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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
May 28, 2008
Time is running out. Three weeks left, and much to do. We finally managed to locate the Saltillo-style tiles for the floors, purchased them, and had them delivered (well, as far as Edwin's place. Then two very full pickup trips out to our house, brazenly using child labor to load and unload). Pat began prepping the floor yesterday, and the actual laying begins imminently. This is exciting not only because it's our new floor, but also as it represents more or less the only real progress we've managed this trip, other than the well. Pat is optimistic he will also have time to close the place in (it's now open all along the roof-line in typical Nica fashion), which ideally will keep the place from once again becoming a safe and pleasant harbor for every wee flying beastie in SW Nicaragua, not to mention the scorpions, geckos, spiders, and snakes that also set up residence last time we left. The guy we bought the tiles from, Rodolfo, was a bit of a character. Like the tiles, he comes originally from Ocotal, up in the north, from a once wealthy coffee plantation owning family. Then came the revolution, their lands were redistributed to the local farmers, and he headed off to university in Mexico (the rest of his family moved to Managua). He married a Mexican girl, equally white and wealthy, and now divides his year between the two countries. We noticed a Land Cruiser jeep, identical to ours, parked out back, and Pat asked him about it (he spoke excellent English). Turns out, it's a '77, and he's the original owner. The family also had the Ocotal Toyota dealership for many years, and he still has the shop manuals for every vehicle made up to the late 80's. He showed us a picture of a very 70's-looking young man, curly dark hair and droopy mustache, leaning against the hood, holding an AK-47. Yep, Rodolfo, age 17, a few months before heading off to Mexico. Later on, the Jeep went missing, and friends reported seeing it driven by soldiers from the National Army (enemies of the Sandinistas) toward Honduras. His mother went up there, found the jeep, slipped inside, and drove it home, where it sat out the rest of the civil war under a mound of tarps. Exciting stuff.
We went back up to the Laguna a last time to attend Etienne's fiesta. It seemed to go off as he'd hoped, with all the Harvard grads (it was a 40 yr. reunion) suitably impressed, happily sipping their drinks and lolling about in the pool. I met a few interesting people, including a woman called Geralyn who is down here working for Opportunities International. This is a 35 year+ org. similar to Kiva, and based on the Yunis principle of small loans, primarily to women. They are branching out a bit, however, and planning to start building high schools in rural areas, utilizing a sort of voc-ed, hands-on, real-life applicable model, and have selected Rivas as their first location. I immediately began advocating for Buenos Aires, as we have schools only to the 8th grade, and she agreed to come down and take a look. They want to emphasize agriculture and tourism, the two strengths of this part of the country. We'll see where it all goes, but it definitely looks like a project we could get involved in, one way or another.
Back down here in Rivas, we had the chance observe the mind-boggling inefficiency of the Rivas hospital first hand, after a kid slammed into the jeep on a bike. We were just trundling through town on a main road, at maybe 20 mph in rush hour traffic, when a blur through Pat's side window caught my attention. Before I could say anything, the blur transformed itself into a bicycle, flying out of a side street and completely refraining from either turning or stopping, choosing instead to plow directly into our left front bumper. There was the proverbial 'sickening thud', followed by the sight of the boy flying off the bike and landing just in front of the now frozen jeep. We both leapt out, hearts in mouths, to find the boy—now more clearly visible as a young man (he turned out to be 18) slowly getting up and limping to the curb. In just a few seconds a large crowd had gathered, and to my relief, several of them, who must have witnessed the whole thing, began berating the kid, asking him what the hell he'd been thinking, etc. Pat palpated his arms and legs, ascertaining nothing was broken, but concerns about internal injuries impelled us to take him to the hospital (where, it should be noted, he did NOT want to go, and only grudgingly agreed to accompany us at the urging of his friend and several bystanders). As we were pulling away, a pedal taxi went by and yelled, "Lucky bastard—now you'll get some money!" causing the kid to blush furiously, much to his credit. Anyway, we arrived at the hospital at 5:15pm, and while there were a few people milling about the waiting area, and we could make out sounds and movements through the curtains covering the glass doors to the examination area, it was a full 30 minutes before an old woman shuffled out and asked the boy if he had his admittance papers. When he said no, she said, "Oh, well, without them, you'll be here all day and night!" to which I replied, "No one has been out here to take his information—could you please find someone?" She stared at me for a minute with an expression much like mine would have been had the dying plant in the corner suddenly proposed the idea, then nodded and shuffled back inside. Another half hour went by. Finally a younger woman came out and beckoned him over. On what appeared to be a piece of scrap paper, she jotted down his name, address, age, and complaint (he said he's fallen off his bike) with a pencil stub, then told him to go inside and wait. In the 45 minutes that followed, I chatted with his friend, who'd been riding behind him, and who happily told me he had neither brakes nor particularly advanced riding skills. "He's always getting into accidents!" This statement was later borne out when we eventually pulled up to his house and just before we stopped, the boy, Juan, leaned forward and in a panicky whisper, pleaded with us not to say anything about anything to his mother, please!
Someone in a white coat pronounced him bruised but otherwise undamaged, and gave him four or five prescriptions for assorted painkillers and antibiotics. We filled them for him—I think it came to just over $3 for everything--then drove him home. Imagining how much worse it all could have been kept us preoccupied for days…even after various Nica friends told us it was Juan who had been lucky...apparently if we had been Nicas, we'd have gotten out, ascertained that he wasn't dead or severely injured, yelled at him for being careless, and driven off into the sunset, no doubt complaining loudly about being inconvenienced by riff raff.
Oh, the fuel strike has been "resolved", though I use the term loosely. From what I can understand, the Ortega government agreed to a price reduction of $1.30/gal. for diesel, and around $. 45/gal. for gas, but only for licensed public transportation drivers, such as busses and certain taxis. To offset the loss, fuel prices for the rest of the population have been steadily increasing all week, roughly $.05/day, so that as I write, a gallon of diesel is going for approximately $6.15/gal. and climbing. As you might imagine, people are not happy about this, and for the first time, we have been seeing the formerly unimaginable: posters of Daniel (Ortega) are starting to be vandalized. We passed one the other day on which was scrawled "Ignorant Dictator", and yet others in Granada where his face had been blacked out. All of this has made it increasingly difficult for all the Sandinista mayors, many of whom are up for re-election this fall, to campaign effectively. It may take more than free pink hats this time…last week in Buenos Aires, the local candidate gave away an entire bicycle!
