Wednesday, June 18, 2008

June 17, 2008

Final Blog, Spring, 2008

At first the sound confused us--we were nowhere near a freeway—and then a deafening crack of thunder and we realized that roaring sound was a million raindrops pounding hundreds of tin roofs as the latest storm swept through Rivas. We tracked it as it moved closer, from the west, seeming to circle us as it swept first north, then in a sudden swoop, swung around and came straight for us. Within seconds even the covered porch offered little protection as strong winds propelled the rain sideways, drenching the hammock and rocking chair we'd recently inhabited. We huddled in the doorway, cool for the first time in days, and waited for the frogs to appear. It didn't take long. "There's one! Over by the planter. Look, he's just flinging himself up against the side…what the hell is he doing?" Then another, and as the winds moved on and the rain fell straight down, Pat resumed his seat as I set up the computer inside. "I think that one wants to watch a movie," he called in. I turned to see a good-sized beastie hopping though the front door. "Anywhere but the bedroom, fellow." I said, getting up to close our door. Got to draw the line somewhere.

Work on the floor is nearly done now. Pat has had the help of Edwin2 most of the time, and when he was otherwise engaged (playing baseball), his little sister Sofia and her best friend Yancy stepped in. At other times there are 5, 6, 10 children amassed, all wanting to help— which generally consists of standing six inches from Pat and saying "Pa-trikPa-trikPa-trik" over and over until he can't stand it and throws them all out. Edwin2 is paid a proper salary and received his first accumulated pay on Mother's Day (celebrated here on May 30th as a national holiday, no school, banks closed, bakeries working overtime. I saw a girl balanced on the back of a motorbike holding elaborately iced creations in each hand, no doubt speeding toward one of the thousands of parties held that day.), so I drove him to Rivas where he bought his mother a snazzy t-shirt and some pretty socks. It was the first time he'd ever bought her anything, he told me, and later, after he'd given them to her, came out of his house where Pat and I were waiting and gave us a big shit-eating grin and a proud thumbs up. We decided to liven it up by creating a couple of snakes, running from the front door and through to the kitchen. We'll fill them in with pebbles and stones from the beach, and later, perhaps, some brightly colored bits of ceramic tile. Several people have told us we must be crazy—clearly we are inviting real snakes into the house. But we look at it another way: the snakes, recognizing that their kind is respected, and seeing themselves already well represented within, won't need to cross the threshold…

So we wanted a piece of wood. Hard wood, so Pat could eventually make a section of counter, bar-like, between the kitchen and living room. We spoke to our friend Chico, a carpenter, and Pat clearly explained, using gestures and a small drawing on a napkin, while I translated: 6' x 1.5' x 2". (They use inches here, along with metric, and a local thing called a vara, or maybe barra, which appears to be more or less as long as a meter. Of course this never causes confusion.) Chico said, sure, no problem, give him a week. About 18 days later I get a call on my cell while I'm at the cyber (internet place). It's Chico, telling me the guys are at the house, delivering the wood. I jump on my bike and arrive home just as the last piece of wood is being stacked by the front door. Last? How can there be a "last" when we ordered one piece? Yes, well, in fact there were 14 pieces of wood stacked there, 15 if you count the scrawny mangy one, each measuring 4' long, and between 7" and 10" wide, and 2" thick (except Scrawny). "Umm," I said, looking at Chico. "Umm, I don't think this is quite what we ordered…we really wanted just the one long piece…" At which point the three guys who had delivered the wood all start talking at once, to each other, to Chico, to me. It appears that somewhere along the line (there was a line?) the 6' became 150cm, and the 150cm became 150cm², which, once Chico got out the cell phone and found the calculator option and added up and multiplied all the various pieces, it more or less turned out to be. Pat was not home. He was out at the new house laying the floor. I called him and explained. He was, shall we say, a wee bit irritated, and headed straight home. The first thing he did was go through the stack and pull out five particularly useless pieces—split, cracked, tweaked, and of course, Scrawny. Then he pointed out that the wood was still wet. The head delivery guy said, "Only a little. If you stack it with bits of wood between each piece and leave it for a month or so, it'll be ready to use." We found this amusing as we lived with piles of stickered wood for years in Alaska, and are, as are most Alaskans, very familiar with the process. Nevertheless, this 'piece' of wood we ordered was supposed to have already been kiln dried. No, no, they don't have that capability. The price was 1850 cordobas; roughly $95 ($50 above the original quote.) Now I know most of you at this point will be saying, for chrissakes—that's all?! Just buy the stuff. And you know, a year ago, that's just what we would've done. But. We've been here long enough now where this sort of 'misunderstanding' has happened just a little too often. And you never know, do you, at just what point it all goes pear-shaped. From Pat to me to Chico? Chico to his contact? The contact to the delivery guys? Is it all a "They're just Gringos—they won't know the difference." thing? You just don't know, but you grow weary of turning a blind eye and accepting it. So we begin bargaining. Because the guys drove down from Masaya, about an hour north, they have gas and travel expenses. We offer 1000 cords, indicating the pile of five useless pieces, and reiterating the whole 'wet wood' thing. They counter with 1500. We finally agree on 1200, still more than we want to pay, and leaving us with more wood than we want, wood that will force Pat to find his inner Nakashima* in order to turn it into something rare and beautiful; a challenge we are both sure he can meet. Someday.

