secondary election, closely monitored by an international board of observers, will ever prove it.
At any rate, on this particular Sunday, several hundred of Buenos Aires’ prominent citizens assembled on the spacious lawn of the mayor’s lakeside estate to listen patiently to endless victory speeches, knowing said patience would soon be rewarded when the countless cases of Flor de Caña were breached and the rum (the smooth, golden 7 year) began to flow. There was food as well, thank god, in the form of beef stew and chewy fried tacos. It wasn’t long before the patio-cum-dance floor was churning with wriggling bums and giggling children, and we passed the afternoon in a pleasant haze of schmoozing, boozing, and people-watching. We have known the mayor-elect, Valdivion, since we arrived, and have always been on good terms with him. So in spite of any doubts we harbor about the future of Nicaragua under Ortega’s questionable leadership, the fate of Buenos Aires appears to be in reasonably good hands.
A few days later we were invited over to Edwin's aunt Paola's place to celebrate her son, Josue's, high school graduation. The local mariachi boys were there, 'giving it loudy' as Pat would say, and keeping everyone hopping in the small, overheated living room. It was sort of a double celebration, as Josue will be one of our Sprout students, without which help he wouldn't be continuing his education. A very bright kid, he's won a partial scholarship as well, and will be fulfilling his service to Sprout by serving as my office assistant. (More Sprout news soon to come.)
As for the house, Daniel (our worker) has completed the enclosure of the formerly open space between the roof beams and the top of the walls, and has begun construction of the building that will contain the water tank (450 gal.) and storage for tools, etc. Once that’s done, and he and Pat have sorted out the twisted web of pipes that were in place when we bought the house, we should have actual water running directly into the house. I realize this may not seem like cause for celebration to the majority of you reading this, but I gotta tell you, after living without indoor plumbing for over 10 years in Homer, it’s nothing short of a goddam miracle to me. Viva Nicaragua!
We are back to relying on our own pedal-power for getting around; Pat and the jeep had an unfortunate accident a couple weeks back. The cause is unclear, although Edwin’s cousin Donald, who had been doing some work on it involving the drive shaft, suggested that Pat may have hit a pothole (it was dark) which caused the temporarily connected shaft to shift, forcing the wheel hard to the left, and causing the jeep to partially slam into a fence post, blowing out the front right tire, which in turn knocked it off balance enough that it rolled over, ending up on its side in the midst of a field of young plantains. Through luck, karma, or divine intervention (there has been much talk here about Pat’s guardian angel and how hard he works), Pat walked away with nothing more than a few bruised ribs and a wee gash on his right temple. The jeep, sadly, did not fare quite so well. We’re awaiting an estimate from Edwin's mechanic cousin Donald as to the repairs, and then will decide how or if to proceed. Edwin had been driving behind Pat at the time, and so was there to help him home, and the next day arranged to have the jeep towed to his place (by a tractor), and paid off the field owner for damages to his fence: $5. Apparently all these months of waving to every guard in the fields paid off, and Pat was deemed a ‘local’ rather than a rich gringo, and therefore spared the sort of extortionate behavior often enacted upon the latter. So we’re back to the bikes, not altogether a bad thing most of the time.
You might notice a few more typos than usual in this blog, the result of trying to write amidst the jubilant celebrations of the Novena going on all around us. On the 7th of December, Nicaragua celebrated Purisima, apparently the day of the Immaculate Conception. The nine days leading up to the 7th are filled with parades of Virgin-hauling devotees, trailing flatbeds festooned with blue and white ribbons and balloons, slowly making their way from one temporarily constructed shrine to another. Once there, the masses take turns singing special Virgin-worshipping songs and responding to the query “Who is the cause of our happiness?” (ans: The Virgin Mary!!) in return for handouts of fruit, sugar cane, and if they are very lucky, a few coins. One of these shrines has traditionally been erected just outside the gates of this house we’re staying in, and so it was again this year after representatives of the local Catholic Church stopped by for permission. By four in the afternoon, no less than 250 people, mainly women and children, had gathered outside the gates, patiently awaiting their turn to croon at the Virgin’s freshly painted feet. To my mind, this particular Virgin bore more than a passing likeness to Jacqlyn Smith, formerly of Charlie’s Angels, but this did not seem to deter the crowd. The next day Pat, Edwin and I were on our way home from Rivas when we were forced to pull over and wait the passing of one of the Virgin-in-Motion trucks and its trail of adorers. I asked Edwin why the Nicaraguan police and the Virgin used the same color: light blue. He grinned and replied, “It’s because both of them routinely hit you with fines.”