Speaking of fuel, we had our own close encounter—with a kerosene-based mixture used by the city to fumigate before and during every rainy season. Basically, a guy in a GhostBusters get up, trudging from house to house and blasting this acrid poison into every nook and cranny. We had our first experience last spring, early one morning, still half-asleep, when we heard voices, and before we had time to react, our bedroom door burst open and we were coated with a blast of slick smoky spray. Pat yelled, I dove under the sheet, the door slammed shut, and we were left there wondering what the f**k just happened. At least this year, we were up and about, so when he showed up, we asked him not to spray our room. He did the rest of the house, resulting in a surprising number of melodramatic cockroach deaths throughout the morning, but no apparent reduction in either mosquitoes or ants, our two main pests.
Finally, a run-in with a bent traffic cop illustrated how far we've come, both in terms of experience and language acquisition, since our first experience soon after our arrival back in Feb. '07. We were waiting to turn left at a T-junction about 40 miles N. of Rivas, when Pat spotted a cop across the way. At first he just glanced at us and looked away, but as a line of cars forced us to wait to make our turn, he glanced again and this time realized we were not quite locals. Pat said, "He's going to wave us over." And sure enough, as we pulled out to turn, the little day-glo baton began twitching, and we slowed to a stop on the shoulder. He asked for our documents, now kept in a small Ziploc baggy against dust and moisture, and after a cursory glance, began telling us we didn't have the right circulation card for our plates. Well yeah, we know that, there are no plates available in Nicaragua at the moment, so every 90 days I have to go stand in line at the transportation desk in the Rivas Police Station so they can stamp this temporary circulation and tell me to be patient a while longer. Since being pulled over for document checks is a frequent affair here, we've shown this paper to probably a dozen cops, every one of whom has wished us a nice trip and sent us on our way. Until now. So he starts getting out his book as if to write us up, and Pat gets angry, which makes the cop angry, so I get out asking him to show me what exactly is wrong with our plates, and he starts again about us needing the green card, and I launch into a polite but firm explanation of our situation, pointing out that we received the temporary card from a cop just like him, and that we've shown it to many other cops, just like him, and we are certain everything is in order, but if he has a problem, maybe we could call the police station, and if he just wants to give me his name…We're free to go? Why, thank you, sir. ¡Tenga un buen dia!
We went back up to the Laguna a last time to attend Etienne's fiesta. It seemed to go off as he'd hoped, with all the Harvard grads (it was a 40 yr. reunion) suitably impressed, happily sipping their drinks and lolling about in the pool. I met a few interesting people, including a woman called Geralyn who is down here working for Opportunities International. This is a 35 year+ org. similar to Kiva, and based on the Yunis principle of small loans, primarily to women. They are branching out a bit, however, and planning to start building high schools in rural areas, utilizing a sort of voc-ed, hands-on, real-life applicable model, and have selected Rivas as their first location. I immediately began advocating for Buenos Aires, as we have schools only to the 8th grade, and she agreed to come down and take a look. They want to emphasize agriculture and tourism, the two strengths of this part of the country. We'll see where it all goes, but it definitely looks like a project we could get involved in, one way or another.
Back down here in Rivas, we had the chance observe the mind-boggling inefficiency of the Rivas hospital first hand, after a kid slammed into the jeep on a bike. We were just trundling through town on a main road, at maybe 20 mph in rush hour traffic, when a blur through Pat's side window caught my attention. Before I could say anything, the blur transformed itself into a bicycle, flying out of a side street and completely refraining from either turning or stopping, choosing instead to plow directly into our left front bumper. There was the proverbial 'sickening thud', followed by the sight of the boy flying off the bike and landing just in front of the now frozen jeep. We both leapt out, hearts in mouths, to find the boy—now more clearly visible as a young man (he turned out to be 18) slowly getting up and limping to the curb. In just a few seconds a large crowd had gathered, and to my relief, several of them, who must have witnessed the whole thing, began berating the kid, asking him what the hell he'd been thinking, etc. Pat palpated his arms and legs, ascertaining nothing was broken, but concerns about internal injuries impelled us to take him to the hospital (where, it should be noted, he did NOT want to go, and only grudgingly agreed to accompany us at the urging of his friend and several bystanders). As we were pulling away, a pedal taxi went by and yelled, "Lucky bastard—now you'll get some money!" causing the kid to blush furiously, much to his credit. Anyway, we arrived at the hospital at 5:15pm, and while there were a few people milling about the waiting area, and we could make out sounds and movements through the curtains covering the glass doors to the examination area, it was a full 30 minutes before an old woman shuffled out and asked the boy if he had his admittance papers. When he said no, she said, "Oh, well, without them, you'll be here all day and night!" to which I replied, "No one has been out here to take his information—could you please find someone?" She stared at me for a minute with an expression much like mine would have been had the dying plant in the corner suddenly proposed the idea, then nodded and shuffled back inside. Another half hour went by. Finally a younger woman came out and beckoned him over. On what appeared to be a piece of scrap paper, she jotted down his name, address, age, and complaint (he said he's fallen off his bike) with a pencil stub, then told him to go inside and wait. In the 45 minutes that followed, I chatted with his friend, who'd been riding behind him, and who happily told me he had neither brakes nor particularly advanced riding skills. "He's always getting into accidents!" This statement was later borne out when we eventually pulled up to his house and just before we stopped, the boy, Juan, leaned forward and in a panicky whisper, pleaded with us not to say anything about anything to his mother, please!
Someone in a white coat pronounced him bruised but otherwise undamaged, and gave him four or five prescriptions for assorted painkillers and antibiotics. We filled them for him—I think it came to just over $3 for everything--then drove him home. Imagining how much worse it all could have been kept us preoccupied for days…even after various Nica friends told us it was Juan who had been lucky...apparently if we had been Nicas, we'd have gotten out, ascertained that he wasn't dead or severely injured, yelled at him for being careless, and driven off into the sunset, no doubt complaining loudly about being inconvenienced by riff raff.