In the meantime, it seems nearly everyone under 15 in this country has gone loco for a new TV show from Argentina called "Patito Feo", or "Ugly Duckling". The basic premise is two competing factions of dancers, the Divinas and The Populares. Kids all around the country form their own dance groups, decide which side they're on, and then send in tapes of their number (all done to one of the two songs representing each team, which we now have coming out of our pores) to the studio in Managua, where they are aired during commercial breaks throughout the day. Plus, many towns and cities are having their own Patito Feo contests, encouraging local kids to team up and start dancing. Edwin's older daughter, Rosita, was quick off the mark and soon had pulled together seven other little girls and six more or less agreeable boys, and the rehearsals began. Pat and I chipped in for the material to have matching outfits made, and last Sunday, squeezed ourselves into the madness at the local rec center to cheer them on. It began in an orderly enough fashion, but as more people than chairs showed up, and everyone wanted to see the stage, there began a gradual but inexorable tidal wave of sweaty anxious bodies gently surging toward the front. As I was one of the official photographers for Rosita's team, I had to give up my nice chair halfway back and join the masses, my height, camera, and Gringo-ness assisting me in this maneuver. There were three main teams, interspersed with solo acts and duos. My favorite solo, and damn the pictures didn't turn out, was a little five year old, wearing a silver mini skirt and tight little black top, who more or less walked onto the stage and looked at the crowd, and every 30 seconds or so her mother would stage whisper at her and she'd wiggle her butt, or do a suggestive squat, or wave her arms, then go back to standing there in a perplexed manner. She got a lot of applause. Rosita's group did very well, but in the end, as there were no judges due to SOME people's attempts to politicize the whole thing (one of the mayoral candidates, for the Sandinista party, has a tendency to turn every event into a campaign rally), each group was awarded $26 and hearty applause. Rosita's crew will get to perform their sizzling number once more, for the entire school (although judging from the crowd that day, I'd say most of them have already seen it…)

Friday the 13th was my birthday (the only Friday 13 in 2008 according to Kyra's calendar), and coincidentally, the birthday of our friend Yeysy, who was turning 32 and still finds the concept of birthday parties appealing. Her enthusiasm, however, was contagious, and before long we were spending hours planning this thing, which was also doubling as a Buen Viaje for Patrick and me. In the end, it was a success, in spite of the fact we slaughtered a sheep-like creature (remember the picture from a very early blog of a pelibuey? One of those.); not only slaughtered it, but worse, Pat and I had to go and pick it up in the jeep and transport it to Reyna's. So there we were, Pat and me in the front, the pelibuey tethered in back, but it's a small vehicle, really, so its head was maybe a 18" from mine, and it bleated. A lot. Pat had made me swear before we picked it up not to name it or form a bond with it, fearing, no doubt, that by the time we arrived at the bar I would have grown too attached to it and we'd all be eating take out chicken. It was difficult, what with all the bleating going on, but it helped that he absolutely stank, and that his bleats were more angry than mournful. At one point he looked me directly in the face, with his huge golden eyes, and I almost caved, but fortunately we hit a bump and the moment passed. A friend who does meat-related things for a living oversaw the butchering (we missed that bit) and the preparation. It needs to marinate (orange juice, cane alcohol, beer, salt, pepper, onions, garlic) for at least 24 hours else you end up with shoe leather. The strips are then grilled over real charcoal (not those pansy-assed little briquettes we spoiled Yanks use, but real chunks of carbonized wood, with the grain still visible) until crisp outside, and unbelievably succulent within. The sheep fed over 40 people that night, and we thanked it for its noble sacrifice. Baa.

And finally, this round of blogging must end on a sad note: the untimely passing of Einstein the Duck. Or at least, we assume she's dead. Dona Juana, her elderly caretaker, left her outside the house when she went to church, and when she returned an hour or so later, the duck was gone. Juana surmises she was either stolen or a dog got her, but either way, the odds of survival were slim. Of course everyone I've told has laughed and said, "Of course Juana ate her!" But I don't think so; Einstein was worth more alive than dead in the form of semi-regular "duck support" handouts, or having all her debts at the local pulperias (neighborhood shops) paid off, etc. When Einstein had a near-death experience some time back, and Juana saved her life, she later told Kyra, who assured her we would understand if anything befell the duck, "You don't understand! They PAY me to look after this duck!" Well, she was a good duck, and as things go down here, she had a long life, just over a year. She will be missed. R.I.P.

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