Rosita, Edwin’s older daughter, joined thousands of other little girls across Nicaragua the morning of the 8th to receive her first communion. Dressed in miles of white satin and tulle, festooned with plastic seed pearls, hair curled and looped and ringed with tiaras of white flowers, the tiny bride-lets drifted up the church aisle, clutching candles and giggling nervously, until they reached the priest, took the sacrament, and wafted back to their seats. Later in the evening, Edwin & Reyna hosted a fiesta in honor of Purisima and Rosita’s latest ascension up the R.C. ladder. There was much rum involved, though whether to comfort the believers or convert the skeptics, I cannot say.
Pat actually had an ecclesiastical moment of sorts over on the island, when riding in the back of Grant’s pickup truck. A dog was running along side, and then as we slowed, passed us. Pat’s eyes grew wide and he said, “Holy shit! That dog’s ass has the face of Jesus!” We all looked, but by then the dog had swerved off into a field, lost among the pungent tobacco leaves. Pat's first thought was to alert the media, but we quickly realized that perhaps it was something best kept to ourselves. After all, thousands of pilgrims making their way to a small Nicaraguan island to worship a dog’s bum was sure to end badly, at least for the dog.
Finally, on a sad note, I must report the passing of El Cid. Poor little bugger fought for his life, assisted by daily shots of vitamins and antibiotics, but in the end, his tiny lungs weren’t strong enough to sustain him and he elected to chase dust bunnies in heaven. (Just let me believe that, ok?) His absence was particularly hard the first days after our return from Scotland as a new kitten had appeared on the scene: Cali. She was a gift to Carolyn, the owner of this house, from friends in Managua, and she at first appeared to be a sort of ‘anti-Cid’: well-fed, well cared for, round, soft, fluffy, guileless. We resented her immensely. For about 12 hours. At which point we rationalized that Cid’s death couldn’t really be pinned on her, and that he would have wanted us to share our pent up kitty love, right? And so, as tends to happen when one admits one pound balls of fluff into one’s heart, she has us besotted. All the kitten, none of the responsibility—it’s a pretty good deal. We’re like godparents, I guess, ready to assume full care for her should the need arise. And yes, we will be ready.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Oct. 14, 2008
Oct. 12, 2008
Writing from the comparative luxury of the Managua Best Western, conveniently located directly across the highway from the airport. We’ve avoided it up till now, thanks to Edwin’s family putting us up, but this time decided just to bite the bullet (our room here costs the same as the one in London we should be in a couple days hence…) and fork over the cash. We are intending to get our money’s worth, using the pool, gym, etc. Well, Pat’s happy right here in the room as there is cable and European soccer is on.
On a culinary note, an ex-pat known by the name of Barefoot Jim (he usually is) has moved from San Juan del Sur to Buenos Aires and opened up a tiny restaurant on his porch. He serves 3 things: hamburgers, chorizo sandwiches, and chorizo spaghetti. And he makes a wicked loaf of chocolate banana bread. Everything costs $2, and includes endless ice tea refills (anything more is BYOB, but he’ll supply the mixer). We have been spending a lot of time over there. The place is called Restaurante de Cabra, in honor of Billy, his pet goat. It may be in memory of Billy pretty soon, as even to my untrained eye, Billy is one sorry-lookin’ goat. (But he photographs well.) In addition to his tasty food, Jim is an entertaining raconteur, particularly on the topic of wacked (or just wacky) expats he’s come across over the years. My favorite yarns involve a fellow generally referred to as Crackhead Ken. Seems the guy is on a $2500/mo. pension, most of which goes toward earning his nickname. The cops all know him, including which days his pension checks hit the local bank. Within a few days, they arrest him on one charge or another, and while he’s in the brig, subtly mention how they’re a bit short of gas for the one patrol car, or perhaps that the station needs a new coffee machine…Ken’s out in short order, and the cops get what they need.