Oh, the fuel strike has been "resolved", though I use the term loosely. From what I can understand, the Ortega government agreed to a price reduction of $1.30/gal. for diesel, and around $. 45/gal. for gas, but only for licensed public transportation drivers, such as busses and certain taxis. To offset the loss, fuel prices for the rest of the population have been steadily increasing all week, roughly $.05/day, so that as I write, a gallon of diesel is going for approximately $6.15/gal. and climbing. As you might imagine, people are not happy about this, and for the first time, we have been seeing the formerly unimaginable: posters of Daniel (Ortega) are starting to be vandalized. We passed one the other day on which was scrawled "Ignorant Dictator", and yet others in Granada where his face had been blacked out. All of this has made it increasingly difficult for all the Sandinista mayors, many of whom are up for re-election this fall, to campaign effectively. It may take more than free pink hats this time…last week in Buenos Aires, the local candidate gave away an entire bicycle!
Speaking of fuel, we had our own close encounter—with a kerosene-based mixture used by the city to fumigate before and during every rainy season. Basically, a guy in a GhostBusters get up, trudging from house to house and blasting this acrid poison into every nook and cranny. We had our first experience last spring, early one morning, still half-asleep, when we heard voices, and before we had time to react, our bedroom door burst open and we were coated with a blast of slick smoky spray. Pat yelled, I dove under the sheet, the door slammed shut, and we were left there wondering what the f**k just happened. At least this year, we were up and about, so when he showed up, we asked him not to spray our room. He did the rest of the house, resulting in a surprising number of melodramatic cockroach deaths throughout the morning, but no apparent reduction in either mosquitoes or ants, our two main pests.
Finally, a run-in with a bent traffic cop illustrated how far we've come, both in terms of experience and language acquisition, since our first experience soon after our arrival back in Feb. '07. We were waiting to turn left at a T-junction about 40 miles N. of Rivas, when Pat spotted a cop across the way. At first he just glanced at us and looked away, but as a line of cars forced us to wait to make our turn, he glanced again and this time realized we were not quite locals. Pat said, "He's going to wave us over." And sure enough, as we pulled out to turn, the little day-glo baton began twitching, and we slowed to a stop on the shoulder. He asked for our documents, now kept in a small Ziploc baggy against dust and moisture, and after a cursory glance, began telling us we didn't have the right circulation card for our plates. Well yeah, we know that, there are no plates available in Nicaragua at the moment, so every 90 days I have to go stand in line at the transportation desk in the Rivas Police Station so they can stamp this temporary circulation and tell me to be patient a while longer. Since being pulled over for document checks is a frequent affair here, we've shown this paper to probably a dozen cops, every one of whom has wished us a nice trip and sent us on our way. Until now. So he starts getting out his book as if to write us up, and Pat gets angry, which makes the cop angry, so I get out asking him to show me what exactly is wrong with our plates, and he starts again about us needing the green card, and I launch into a polite but firm explanation of our situation, pointing out that we received the temporary card from a cop just like him, and that we've shown it to many other cops, just like him, and we are certain everything is in order, but if he has a problem, maybe we could call the police station, and if he just wants to give me his name…We're free to go? Why, thank you, sir. ¡Tenga un buen dia!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
May 14, 2008
May 14, 2008
Free at last, free at last…after weeks up at the Laguna de Apoyo (6 for Pat; 3 for me), working our respective asses off, we've been liberated by the 'Belgian Vortex', our new name for Etienne. All in all, it was a good thing we did; we helped him out, moved him closer to the vague concept he has of "completion", and made the place presentable for his blowout fiesta Sun. May 18th. But man, we were ready to leave. We are trying hard not to dwell on the fact that we've accomplished next to nothing on our own place, hoping that in the month remaining to us, we will at least get ourselves somewhat ahead.
Things are a bit unstable in the country right now, thanks to a massive transportation strike. This is the result of the bus and taxi drivers finally having had enough of the exorbitant fuel prices, as much as $5.25/gal. To put that into proportion, as it represents roughly a day's wages for the average worker, tantamount to a US citizen paying $56/gal. based on a $7/hr min. wage. Imagine that! Taxistas need ten fares to make enough for one gallon. And what makes all of this really burn is that lower fuel prices were the cornerstone of Ortega's campaign platform, and a large part of what convinced 38% of the populace to re-elect him. He had big talk about his close relationship with Chavez, and how once he was in office, he would make Nicaragua friendly to the lower echelons once again. To prove his point, he distributed thousands of free bright pink baseball caps emblazoned with "¡Tu ganás! con FSLN" (You win with the Sandinistas!), and had massive billboards erected from coast to coast and border to border, 25 feet of Daniel, fist raised, announcing that the poor of the world were about to have their day. Needless to say, with some very minor exceptions, even his most loyal followers are more than a little disenchanted at the moment. And everyone else? Blockading major roads, and as of last night, burning delivery trucks entering Managua. Adding to the frustration of the masses is the apparent disappearance of $650 million. It came from Chavez, so they say, but the government refuses to account for where it went. Rumors range from the idealistic (it was used to pay off national debts), to the cynical (it's in an offshore account awaiting Daniel's retirement), with most people simply assuming it was distributed equitably amongst his cabal, and will never be seen again.
In the meantime, we are keeping our tank filled, and traveling only in daylight hours. This second adjustment after Pat decided to run down to Granada one night from the Laguna, a trip that usually takes 20 minutes, and arrived home five hours later. The road (there's just the one) was blocked by dozens of busses, and while there were police milling about, their role seemed limited to keeping the drivers from getting too unruly. When the busses finally pulled off the road to sleep for the night, Pat drove through, only to have some drunken strike supporter lob a brick at the jeep. It missed, but irritated him since on the whole, we support the strike, and along with the rest of the country, are hoping for a speedy resolution.
