March 10, 2008

March 10, 2008

The well appears to be well on its way to completion. This after an inauspicious beginning wherein we received a phone call at 8:30am last Sunday from Edwin, telling us that the bricks had been delivered early, and to the wrong place. In a country that habitually runs anywhere from 15 minutes to several days behind schedule, the idea that something could actually show up early, and on a Sunday, was hard to fathom. I have two theories to explain it, neither of which is actually very likely. The first is that the deliverers, not knowing how long it would take to get from Rivas out to Tolasmaydas, left themselves plenty of extra time (they were due to arrive sometime after 9am). The problem with this is that it assumes a) an awareness of time and b), more than a fleeting acquaintance with punctuality—neither of which we have seen much evidence of thus far. The second theory concerns the team of oxen pulling the cart that carried the bricks. Perhaps finding themselves far from the ruthlessly paved streets of Rivas, their scarred hooves once more trodding upon dirt and sand, the alluring wafts of burnt sugar emanating from the recently cleared cane fields teasing their quivering nostrils, they slipped into a gentle trot, covering the eight miles in half the time allotted. I prefer this theory, but having never actually witnessed an oxen team moving at more than the most dolorous pace, it is a bit of a stretch. As for the bricks being unloaded in the wrong place, this can be easily explained by Edwin's tendency to describe our location as being across from the Health Center. While it does get people in the general vicinity, it relies on there being someone around to then direct them around the corner and to the left. As no one was around just before 8am on a Sunday to do this, the bricks—well, at least two-thirds of them—were in the process of being stacked directly in front of the clinic. At some point someone came a long and realized the error, so the remaining third were carted up to our place. The deliverers refused, however, to reload and properly deliver the first batch without additional compensation, and as we had yet to arrive, they left. Foreseeing this possibility, we used Edwin's pickup and with the help of the now present workers, got the rest of the bricks stacked and ready.

Watching someone hand dig a well while standing at the rim, peering down, is a disconcerting experience, particularly for people who are used to doing things themselves. To that end, Pat and I stayed away most of the week, letting them get on with the work. Edwin went by a few times to check the progress, and reported back that all was proceeding as it should. We finally returned ourselves on Friday to pay the first installment ($200), and were pleased with everything. They hit water at around 20 ft., but will go down 6 ft. more to assure a continuous reservoir. After living here in Buenos Aires, where the chances of having actual running water are always a crapshoot (not to mention the ten years in Alaska where there was no water to run), I can honestly say I am just a bit enthusiastic about this well.

We've been making a sort of informal collection of Nicaraguan old wives tales since arriving. A number concern the field of agriculture, including the belief that beating the hell out of the trunk of a fruit tree that is not producing with a switch cut from its own limb will result in sudden and prolific growth, and in the same vein, that by hanging empty plastic bottles on a neighboring tree one can shame the non-producer into action. Others concern animals, such as the idea that tying a strip of red cloth onto the rear left leg of a bitch in heat will prevent pregnancy, and the ever naïve concept that a bitch will not become impregnated during her first heat, regardless of how many times she is, er, approached by willing males. This last we were told in good faith by Reyna, after watching their seven or eight month old dog Linda being pursued and mounted by every male dog within a five block radius, night after night, until yesterday when the scent was, thank god, finally gone. It made for some noisy and occasionally distracting evenings up at the bar, and caused Pat to question Edwin's purported intention of upgrading the ambience….

We made a short trip up to Granada, officially to deliver a new friend to her hotel, but also to avail ourselves of Kathy's Waffle House, the only place in Nicaragua to serve traditional (North) American breakfasts. We'd had dinner the night we arrived with Cindy at a trendy joint called El Tercero Ojo, or The Third Eye. They feature an eclectic menu of popular traveler favorites, including curry, pasta, salads, and crepes. Prices are reasonable, and the food is good, if not startling. At any rate, it's a welcome change from chicken, chicken, and more chicken. While at breakfast, we sat outside on the big veranda, and watched a group of tourists, from the US or Canada from the looks of them, being led over to the large church (St. Francisco I think) across the road. The guide waved her flag, blew her whistle, and got everyone in an orderly line, much to the amusement of a gaggle of street kids loitering nearby. As they marched across the plaza to the entrance, I thought, well, at least they're here; at least tourists are still coming down, still spending their money, and not all scared away by the propaganda surrounding the return of Ortega to the presidency. In fact, his ratings dropped to an all-time low of 22% last week, making headlines. This is fairly impressive in a country where the majority expects nothing from their government, and barely acknowledges changes in the administration. Might possibly have something to do with the staggering number of campaign promises he made to get himself (barely) elected, very few of which he has kept…I just heard the other day that one promise was the distribution of a milk cow and a chicken to every single mother living in poverty. I must ask Angela, Edwin2 and Sofia's mother where her cow is… We spent the night with our friends Fred and Carmen, who live on the rim of Laguna de Apoyo. It was a beautiful afternoon when we arrived, and the air above the rippling turquoise crater lake was replete with parasailers, swooping and gliding about enticingly. Maybe someday.