The US isn't the only country in the midst of election mania. Down here, it's time for the mayoral race, and every town and city has been plastered with campaign posters, for the most part depicting candidates from the two leading parties: FSLN (the Sandinistas) and PLC (mostly former Sandinistas disgusted with Daniel Ortega and in favor of keeping the US as an ally). Buenos Aires has been host to rallies for both parties, and while I was caught without my camera when the FSLN swarmed the streets, Pat and I were walking home as the PLC mob were just getting started. Every form of transport in town NOT owned by a Sandinista was out in force, often hauling far more passengers than the engineers or designers could ever have imagined. Friends of ours were out in front, and encouraged us to join the parade, but although we too are fed up with Ortega's bullshit, we've decided not to take a political stand publicly...just not worth alienating anyone in this small town. Reyna happily marched, or rode, in both events, claiming that since it really wouldn't make any difference which one won, she may as well have fun circling the town with her friends. In fact, this thinking is far from rare, and there were many people loudly cheering both candidates.
Almost as depressing as a local cop shop is the Rivas Hospital, where a friend of ours, Edwin’s aunt Paola, recently had to undergo surgery. She was told she had a massive tumor in her uterus, and would need a complete hysterectomy, as well as a biopsy of the mass. Once they were inside, however, the docs discovered that the “tumor” was in fact a piece of the placenta from the birth of her son, 16 years earlier. The delivering doctor had missed it, and over the years, it had grown and grown (or things grew around it—not really clear on the details) until reaching its gargantuan proportions. So they cut it out, washed all of her female bits, put them back, and stitched her up; an incision running nearly from hip bone to hip bone. We went to visit her a few times—her son Josue, the one who thoughtlessly left his placenta behind, will be a Sprout student—and I think while I was there I counted at least 20 roaches scurrying about. Josue, who had been sleeping on the floor next to his mum’s bed (in a room with five other patients), told me it was much worse at night once the lights were off. We promptly went out and bought him a foam mattress, figuring at least it would elevate him a few inches above the masses, as well as cushioning the cement tile floor somewhat. Man, there are some seriously devoted sons in this country…
Out at our place, I am very happy to report that the septic tank has been completed. It took the local brick manufacturer four trips, using four different horses to haul what appeared to be the same wobbly wooden cart, to deliver 1120 of the 1200 bricks required—Edwin had to fetch the final 80 in his truck. All that remains now is the water tank, installing a pump in the well, and hooking it all together. Throw in an actual toilet, and oh my god we’ll be ready to flush for the first time in over ten years. Daniel, the young guy working for us, is a treasure. Not only a hard, conscientious worker, but such a sweetie that he’s won over the neighborhood as well. All the kids want to be his helpers, the woman next door will no longer accept money to feed him, and the teenage girls on the block are trying to drag him to an “occult”, aka an Evangelist revival meeting. While we’re away, we’ve arranged for him to stay on in our house and renovate the crumbling remains of another neighbor, Angela’s, house. She’s the mother of Edwin2 and Sofia, and it’s more on their account than hers that we’re bothering. The roof could be cut into small squares and sold for sieves, and while it was originally constructed of brick 22 years ago, most of the mortar has long since departed, resulting in very loose bricks, many of which have the disconcerting habit of flinging themselves to the floor, often narrowly missing a child’s head. The whole project, including Daniel’s wages, should come to less than $2000, and while we don’t really have money to burn these days, this is something we can do.
It is now the planting season, especially this week with the full moon, and everyone we know is out plowing and sowing and so on. Our landlady’s caretaker took it upon himself to organize the planting of about half an acre of red beans, and Theresa, the former manager of the B&B, went out to watch, getting some great pictures of the process. Pat and I have become bean planters as well, or at least bean investors, going halves with some neighbors on the planting of about four acres. The land belongs to the mother, and is overseen by her uncle. If all goes to plan, we *should* see our seed money (ha) doubled by New Year’s, in which case we’ll probably do it again.
Last week, as we were enjoying a burger at Jim’s place, Pat looked down and saw what appeared to be a very large and furry beetle. On closer inspection, it proved to be a very small, very scrawny kitten. Some bastard had singed off his whiskers and some of his facial fur, and he hopped rather than walked, due to unusually long back legs. We put him on the table and watched him eat most of my lunch, punctuated by loud sneezes leaving behind ribbons of greenish snot. We scooped him up and took him to the local vet, recommended by Howard, the guy with the small jungle cats. Vet said, he’s got pneumonia. One or two more days and he’d be dead. He gave him an injection of antibiotics and a tiny crumb of a pill, and sent us home with instructions to continue the shots and pills for five more days. “If he’s still alive by Monday, bring him back.” By Monday, he could have passed for a kitten in a pet store window. Five days of regular feedings and endless affection have resulted in a great little cat. We named him El Cid, and if he remembers us when we get back from Britain, we’re keeping him. (If not, Carolyn, our landlady, will be happy to have him. But I think we made an impression on the little bugger.)