One of the perks of life at Etienne's work camp was the monkeys. Variously called 'howlers', for the amazing sounds they make, or 'congos', because they are sort of black, they are very entertaining. Most afternoons, a—what? tribe? group? pride? troop?—come down into the trees above and around the pool, and frolic for a few hours. The juveniles play about, practicing their swinging and branch-grabbing skills, while the older females hunch in small groups gossiping and picking fleas off each other. One or two males keep watch, while the patriarch, a large and very grouchy beast, perches above everyone making aggressive "ooh-ooh-ooh" noises. Once in a while they get spooked and in a blur, head for more distant trees, the mothers grabbing their young and flinging them up on their backs where their tiny hands cling on for dear life as mom flies through a sea of leaves, hardly seeming to touch each branch as she passes. And then, they're back, as thought nothing had happened.
Then there are the macaws and parrot, all of whom live up near the caretakers' apartment at the top of the drive. Most of the day they doze, emit strangled squawking noises, and entertain themselves by pulling the laundry off the line. But 5-7, a.m. and p.m., is their time to shine. They talk, sing, scream, fight, holler, whistle, bark, cough, and basically generate enough noise to make the idea of macaw fricassee sound very appealing. One of them has a substantial vocabulary, including "I love you", Buenos dias", "Chulita" (one of the dogs—and it really messes with her to hear her name over and over), "Walter" (the caretaker, of whom the birds are all very fond), and now, thanks to my efforts, "Patrick", but only when prompted (I repeat "Patrick" 27 times and eventually get a weak "Pat-tik" in return.)
The man responsible for our entering Etienne's orbit in the first place showed up with his wife a few days ago. His mother and mine are in Florida Pen Women together, and I've become friends with her as well (she's 93, and while her mind slips occasionally, she's still an amazing person.) When she learned we were to be spending time in Nicaragua, she insisted I get in touch with her son (David, who lives in Santa Cruz, CA), and from him, connect with one of his oldest friends who has lived down here for over 35 years. I did so, and now that I've met him and Clea (who's also know Etienne for years—he introduced the two of them!), and like them very much, I can hardly bring myself to blame them for encouraging our acquaintance with their megalomaniacal Belgian buddy. While Pat was finishing things up the other day, I went off sight-seeing with them around Masaya, a city south of Managua. We first hit the Artisan's Market, which I'd heard a lot about but we'd never gotten around to visiting. I'd envisioned typical Latin American mercado insanity, but in fact, it's clearly designed for the tourist crowd; clean, organized, quiet, and very pleasant, if a bit too sterile for my taste. Still, everything made or grown in Nicaragua (as well as Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala) is on display, from hammocks to headboards, cigars to ceramics. It's a bit of a maze, however, and Clea and I spent nearly an hour trying to find our way back to the one hammock vendor out of dozens that had the exact model she wanted. Mission accomplished, we found David, grabbed some lunch, and headed for the Masaya Volcano National Park.
Nicaragua is not called the "Land of Lakes and Volcanoes" for nothing; there are dozens of the craggy cones running the length of the country, many still active. Masaya is one of those, but due to a complete lack of concern for potential lawsuits, we were able to drive extremely close to the rim, and peer down into the massive smoldering crater. It was impressive, and bore a surprising resemblance to the volcano we saw on the Big Island of Hawaii a few years back. David reliably informed me that most volcanic zones looked alike, resulting in some discussion with Clea who pointed out this rule did not apply to Italy… The park had a sprawling and extremely informative visitor center, complete with scale-size models of all the volcanoes in the country, and detailed info on them all. There were samples of all the plants known to grow anywhere nearby, taxidermied animals, including a rather mangy miniature deer that bore a disconcerting likeness to Dan Quayle, and samples of the various types of volcanic rock, with their Hawaiian names proudly displayed. David, who spent the first 18 years of his life in Panama, followed by stints in the Dominican Rep., and Puerto Rico, and is very partial to these sorts of countries, said without a hint of malice, "There are definite signs of intelligence in this country", after being completely bowled over by the level of thought, detail, and scientific awareness poured into the displays. I think he was more impressed by Masaya than by the much more sophisticated and elegant, tourism-friendly city of Granada…
Finally, the rains are back. We had a deluge of such intensity last Saturday that all of Rivas lost power for 36 hours, and overnight, trees found their leaves and blossoms, dormant since late January. We hope this will not impede our progress on the house in the time we have left (since most of the work involves digging holes in the ground and burying things, a lot of rain could potentially make life difficult). I'll keep you posted.
Free at last, free at last…after weeks up at the Laguna de Apoyo (6 for Pat; 3 for me), working our respective asses off, we've been liberated by the 'Belgian Vortex', our new name for Etienne. All in all, it was a good thing we did; we helped him out, moved him closer to the vague concept he has of "completion", and made the place presentable for his blowout fiesta Sun. May 18th. But man, we were ready to leave. We are trying hard not to dwell on the fact that we've accomplished next to nothing on our own place, hoping that in the month remaining to us, we will at least get ourselves somewhat ahead.
Things are a bit unstable in the country right now, thanks to a massive transportation strike. This is the result of the bus and taxi drivers finally having had enough of the exorbitant fuel prices, as much as $5.25/gal. To put that into proportion, as it represents roughly a day's wages for the average worker, tantamount to a US citizen paying $56/gal. based on a $7/hr min. wage. Imagine that! Taxistas need ten fares to make enough for one gallon. And what makes all of this really burn is that lower fuel prices were the cornerstone of Ortega's campaign platform, and a large part of what convinced 38% of the populace to re-elect him. He had big talk about his close relationship with Chavez, and how once he was in office, he would make Nicaragua friendly to the lower echelons once again. To prove his point, he distributed thousands of free bright pink baseball caps emblazoned with "¡Tu ganás! con FSLN" (You win with the Sandinistas!), and had massive billboards erected from coast to coast and border to border, 25 feet of Daniel, fist raised, announcing that the poor of the world were about to have their day. Needless to say, with some very minor exceptions, even his most loyal followers are more than a little disenchanted at the moment. And everyone else? Blockading major roads, and as of last night, burning delivery trucks entering Managua. Adding to the frustration of the masses is the apparent disappearance of $650 million. It came from Chavez, so they say, but the government refuses to account for where it went. Rumors range from the idealistic (it was used to pay off national debts), to the cynical (it's in an offshore account awaiting Daniel's retirement), with most people simply assuming it was distributed equitably amongst his cabal, and will never be seen again.
