Happy Leap Day

February 29, 2008

It's 8:15am. I'm sitting in a handmade rocking chair on the front porch, the cloudless peak of Concepción, the slightly larger of Ometepe Island's two volcanoes, looming in the distance, a good 20mph wind gusting through consistently, Christian music (mercifully in Spanish) emanating from a neighbor's house two doors down, and I'm thinking two things: one, where is Dogűi, the mutt who's adopted us and is seldom far from my feet; and two, a version of this scene in Homer would involve many more layers of clothing (and several more pets). Pat is settling into his corresponding rocker, balancing his plate of spicy chorizo on his lap, and opening Kite Runner to where he left off. So yes, it is safe to say we are very content to be back in Nicaragua.

Our departure was not without its customary drama, however. This time, as we were checking in for our flight at the Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage, we found ourselves at the mercy of an overzealous fresh young ticket agent. It seems that when I changed our return flights, Continental's computers completely erased the first leg of our roundtrip. The agent (let's call him Junior) therefore refused to believe this wasn't a one-way ticket, which produced a red flag, which resulted in his delving deep into the protocol manual and coming up with a passage denying US citizens the right to enter Nicaragua without proof of continued travel out again within ninety days. (For once, it was me and not Pat with whom they were more concerned—his British passport excluded him from their jurisdiction.) On our very first trip down, last January (on actual one-way tickets), I had made the reservations by phone and the agent mentioned then that although it was very rarely enforced in Central American countries, it was theoretically possible that a US agent could demand to see something that showed intention of further travel. She kindly suggested I purchase a couple bus tickets to Costa Rica, and keep them with me, just in case. After realizing that Junior was not going to budge, I did just that. He looked at my crumpled, eight-month old bus ticket skeptically and disappeared into the backroom. Ten long minutes later, he reappeared and grudgingly told me he was letting us board the plane, but that we had been officially warned…

After all that (oh, and he charged us $100 for one extra, underweight bag, claiming it was $25 per flight plus an additional $25 handling fee; at that point, we just handed him the money and fled), we found our way to the gate and collapsed. From that point on, until we arrived here in Buenos Aires, everything went as smoothly as it possibly could have, even to the point that the Nicaraguan government has seen fit to start repairing the road south from Managua, resulting a much less bone-jolting ride than we'd become accustomed to.

In the week since arriving, rather than spend our days lolling in hammocks, reading and sipping fresh juices, we've been running around town putting to good use a not inconsiderate sum of money handed to us by a generous Homer couple. Although it came with no strings or restrictions of use, as a gesture of respect for Pat's work and character, we couldn't think of anything better to do with it than to spread it about, making things possible for our neighbors out in Tolasmaydas (the official name of the area where our lake house is located). Thus far, we've purchased school uniforms, backpacks, school supplies, and shoes for Edwin (referred to as Edwin2 here, to avoid confusion with our friend Edwin) and Sofia (two of our favorite kids; readers from the beginning will remember them well); shoes for a couple other kids; clothes; a bike for Laura, an aunt of Donald's (another favorite beach kid), and are now planning to help Edwin and Sofia's mother, Angela, put a section of roof over the washing area to protect her from sun and rain. All of this barely makes a dent in the money (to which we've applied the not very original name of "Tolasmaydas Aid Foundation"), but I am entirely sure there will be many more ways to assist as time goes on. We have tried to make it clear that this is not our personal money, not only to respect the gift itself, but also to prevent the neighborhood from believing Pat and I have bottomless pockets…I'm not sure anyone has actually believed me, but we'll keep putting it out there. We hope one day to have an actual foundation, tax exempt status and all that, which will help fund the educations of many Nicaraguan children and young people; stay tuned for that.

One very positive event in the neighborhood has been the completion of 100 new houses. I mentioned first the plan, and then the commencement of the work, both with some skepticism, but I have to say, they came through, and our street is now lined with these small but sturdy (if a bit hot) little houses, all painted in colorful pastels. Nearly everyone we know got one, and on the whole, they are pleased.

Things have changed a bit up at Rancho de Pancho, the neighborhood restaurant/bar owned and operated by our friends Edwin and Reyna. Apparently fed up with a steady decline in the quality of the clientele, Edwin has retaken control of the business from Reyna, determined to raise the caliber of the place, and protect his two young daughters (Rosita, 8, and Milagro, 3) from the worst of drunken, badly-behaving Nicas. This decision is not sitting well with Reyna, as she was enjoying being the boss, and had no problem with the questionable characters of her regulars (reasoning that the worst behavior didn't tend to occur until after the girls were tucked in bed at the back of the house). Since the former cook sided with Reyna and quit in solidarity, Edwin now finds himself in the very unfamiliar position of actually having to prepare the food, as well as running the place. He hired a guy as bartender/waiter, but so far, at least one new cook has failed to show up for duty. Reyna is taking her revenge subtly; the other night, after we'd finished eating and the dishes were still on the table, I started, as I used to do, to carry them into the kitchen. She stopped me and said, "Don't worry, the boy will get it." I said, "Oh, Melvin?" (The new guy.) She laughed then turned and called out, "Edwin! Pat and Lauren are done eating!" Edwin of course sent Melvin over to actually collect the plates…

A couple days ago we went out to the lake house to find the best place for the new well. Pat had taught Edwin how to divine last spring, and now he had his chance to try it for real. Between the two of them, they located a likely spot and we marked it with a branch from a thorn tree. We wanted to use local guys to dig the well, to help support the neighborhood, and as it turned out, our caretaker Julio's brother has had some experience with wells. It looks like we can have it dug and built for around $600, plus another $400 in materials. It will be 10 meters deep, lined with concrete, brick, and for the bottom 3 feet, steel. The process is slated to take two weeks, but we have been assured that should it overrun the time frame, we will not be charged more. And Pat will need to be there overseeing; that, apparently, goes without saying. To prepare for this project, we went out yesterday with a dozen large trash bags and a rake of insanely flimsy plastic, enlisted six kids, and cleaned the place up. The whole concept of picking up trash rather than tossing it away was somewhat revolutionary to them, but after we promised them 20 cordobas (roughly $1) per bag, they were more than happy to oblige. On the whole, they did a great job, although we found it amazing how they refused to consider smaller pieces of plastic actual garbage, and continually marched right by shreds of old bags, candy wrappers, etc. without a second glance, homing in on the more egregious examples of empty bottles and the remains of shoes—of which there were a surprising number. The rake lived up to its expected worthlessness and snapped in half after 25 minutes of use, but the kids ran home and returned with two more of somewhat sturdier construction. After a couple hours work, the place was spotless—possibly for the first time in many, many years.

On a final note, the same couple who provided us with the initial funds for the Tolasmaydas Aid Foundation also gave us a copy of the book Three Cups of Tea, by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. It is the story of Mortenson's personal challenge to build schools, primarily for girls, in rural Pakistan and more recently, Afghanistan. It's inspiring, as well as a really good read, and I highly recommend it; the least I can do, literally, to aid his cause. Trust me; you'll get something out of it.

So welcome back; thanks, as always, for reading, or even just looking at the pictures, and remember—you're all welcome anytime.