Finally, something you English speakers may not know: "Jesus" (given the Spanish pronunciation of ‘hey-sus’) "es Cheese en Ingles." Sofia and Yancy announced this to us one day, proud of themselves and grinning from ear to ear. "What?" I said. "Que?" "Hey-sus es CHEESE en Ingles!!" they repeated. Then it dawned: to them, our pronunciation of Jesus *does* sound a lot like the word "cheese". But personally, I just kind of like thinking of him as a dairy product...
Writing from the comparative luxury of the Managua Best Western, conveniently located directly across the highway from the airport. We’ve avoided it up till now, thanks to Edwin’s family putting us up, but this time decided just to bite the bullet (our room here costs the same as the one in London we should be in a couple days hence…) and fork over the cash. We are intending to get our money’s worth, using the pool, gym, etc. Well, Pat’s happy right here in the room as there is cable and European soccer is on.
On a culinary note, an ex-pat known by the name of Barefoot Jim (he usually is) has moved from San Juan del Sur to Buenos Aires and opened up a tiny restaurant on his porch. He serves 3 things: hamburgers, chorizo sandwiches, and chorizo spaghetti. And he makes a wicked loaf of chocolate banana bread. Everything costs $2, and includes endless ice tea refills (anything more is BYOB, but he’ll supply the mixer). We have been spending a lot of time over there. The place is called Restaurante de Cabra, in honor of Billy, his pet goat. It may be in memory of Billy pretty soon, as even to my untrained eye, Billy is one sorry-lookin’ goat. (But he photographs well.) In addition to his tasty food, Jim is an entertaining raconteur, particularly on the topic of wacked (or just wacky) expats he’s come across over the years. My favorite yarns involve a fellow generally referred to as Crackhead Ken. Seems the guy is on a $2500/mo. pension, most of which goes toward earning his nickname. The cops all know him, including which days his pension checks hit the local bank. Within a few days, they arrest him on one charge or another, and while he’s in the brig, subtly mention how they’re a bit short of gas for the one patrol car, or perhaps that the station needs a new coffee machine…Ken’s out in short order, and the cops get what they need.
The US isn't the only country in the midst of election mania. Down here, it's time for the mayoral race, and every town and city has been plastered with campaign posters, for the most part depicting candidates from the two leading parties: FSLN (the Sandinistas) and PLC (mostly former Sandinistas disgusted with Daniel Ortega and in favor of keeping the US as an ally). Buenos Aires has been host to rallies for both parties, and while I was caught without my camera when the FSLN swarmed the streets, Pat and I were walking home as the PLC mob were just getting started. Every form of transport in town NOT owned by a Sandinista was out in force, often hauling far more passengers than the engineers or designers could ever have imagined. Friends of ours were out in front, and encouraged us to join the parade, but although we too are fed up with Ortega's bullshit, we've decided not to take a political stand publicly...just not worth alienating anyone in this small town. Reyna happily marched, or rode, in both events, claiming that since it really wouldn't make any difference which one won, she may as well have fun circling the town with her friends. In fact, this thinking is far from rare, and there were many people loudly cheering both candidates.
Almost as depressing as a local cop shop is the Rivas Hospital, where a friend of ours, Edwin’s aunt Paola, recently had to undergo surgery. She was told she had a massive tumor in her uterus, and would need a complete hysterectomy, as well as a biopsy of the mass. Once they were inside, however, the docs discovered that the “tumor” was in fact a piece of the placenta from the birth of her son, 16 years earlier. The delivering doctor had missed it, and over the years, it had grown and grown (or things grew around it—not really clear on the details) until reaching its gargantuan proportions. So they cut it out, washed all of her female bits, put them back, and stitched her up; an incision running nearly from hip bone to hip bone. We went to visit her a few times—her son Josue, the one who thoughtlessly left his placenta behind, will be a Sprout student—and I think while I was there I counted at least 20 roaches scurrying about. Josue, who had been sleeping on the floor next to his mum’s bed (in a room with five other patients), told me it was much worse at night once the lights were off. We promptly went out and bought him a foam mattress, figuring at least it would elevate him a few inches above the masses, as well as cushioning the cement tile floor somewhat. Man, there are some seriously devoted sons in this country…
Out at our place, I am very happy to report that the septic tank has been completed. It took the local brick manufacturer four trips, using four different horses to haul what appeared to be the same wobbly wooden cart, to deliver 1120 of the 1200 bricks required—Edwin had to fetch the final 80 in his truck. All that remains now is the water tank, installing a pump in the well, and hooking it all together. Throw in an actual toilet, and oh my god we’ll be ready to flush for the first time in over ten years. Daniel, the young guy working for us, is a treasure. Not only a hard, conscientious worker, but such a sweetie that he’s won over the neighborhood as well. All the kids want to be his helpers, the woman next door will no longer accept money to feed him, and the teenage girls on the block are trying to drag him to an “occult”, aka an Evangelist revival meeting. While we’re away, we’ve arranged for him to stay on in our house and renovate the crumbling remains of another neighbor, Angela’s, house. She’s the mother of Edwin2 and Sofia, and it’s more on their account than hers that we’re bothering. The roof could be cut into small squares and sold for sieves, and while it was originally constructed of brick 22 years ago, most of the mortar has long since departed, resulting in very loose bricks, many of which have the disconcerting habit of flinging themselves to the floor, often narrowly missing a child’s head. The whole project, including Daniel’s wages, should come to less than $2000, and while we don’t really have money to burn these days, this is something we can do.