In the meantime, we are keeping our tank filled, and traveling only in daylight hours. This second adjustment after Pat decided to run down to Granada one night from the Laguna, a trip that usually takes 20 minutes, and arrived home five hours later. The road (there's just the one) was blocked by dozens of busses, and while there were police milling about, their role seemed limited to keeping the drivers from getting too unruly. When the busses finally pulled off the road to sleep for the night, Pat drove through, only to have some drunken strike supporter lob a brick at the jeep. It missed, but irritated him since on the whole, we support the strike, and along with the rest of the country, are hoping for a speedy resolution.
One of the perks of life at Etienne's work camp was the monkeys. Variously called 'howlers', for the amazing sounds they make, or 'congos', because they are sort of black, they are very entertaining. Most afternoons, a—what? tribe? group? pride? troop?—come down into the trees above and around the pool, and frolic for a few hours. The juveniles play about, practicing their swinging and branch-grabbing skills, while the older females hunch in small groups gossiping and picking fleas off each other. One or two males keep watch, while the patriarch, a large and very grouchy beast, perches above everyone making aggressive "ooh-ooh-ooh" noises. Once in a while they get spooked and in a blur, head for more distant trees, the mothers grabbing their young and flinging them up on their backs where their tiny hands cling on for dear life as mom flies through a sea of leaves, hardly seeming to touch each branch as she passes. And then, they're back, as thought nothing had happened.
Then there are the macaws and parrot, all of whom live up near the caretakers' apartment at the top of the drive. Most of the day they doze, emit strangled squawking noises, and entertain themselves by pulling the laundry off the line. But 5-7, a.m. and p.m., is their time to shine. They talk, sing, scream, fight, holler, whistle, bark, cough, and basically generate enough noise to make the idea of macaw fricassee sound very appealing. One of them has a substantial vocabulary, including "I love you", Buenos dias", "Chulita" (one of the dogs—and it really messes with her to hear her name over and over), "Walter" (the caretaker, of whom the birds are all very fond), and now, thanks to my efforts, "Patrick", but only when prompted (I repeat "Patrick" 27 times and eventually get a weak "Pat-tik" in return.)
The man responsible for our entering Etienne's orbit in the first place showed up with his wife a few days ago. His mother and mine are in Florida Pen Women together, and I've become friends with her as well (she's 93, and while her mind slips occasionally, she's still an amazing person.) When she learned we were to be spending time in Nicaragua, she insisted I get in touch with her son (David, who lives in Santa Cruz, CA), and from him, connect with one of his oldest friends who has lived down here for over 35 years. I did so, and now that I've met him and Clea (who's also know Etienne for years—he introduced the two of them!), and like them very much, I can hardly bring myself to blame them for encouraging our acquaintance with their megalomaniacal Belgian buddy. While Pat was finishing things up the other day, I went off sight-seeing with them around Masaya, a city south of Managua. We first hit the Artisan's Market, which I'd heard a lot about but we'd never gotten around to visiting. I'd envisioned typical Latin American mercado insanity, but in fact, it's clearly designed for the tourist crowd; clean, organized, quiet, and very pleasant, if a bit too sterile for my taste. Still, everything made or grown in Nicaragua (as well as Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala) is on display, from hammocks to headboards, cigars to ceramics. It's a bit of a maze, however, and Clea and I spent nearly an hour trying to find our way back to the one hammock vendor out of dozens that had the exact model she wanted. Mission accomplished, we found David, grabbed some lunch, and headed for the Masaya Volcano National Park.
Nicaragua is not called the "Land of Lakes and Volcanoes" for nothing; there are dozens of the craggy cones running the length of the country, many still active. Masaya is one of those, but due to a complete lack of concern for potential lawsuits, we were able to drive extremely close to the rim, and peer down into the massive smoldering crater. It was impressive, and bore a surprising resemblance to the volcano we saw on the Big Island of Hawaii a few years back. David reliably informed me that most volcanic zones looked alike, resulting in some discussion with Clea who pointed out this rule did not apply to Italy… The park had a sprawling and extremely informative visitor center, complete with scale-size models of all the volcanoes in the country, and detailed info on them all. There were samples of all the plants known to grow anywhere nearby, taxidermied animals, including a rather mangy miniature deer that bore a disconcerting likeness to Dan Quayle, and samples of the various types of volcanic rock, with their Hawaiian names proudly displayed. David, who spent the first 18 years of his life in Panama, followed by stints in the Dominican Rep., and Puerto Rico, and is very partial to these sorts of countries, said without a hint of malice, "There are definite signs of intelligence in this country", after being completely bowled over by the level of thought, detail, and scientific awareness poured into the displays. I think he was more impressed by Masaya than by the much more sophisticated and elegant, tourism-friendly city of Granada…
Finally, the rains are back. We had a deluge of such intensity last Saturday that all of Rivas lost power for 36 hours, and overnight, trees found their leaves and blossoms, dormant since late January. We hope this will not impede our progress on the house in the time we have left (since most of the work involves digging holes in the ground and burying things, a lot of rain could potentially make life difficult). I'll keep you posted.
Friday, April 25, 2008
April 24, 2008
After an embarrassingly long hiatus, let's see if I remember how to do this…we'll begin with Kyra's arrival, back on March 11. (Kyra is a good friend of ours from Homer who decided to come down to give the people of Bluefields a lesson in beekeeping, and to spend some time with us.)