The day before we were to leave for Granada, just as we were pulling into Edwin's where we park the jeep, the accelerator cable snapped. Pat disconnected it, and we began the quest to locate a new one. We began at the best stocked parts store, which apologetically sent us to another shop, which politely sent us to another shop, which laughingly sent us…you get the idea. Seven shops later, we ended up at Casa Pellas Toyota. The Pellas family is the wealthiest family in Nicaragua. In addition to owning the Flor de Caña rum distillery and all three breweries, they have vast swathes of real estate, and much, much more. Unlike all the other parts shops we'd been in, family run places of varying sizes and grunginess, Casa Pellas looks like something you'd find—well—anywhere in North America. Huge plate glass windows, shining white tile floors, and a color-coordinated staff perched on stools behind a long counter, each at his own computer. Our personal clerk looked at the cable, asked me for the model, punched the info into the computer, and after a long wait, picked up the phone. He asked the other end if a cable might be found there. He grunted into the phone and hung up. He returned the cable to me and said, "We don't have it." "Could one be sent down from Managua?" I asked. "No. There isn't one anywhere in Nicaragua. This cable does not exist." And he walked away, no doubt unwilling to deal with the look of stunned irritation on my face. I translated for Pat, who had pretty much followed this exchange anyway, and who then said, "You know what? This probably isn't the original cable. It looks like a bike cable. Let's go to a bike shop." And sure enough, cables of all shapes and sizes, including ones that matched ours exactly, for the dizzying price of .60¢. We biked home and Pat installed the new cable with a Leatherman and pair of wire cutters possibly dating back to the Iron Age. Moral of the story: don't take anything you're told here at face value; there's always another way.

The Tolasmaydas Aid Foundation continued its work this past week by outfitting another student, and by purchasing a bed frame and mattress for Edwin2. We stopped by his place the other day and his mother, Angela, was showing us how her house is deteriorating after 22 years. The roof bears more than a passing resemblance to a popular sandwich cheese, and many of the bricks are determined to be free of their crumbling mortar. One corner by the floor hosted a hole through which, she told us, snakes and rats regularly make house calls. Apparently she didn't qualify for a new house like most of her neighbors because the committee deemed her current dwelling too substantial. Pat poked around a bit and assured her he could fix all the brick issues, and we will go see the organization from whom she received a letter a year ago promising her a new roof, and attempt to encourage them to follow through. If not, this too will become a project for the TAF. Anyway, in the process of showing us the house, she showed us Edwin2's bed, although designating it as such is deceiving. In fact, it had once been a bed, a steel frame with a spring bottom, but at this point resembled nothing more than a tangled web of bent pieces held together by wire and rags, with a gaping hole just about where his bottom would be, and partially covered with a sack stuffed with shreds of material. She never asked us for a replacement; she didn't have to. We went directly into town and found a new version of the scrap pile and a two inch thick foam mattress, and were back in barely an hour. Angela and Edwin2 both looked as though we'd presented them with the winning lottery ticket. To celebrate, we took Edwin2 out to dinner where he ordered half a chicken, the majority of which he brought home to his mother, along with half my portion of Chinese fried rice (a very popular dish down here).

Now we are preparing for our trip to Bluefields. Everyone has their two pesos to put in, although almost no one we know has ever actually been there. On the whole, the reports are positive—good food, beautiful ocean scenery, etc. So long as we stay clear of the gangs of drug-dealing Columbian kidnappers, we should be just fine.