It is now the planting season, especially this week with the full moon, and everyone we know is out plowing and sowing and so on. Our landlady’s caretaker took it upon himself to organize the planting of about half an acre of red beans, and Theresa, the former manager of the B&B, went out to watch, getting some great pictures of the process. Pat and I have become bean planters as well, or at least bean investors, going halves with some neighbors on the planting of about four acres. The land belongs to the mother, and is overseen by her uncle. If all goes to plan, we *should* see our seed money (ha) doubled by New Year’s, in which case we’ll probably do it again.
Last week, as we were enjoying a burger at Jim’s place, Pat looked down and saw what appeared to be a very large and furry beetle. On closer inspection, it proved to be a very small, very scrawny kitten. Some bastard had singed off his whiskers and some of his facial fur, and he hopped rather than walked, due to unusually long back legs. We put him on the table and watched him eat most of my lunch, punctuated by loud sneezes leaving behind ribbons of greenish snot. We scooped him up and took him to the local vet, recommended by Howard, the guy with the small jungle cats. Vet said, he’s got pneumonia. One or two more days and he’d be dead. He gave him an injection of antibiotics and a tiny crumb of a pill, and sent us home with instructions to continue the shots and pills for five more days. “If he’s still alive by Monday, bring him back.” By Monday, he could have passed for a kitten in a pet store window. Five days of regular feedings and endless affection have resulted in a great little cat. We named him El Cid, and if he remembers us when we get back from Britain, we’re keeping him. (If not, Carolyn, our landlady, will be happy to have him. But I think we made an impression on the little bugger.)
Finally, something you English speakers may not know: "Jesus" (given the Spanish pronunciation of ‘hey-sus’) "es Cheese en Ingles." Sofia and Yancy announced this to us one day, proud of themselves and grinning from ear to ear. "What?" I said. "Que?" "Hey-sus es CHEESE en Ingles!!" they repeated. Then it dawned: to them, our pronunciation of Jesus *does* sound a lot like the word "cheese". But personally, I just kind of like thinking of him as a dairy product...
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Back Again.
(Just a note to remember all pictures come at the end.)
Thanks to Hurricane Ike, we are back to our old habit of coming and going with a bit of drama. After Houston closed down, all Continental could do was put us on the next available flight—roughly a week later. Since Pat needed to be out of the US by Sept. 16, this posed a bit of a conundrum. In the end, Continental refunded (or said they would—haven’t actually seen the proof) 40% of our original tickets and we bought new ones, one-way, via LA and El Salvador, leaving US airspace around 1am on the 15th. After that, all went smoothly, and it was nice to actually arrive here in the daytime for once.
Our new digs are comparably luxurious, with water 24/7, and even hot showers (what they lovingly refer to as “suicide showers” here; a unit that attaches directly to the showerhead and is wired into the nearest electric source. We’ve seen them where the wires are poking out all over and wearing rubber-soled shoes is a must, but here they did it right, and we’ve yet to experience so much as a tingle.) We also have wireless internet, so I’m becoming spoiled rotten and have not set foot into any of my old haunts. We share cooking duties with the two women here, Carolyn, the owner, and Theresa, who had been hired to eventually run this place as a B&B, but is now heading back to Ontario instead. There are also four dogs, Theresa’s boxer-ridgeback Seda, and her dachshund Gimpie (yes, not a very P.C. name, but when she rescued him in Costa Rica his legs were trashed and he limped about for months. Now, he’s in fine health, but the name stuck.); and Carolyn’s two miniature Schnauzers, Misty and Abby; the latter has been in heat and driving poor neutered Gimpie mad with confused lust all week.