Pat and I arrived in Managua early, and so spent a couple hours waiting at the restaurant of the Best Western hotel, conveniently located directly across the street from the airport. This decision cost us $35 in food and drinks—an outrageous sum anywhere outside this little isla of Gringolandia. Fortunately, Kyra arrived on time and in tact, schlepping two ancient army duffle bags primarily full of—yep—hats. We spent the night at Norma's, an old friend of Edwin's family (and godmother of Milagro), then returned to the airport the next morning to catch a small plane to Bluefields. If you're unsure of where exactly Bluefields is located, and don't have your atlas handy, just run an imaginary line due east completely across the country, until you hit the Atlantic Ocean, and you will find Bluefields. The name comes from the Anglicization of Bloefeldt, the Dutch captain who first decided it looked like a good place to be. It is populated by a variety of races and ethnic groups, including the Miskito and several other groups of Indians, decedents of African slaves, British traders and sailors, and Mestizos, any mix of Spanish and indigenous blood. English is one of the dominant languages, although it's spoken with a distinct patois that takes some getting used to. The majority speak Spanish as well, along with Miskito and various other indigenous languages. The main thing I noticed was that no one seemed the least bit interested in us—and I mean that in a good way. In Rivas, we always stand out, especially women. So it is pretty much a given that after I leave the house, and before I arrive at my destination, I will have been greeted, shouted at, whistled at, hooted at, complimented, proposed to, insulted, and airily kissed—even when Pat is with me. But in Bluefields, Kyra and I were invisible, and it was lovely. This is not to say the people were in the least unfriendly. On the contrary, everyone we met was warm and welcoming, even after learning we were neither missionaries nor wealthy tourists.
The plane ride took just over an hour, and allowed us to see the island Omotepe from a radically different perspective. And then, after 45 minutes or so of geometrically splattered farms and fairly rugged terrain, the Atlantic appeared, brilliant and vast and somehow very different from the Pacific just a couple hundred miles away. Bluefields itself appeared to sprawl across the hills, around a large curving bay, bright and colorful even from the air. We were met by Luvianis (known as Luvi), and a cousin, making us a party of five plus a driver, all of whom were expected to fit into one of the tiny, ubiquitous Hyundai taxis that careen through the narrow crowded streets at alarming rates. We were deposited on a corner, alongside a sign reading "Do Not Throw Garbage Here", precariously balanced atop a substantial mound of….garbage. From there, the road became a narrow concrete path, meandering its way down and down, between closely built houses and shacks, snaking its way jaggedly amidst barbed wire fences and sturdy white pickets, before at last terminating at a large wooden gate. Beyond the gate: Luvi's family's place. Theirs is not a large lot, but it is right on the water. Their house, a simple wooden box, sits partially on solid ground, partially on stilts above the rocks and waves. A boardwalk runs the length of the house, continuing past the cozy bungalow Pablo, Luvi's father, built for Brad and Ruth, the missionary couple who spends alternate months down there, primarily working with local children. They had kindly invited us to stay in their place as it was their month to be in Costa Rica.
While Kyra and I settled in, Pat immediately made himself useful helping Pablo and his crew offload several dozen freshly caught nurse sharks from the panga, a 35' long open fiberglass boat, used by everyone, for everything throughout Central America. Pablo is one of Bluefields most successful fishermen, boasting a solid reputation for quality and reliability in a very competitive market. The nurse sharks are valued not only for their solid, flavorful meat, but to a greater extent for their fins, which are sold to the Chinese for upwards of $25/lb. Pablo also fishes for assorted other local fish, such as snook (robalo) and snapper, but the real money is in lobster, and it was on that subject he approached Pat on the third or fourth day of our stay, once it had been established we all liked each other. At present, he goes for lobster the traditional way: with oxygen tanks and crooked rods. He does very well like this, but his catch is understandably limited. His plan is simple: traps. 200 of them eventually (he can take around 12-15 per trip in the panga). And since any trap marked with a buoy would immediately be pulled by the unscrupulous, he would need to drop the markers at least 30' below the surface, requiring a GPS with a mapping function to locate them. He has proposed that in exchange for advancing him the funds he needs to purchase the GPS and materials to build the traps, he will pay us back a percentage of every haul, plus 10%. Ideally, he needs around $4000 to make this happen. Obviously, this is a wee bit beyond our means. Pat suggested he start with perhaps 50 traps and see how it goes. We are awaiting his reply.
And then it was bee time. Kyra had come prepared to show the willing how to build bee-boxes, how to find actual bees to populate the boxes, and how to harvest the honey. She got to do all of these, although her only student turned out to be Monje, Pablo's father. But he was a very, very good student. First on the agenda was locating some willing bees. Monje had done his research, and had found three possibilities: 1) in a hole in the ground, 2) in an abandoned piece of machinery, and 3) in someone's roof. Kyra opted for the hole in the ground first, and was pleasantly surprised to find a colony of very docile bees a foot or so below the surface. We returned to Pablo's to begin construction of a bee box, assisted by Monje, Pablo, Santos, one of Pablo's cousins, and Bruno, a decrepit old nutter who complained constantly and expected financial compensation for every action—invited or no. Monje kept him in check for the most part, and I silenced him for a while by giving him a loaf of coconut bread. This band of brothers, under Kyra's guidance, constructed a very respectable bee box, which we then loaded onto the panga and ferried to the general vicinity of the hive. Once on site, Kyra began smoking out the bees, fearlessly sticking her face into the hive, along with her hand and most of her arm. Before long, she was removing honeycomb panels, which she showed Monje and Bruno how to tie to the new bee box, a move which would encourage the bees to make the move voluntarily. After an hour or so, when over a dozen panels had been removed and reattached in their new location, she reached the conclusion that this was a dying hive: it had no queen. But she told them to leave the new hive and to check on it from time to time; it was always possible that a swarm would find it and take it over.
Option 2, the machinery, was rejected as unsuitable, leaving us to tromp over to option 3,
a rooftop infestation. The house, a large, modern place, was owned by a couple who work on cruise ships, and was being cared for by the woman's uncle, a large black man with a nearly impenetrable accent, making his Spanish easier to understand than his English. He was very kind, and grateful that we (well, Kyra) had come to help rid him of the incessant buzzing and regular stings his unwelcome guests contributed. As it turned out, nearly a quarter of the sizeable roof was a massive hive, and from the number of dripping combs Kyra pulled out, a very active one as well. Night fell quickly, so we left it for the following morning—a mistake, as it turned out. While we spent our evening being dressed up in foolish disco clothes and dragged to Bluefields premiere dance hotspot, a second swarm had become aroused by the activity, and declared war. When we arrived just after sunup, the sky above the house was blackened by tens of thousands of very distraught bees. Kyra donned her protective gear, lit up the pile of dried grass she had been using for smoke, and jumped into the fray. Bees were plummeting down on us, staggering drunkenly around our feet, and shooting off in all directions. After about an hour, Kyra located the queen—a large, blond, and according to Kyra, very fecund beastie. Just as Kyra had her lightly grasped in her fist, she burst out and disappeared into the jungle. Kyra was devastated; after all that time and effort, to have trapped the queen would have secured the success of the new hive (the boys had built a second box), as well as eliminated the hive from the roof. There is a considerable chance that the queen will return to her clan, and finding the box there, make it her new home. Monje promised to check back frequently and keep us posted.
Between all the bee activity, we did get to see some of the area. Felipa, Luvi's mother, lead us around one morning, on a tour of the city itself. It has the feeling of the old West, with closely packed wooden building, and no shortage of saloon-style watering holes. And while reggae is popular, Hank Williams rules, at least when he's not drowned out by hiphop. We got to try coconut bread, which isn't remotely coconutty, but is still delicious. And we were fed 'rondon', a local specialty made with coconut milk and whatever else is handy; picture a sort of Thai soup, without the curry. The family piled us into the panga and took us first to see their farm, several hundred acres about an hour's ride up an estuary. The land is undeveloped now, but they have big plans—including a bee operation. And finally, just hours before boarding the plane home, we got to see the Atlantic Ocean, walk the beach, splash in the waves. It was the first day of Semana Santa (Holy Week), so there were small thatched-roof restaurants and bars set up, each blasting its particular genre of music. We chose one, ordered some beers and sodas, and relaxed, feeling it was well-deserved after the bee-frenzied days we'd endured.
Once back from Bluefields, things didn't slow down much. We took Kyra to Granada and Laguna de Apoyo, then finally back to Buenos Aires, in time for Semana Santa. We spent a lot of time out at our house, on the beach, hanging with local friends, playing with all the kids. On the last Sunday of the week, Edwin's family and some friends took us to Marsella, an amazingly uncrowded but very beautiful beach on the Pacific. We found a little thatched beach hut to shield us from the blazing sun, and spent the day swimming in both the ocean, with its crashing waves, and a nearby estuary, flat and calm, and ideal for the kids. We distributed hats (in Bluefields, too, we passed out some, and left around 40 with Pablo and Felipa, to give out to the families in the area, and the kids Brad and Ruth work with), took lots of pictures, ate too much, drank too much, and generally celebrated Holy Week like native Nicas. Towards the end of her stay, we took our bikes across to Ometepe Island, and nearly killed ourselves peddling halfway around the island in the heat of the day—poor planning on our part due to time constraints—something you should never have when traveling in Nicaragua. We spent Kyra's last night back up in Managua, this time at Christina's (Edwin's cousin's) house. They took us to a traditional Nica restaurant, where Kyra ordered a mixed plate and was presented with enough food for a small village, including blood sausage, twice-fried plantain slices, spicy sausage, grilled pork chunks, fried pork fat, and hunks of salty but tasty cheese. She impressed everyone by polishing off more than half—the rest was packed up for Pat for his trip home the next day. And for her final adventure, after I was on my way to visit friends and family on a 7am flight, as Pat drove her to the airport a few hours later, they were pulled over for an imaginary violation ("You ran a red light." "It was yellow." "You're still supposed to stop." Sure.), which cost three times the going rate to get out of—a fat $18.
Throughout my three weeks in the States, Pat has been here, where I am now, in Laguna de Apoyo, helping out a new friend with his building project. It was supposed to be ten days, but as we enter the fourth week, he is starting to get a bit antsy, the time remaining to work on our own house eking away. Nevertheless, this is an amazing place, constructed from stone and concrete, the work of an architect with an unlimited imagination. I'll put in a couple pictures, but they don't do it justice. We hope to head home by the weekend, and resume some sort of "normal" life, get the house further along, and enjoy the two months remaining to us here.
Pat and I arrived in Managua early, and so spent a couple hours waiting at the restaurant of the Best Western hotel, conveniently located directly across the street from the airport. This decision cost us $35 in food and drinks—an outrageous sum anywhere outside this little isla of Gringolandia. Fortunately, Kyra arrived on time and in tact, schlepping two ancient army duffle bags primarily full of—yep—hats. We spent the night at Norma's, an old friend of Edwin's family (and godmother of Milagro), then returned to the airport the next morning to catch a small plane to Bluefields. If you're unsure of where exactly Bluefields is located, and don't have your atlas handy, just run an imaginary line due east completely across the country, until you hit the Atlantic Ocean, and you will find Bluefields. The name comes from the Anglicization of Bloefeldt, the Dutch captain who first decided it looked like a good place to be. It is populated by a variety of races and ethnic groups, including the Miskito and several other groups of Indians, decedents of African slaves, British traders and sailors, and Mestizos, any mix of Spanish and indigenous blood. English is one of the dominant languages, although it's spoken with a distinct patois that takes some getting used to. The majority speak Spanish as well, along with Miskito and various other indigenous languages. The main thing I noticed was that no one seemed the least bit interested in us—and I mean that in a good way. In Rivas, we always stand out, especially women. So it is pretty much a given that after I leave the house, and before I arrive at my destination, I will have been greeted, shouted at, whistled at, hooted at, complimented, proposed to, insulted, and airily kissed—even when Pat is with me. But in Bluefields, Kyra and I were invisible, and it was lovely. This is not to say the people were in the least unfriendly. On the contrary, everyone we met was warm and welcoming, even after learning we were neither missionaries nor wealthy tourists.