We stored our clothes at our old rental, Edwin’s father’s house, where they were either used as bedding for the resident mouse population, or consumed by mold. I must’ve done 5 loads of laundry when we got here, in their funky little machine, and the less acrid items were hung outside for days to lose their funky aromas. In the days since, we have found several scorpions of varying sizes in our room. The first was so tiny I thought it was a scorpion-shaped spot on the shower floor, barely bigger than my pinky fingernail. He was escorted down the drain. The next I found snuggled up in one of my bras, just as I was putting it into the washer. He was about the size of my thumb. Pat shook the trembling garment out over by the fence, into the neighbor’s plantain field. The last, however, left an impression. After a shower, I pulled on clean clothes and came out here to sit at the kitchen table and play with my newly installed Google Earth (I found both our houses here and in AK, distressing Pat considerably). After about an hour, I went into the bedroom to wake Pat up so he could get ready to go have dinner at a friend’s grand opening of a little café in Buenos Aires. As I was walking back to the computer, I felt something below the small of my back, like the tag from my trousers was rubbing. I slid my left hand in there to smooth it and was met with in intensely painful sting. I knew at once what it had to be, flew out of my pants (fortunately baggy khakis) and hopped around the kitchen screaming and clutching my throbbing finger—the middle one. Pat, Carolyn, and Theresa all came running, one getting ice, another shaking out my pants. I had briefly seen the brute when I first jumped out of my pants, and reckoned he was at least a foot long. Pat eventually found him, planning his next attack from beneath one of the cabinet doors. On closer inspection, he was closer to 3”…but reared up boldly, ready to take on Pat. And Pat, rather stomp him to defend my honor, gently scooped him up with a spatula and carried him outside, once more to the neighbor’s field.
Meanwhile, Theresa had given me a bag of ice, and closely examined my pants before declaring them safe for re-entry. My finger felt as though it were being held over an open flame while some bastard poked it with needles. And my lips had started to feel numb and tingly, convincing me of my imminent demise. I told Pat I loved him and asked him to continue SPROUT without me. He rolled his eyes and said we were late for dinner. We arrived at Jim’s place, where we found Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, and several other friends. Everyone had suggestions for me. “You need sugar!” “No, no, she needs rum!” “I heard lime juice helps…” in the end, Jim made me a drink of rum, Sprite, and lime, figuring it took all the suggestions into account. I can’t say if it helped, but along with the 400mgs of Ibuprofen, I was able to forget about the finger for minutes at a time. Reyna asked if Pat had killed it, but Edwin said, “No, I’ll bet he picked it up, called it a poor little thing (‘pobrecito!’), and let it go.” I said, “Well of course—what else would you expect.” So everyone gave Pat a hard time, but he defended his position, claiming there was no reason for an innocent creature to die simply to avenge his wife. Either way, I was already bitten, right? And to be honest, as painful as it was, I’m almost glad it happened, as it’s been one of my fears since we arrived, and now I both know what it’s like, and also have had a wake up call to always shake out my clothes *before* I put them on. (The fact that the little %&#! was nestled in my waistband for over an hour without stinging me is the real miracle—I shudder to imagine that sting at the base of my spine.)
Meanwhile, work is progressing out at the house. We’ve brought down Daniel, a young builder Pat worked with up at the Laguna, for the Belgian Vortex last spring. He is a skilled worker, but until the B.V. returns from Spain in December, he is just finding small jobs, and as he supports his mother, two brothers, a sister, a wife, and a child, really needs steadier work. So now he’s here, living out at our house, and getting things done. (I contracted with the neighbors to feed him, a solution I think he prefers after sharing several meals here with us—weird Gringo food…) The septic system is the current project, and should be done by the time we head to Scotland (we will be over there for 3 weeks, mid Oct.-early Nov. This will be Pat’s first trip ‘home’ in 21 years, and my first ever. Several years of hoarding air miles is making it possible, and we are excited, to say the least.), and upon our return, the rains should have lessened to the point we can get the water tank in, and at long last, we will have indoor plumbing.
A couple days after we returned, Edwin brought a chunk of his large extended clan out to our beach for the afternoon. The newest member of the family, Panchito, came too. Panchito is a red squirrel from Ometepe Island, a gift from a worker of Edwin’s to his daughters. He seems to be a very pleasant squirrel—never bites, rarely pees on you. He seems to have taken a liking to Pat, who has long been an ardent admirer of squirrels, and returns Panchito’s affection. Really, if Panchito hadn’t gnawed though half Pat's watch band one day, I’m sure we too would have a squirrel of our own. Instead, we still have Dogüi, our part-time dog. He is confused now as we’re not in the house we should be in, but every time we visit folks in the old neighborhood, he somehow hears about it and bounds up to us, nearly spastic with joy. Little bugger actually followed me on my bike the four miles out to our house the other day. He was so shagged we had to drive him home…
As for SPROUT, I have been looking for a small, cheap room to rent for an office, and also a bilingual assistant to help me out. We’ve already got about five students applying for next school year (begins in Jan.), without any propaganda. Once we return from Scotland, we’ll move into high gear, putting the word out and beginning interviews, etc. For all of you who made or are planning to make donations, I want to assure you that our claim of 95% of funds going directly to the students stands—all other costs, from the business cards, the fundraiser, the office, employees—is out-of-pocket, at least until I either write a successful grant or we get an insanely large and generous donation. And even then, we plan to keep operating expenses as low as we can—no director’s salary, additions to our house, Lear jets or bridges to nowhere; just the basics. That’s the point, right? As soon as I have something to report, I’ll get the newsletter up and running, complete with profiles of specific students, etc. Meantime, if there’s anyone out there who’s not seen the website yet, it’s www.sproutnicaragua.org
Thanks for reading!
Thanks to Hurricane Ike, we are back to our old habit of coming and going with a bit of drama. After Houston closed down, all Continental could do was put us on the next available flight—roughly a week later. Since Pat needed to be out of the US by Sept. 16, this posed a bit of a conundrum. In the end, Continental refunded (or said they would—haven’t actually seen the proof) 40% of our original tickets and we bought new ones, one-way, via LA and El Salvador, leaving US airspace around 1am on the 15th. After that, all went smoothly, and it was nice to actually arrive here in the daytime for once.
Our new digs are comparably luxurious, with water 24/7, and even hot showers (what they lovingly refer to as “suicide showers” here; a unit that attaches directly to the showerhead and is wired into the nearest electric source. We’ve seen them where the wires are poking out all over and wearing rubber-soled shoes is a must, but here they did it right, and we’ve yet to experience so much as a tingle.) We also have wireless internet, so I’m becoming spoiled rotten and have not set foot into any of my old haunts. We share cooking duties with the two women here, Carolyn, the owner, and Theresa, who had been hired to eventually run this place as a B&B, but is now heading back to Ontario instead. There are also four dogs, Theresa’s boxer-ridgeback Seda, and her dachshund Gimpie (yes, not a very P.C. name, but when she rescued him in Costa Rica his legs were trashed and he limped about for months. Now, he’s in fine health, but the name stuck.); and Carolyn’s two miniature Schnauzers, Misty and Abby; the latter has been in heat and driving poor neutered Gimpie mad with confused lust all week.
We stored our clothes at our old rental, Edwin’s father’s house, where they were either used as bedding for the resident mouse population, or consumed by mold. I must’ve done 5 loads of laundry when we got here, in their funky little machine, and the less acrid items were hung outside for days to lose their funky aromas. In the days since, we have found several scorpions of varying sizes in our room. The first was so tiny I thought it was a scorpion-shaped spot on the shower floor, barely bigger than my pinky fingernail. He was escorted down the drain. The next I found snuggled up in one of my bras, just as I was putting it into the washer. He was about the size of my thumb. Pat shook the trembling garment out over by the fence, into the neighbor’s plantain field. The last, however, left an impression. After a shower, I pulled on clean clothes and came out here to sit at the kitchen table and play with my newly installed Google Earth (I found both our houses here and in AK, distressing Pat considerably). After about an hour, I went into the bedroom to wake Pat up so he could get ready to go have dinner at a friend’s grand opening of a little café in Buenos Aires. As I was walking back to the computer, I felt something below the small of my back, like the tag from my trousers was rubbing. I slid my left hand in there to smooth it and was met with in intensely painful sting. I knew at once what it had to be, flew out of my pants (fortunately baggy khakis) and hopped around the kitchen screaming and clutching my throbbing finger—the middle one. Pat, Carolyn, and Theresa all came running, one getting ice, another shaking out my pants. I had briefly seen the brute when I first jumped out of my pants, and reckoned he was at least a foot long. Pat eventually found him, planning his next attack from beneath one of the cabinet doors. On closer inspection, he was closer to 3”…but reared up boldly, ready to take on Pat. And Pat, rather stomp him to defend my honor, gently scooped him up with a spatula and carried him outside, once more to the neighbor’s field.
Meanwhile, Theresa had given me a bag of ice, and closely examined my pants before declaring them safe for re-entry. My finger felt as though it were being held over an open flame while some bastard poked it with needles. And my lips had started to feel numb and tingly, convincing me of my imminent demise. I told Pat I loved him and asked him to continue SPROUT without me. He rolled his eyes and said we were late for dinner. We arrived at Jim’s place, where we found Edwin, Reyna, and the girls, and several other friends. Everyone had suggestions for me. “You need sugar!” “No, no, she needs rum!” “I heard lime juice helps…” in the end, Jim made me a drink of rum, Sprite, and lime, figuring it took all the suggestions into account. I can’t say if it helped, but along with the 400mgs of Ibuprofen, I was able to forget about the finger for minutes at a time. Reyna asked if Pat had killed it, but Edwin said, “No, I’ll bet he picked it up, called it a poor little thing (‘pobrecito!’), and let it go.” I said, “Well of course—what else would you expect.” So everyone gave Pat a hard time, but he defended his position, claiming there was no reason for an innocent creature to die simply to avenge his wife. Either way, I was already bitten, right? And to be honest, as painful as it was, I’m almost glad it happened, as it’s been one of my fears since we arrived, and now I both know what it’s like, and also have had a wake up call to always shake out my clothes *before* I put them on. (The fact that the little %&#! was nestled in my waistband for over an hour without stinging me is the real miracle—I shudder to imagine that sting at the base of my spine.)
Meanwhile, work is progressing out at the house. We’ve brought down Daniel, a young builder Pat worked with up at the Laguna, for the Belgian Vortex last spring. He is a skilled worker, but until the B.V. returns from Spain in December, he is just finding small jobs, and as he supports his mother, two brothers, a sister, a wife, and a child, really needs steadier work. So now he’s here, living out at our house, and getting things done. (I contracted with the neighbors to feed him, a solution I think he prefers after sharing several meals here with us—weird Gringo food…) The septic system is the current project, and should be done by the time we head to Scotland (we will be over there for 3 weeks, mid Oct.-early Nov. This will be Pat’s first trip ‘home’ in 21 years, and my first ever. Several years of hoarding air miles is making it possible, and we are excited, to say the least.), and upon our return, the rains should have lessened to the point we can get the water tank in, and at long last, we will have indoor plumbing.
A couple days after we returned, Edwin brought a chunk of his large extended clan out to our beach for the afternoon. The newest member of the family, Panchito, came too. Panchito is a red squirrel from Ometepe Island, a gift from a worker of Edwin’s to his daughters. He seems to be a very pleasant squirrel—never bites, rarely pees on you. He seems to have taken a liking to Pat, who has long been an ardent admirer of squirrels, and returns Panchito’s affection. Really, if Panchito hadn’t gnawed though half Pat's watch band one day, I’m sure we too would have a squirrel of our own. Instead, we still have Dogüi, our part-time dog. He is confused now as we’re not in the house we should be in, but every time we visit folks in the old neighborhood, he somehow hears about it and bounds up to us, nearly spastic with joy. Little bugger actually followed me on my bike the four miles out to our house the other day. He was so shagged we had to drive him home…
As for SPROUT, I have been looking for a small, cheap room to rent for an office, and also a bilingual assistant to help me out. We’ve already got about five students applying for next school year (begins in Jan.), without any propaganda. Once we return from Scotland, we’ll move into high gear, putting the word out and beginning interviews, etc. For all of you who made or are planning to make donations, I want to assure you that our claim of 95% of funds going directly to the students stands—all other costs, from the business cards, the fundraiser, the office, employees—is out-of-pocket, at least until I either write a successful grant or we get an insanely large and generous donation. And even then, we plan to keep operating expenses as low as we can—no director’s salary, additions to our house, Lear jets or bridges to nowhere; just the basics. That’s the point, right? As soon as I have something to report, I’ll get the newsletter up and running, complete with profiles of specific students, etc. Meantime, if there’s anyone out there who’s not seen the website yet, it’s www.sproutnicaragua.org
Thanks for reading!
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