The plane ride took just over an hour, and allowed us to see the island Omotepe from a radically different perspective. And then, after 45 minutes or so of geometrically splattered farms and fairly rugged terrain, the Atlantic appeared, brilliant and vast and somehow very different from the Pacific just a couple hundred miles away. Bluefields itself appeared to sprawl across the hills, around a large curving bay, bright and colorful even from the air. We were met by Luvianis (known as Luvi), and a cousin, making us a party of five plus a driver, all of whom were expected to fit into one of the tiny, ubiquitous Hyundai taxis that careen through the narrow crowded streets at alarming rates. We were deposited on a corner, alongside a sign reading "Do Not Throw Garbage Here", precariously balanced atop a substantial mound of….garbage. From there, the road became a narrow concrete path, meandering its way down and down, between closely built houses and shacks, snaking its way jaggedly amidst barbed wire fences and sturdy white pickets, before at last terminating at a large wooden gate. Beyond the gate: Luvi's family's place. Theirs is not a large lot, but it is right on the water. Their house, a simple wooden box, sits partially on solid ground, partially on stilts above the rocks and waves. A boardwalk runs the length of the house, continuing past the cozy bungalow Pablo, Luvi's father, built for Brad and Ruth, the missionary couple who spends alternate months down there, primarily working with local children. They had kindly invited us to stay in their place as it was their month to be in Costa Rica.
While Kyra and I settled in, Pat immediately made himself useful helping Pablo and his crew offload several dozen freshly caught nurse sharks from the panga, a 35' long open fiberglass boat, used by everyone, for everything throughout Central America. Pablo is one of Bluefields most successful fishermen, boasting a solid reputation for quality and reliability in a very competitive market. The nurse sharks are valued not only for their solid, flavorful meat, but to a greater extent for their fins, which are sold to the Chinese for upwards of $25/lb. Pablo also fishes for assorted other local fish, such as snook (robalo) and snapper, but the real money is in lobster, and it was on that subject he approached Pat on the third or fourth day of our stay, once it had been established we all liked each other. At present, he goes for lobster the traditional way: with oxygen tanks and crooked rods. He does very well like this, but his catch is understandably limited. His plan is simple: traps. 200 of them eventually (he can take around 12-15 per trip in the panga). And since any trap marked with a buoy would immediately be pulled by the unscrupulous, he would need to drop the markers at least 30' below the surface, requiring a GPS with a mapping function to locate them. He has proposed that in exchange for advancing him the funds he needs to purchase the GPS and materials to build the traps, he will pay us back a percentage of every haul, plus 10%. Ideally, he needs around $4000 to make this happen. Obviously, this is a wee bit beyond our means. Pat suggested he start with perhaps 50 traps and see how it goes. We are awaiting his reply.
And then it was bee time. Kyra had come prepared to show the willing how to build bee-boxes, how to find actual bees to populate the boxes, and how to harvest the honey. She got to do all of these, although her only student turned out to be Monje, Pablo's father. But he was a very, very good student. First on the agenda was locating some willing bees. Monje had done his research, and had found three possibilities: 1) in a hole in the ground, 2) in an abandoned piece of machinery, and 3) in someone's roof. Kyra opted for the hole in the ground first, and was pleasantly surprised to find a colony of very docile bees a foot or so below the surface. We returned to Pablo's to begin construction of a bee box, assisted by Monje, Pablo, Santos, one of Pablo's cousins, and Bruno, a decrepit old nutter who complained constantly and expected financial compensation for every action—invited or no. Monje kept him in check for the most part, and I silenced him for a while by giving him a loaf of coconut bread. This band of brothers, under Kyra's guidance, constructed a very respectable bee box, which we then loaded onto the panga and ferried to the general vicinity of the hive. Once on site, Kyra began smoking out the bees, fearlessly sticking her face into the hive, along with her hand and most of her arm. Before long, she was removing honeycomb panels, which she showed Monje and Bruno how to tie to the new bee box, a move which would encourage the bees to make the move voluntarily. After an hour or so, when over a dozen panels had been removed and reattached in their new location, she reached the conclusion that this was a dying hive: it had no queen. But she told them to leave the new hive and to check on it from time to time; it was always possible that a swarm would find it and take it over.
Option 2, the machinery, was rejected as unsuitable, leaving us to tromp over to option 3,
a rooftop infestation. The house, a large, modern place, was owned by a couple who work on cruise ships, and was being cared for by the woman's uncle, a large black man with a nearly impenetrable accent, making his Spanish easier to understand than his English. He was very kind, and grateful that we (well, Kyra) had come to help rid him of the incessant buzzing and regular stings his unwelcome guests contributed. As it turned out, nearly a quarter of the sizeable roof was a massive hive, and from the number of dripping combs Kyra pulled out, a very active one as well. Night fell quickly, so we left it for the following morning—a mistake, as it turned out. While we spent our evening being dressed up in foolish disco clothes and dragged to Bluefields premiere dance hotspot, a second swarm had become aroused by the activity, and declared war. When we arrived just after sunup, the sky above the house was blackened by tens of thousands of very distraught bees. Kyra donned her protective gear, lit up the pile of dried grass she had been using for smoke, and jumped into the fray. Bees were plummeting down on us, staggering drunkenly around our feet, and shooting off in all directions. After about an hour, Kyra located the queen—a large, blond, and according to Kyra, very fecund beastie. Just as Kyra had her lightly grasped in her fist, she burst out and disappeared into the jungle. Kyra was devastated; after all that time and effort, to have trapped the queen would have secured the success of the new hive (the boys had built a second box), as well as eliminated the hive from the roof. There is a considerable chance that the queen will return to her clan, and finding the box there, make it her new home. Monje promised to check back frequently and keep us posted.
Between all the bee activity, we did get to see some of the area. Felipa, Luvi's mother, lead us around one morning, on a tour of the city itself. It has the feeling of the old West, with closely packed wooden building, and no shortage of saloon-style watering holes. And while reggae is popular, Hank Williams rules, at least when he's not drowned out by hiphop. We got to try coconut bread, which isn't remotely coconutty, but is still delicious. And we were fed 'rondon', a local specialty made with coconut milk and whatever else is handy; picture a sort of Thai soup, without the curry. The family piled us into the panga and took us first to see their farm, several hundred acres about an hour's ride up an estuary. The land is undeveloped now, but they have big plans—including a bee operation. And finally, just hours before boarding the plane home, we got to see the Atlantic Ocean, walk the beach, splash in the waves. It was the first day of Semana Santa (Holy Week), so there were small thatched-roof restaurants and bars set up, each blasting its particular genre of music. We chose one, ordered some beers and sodas, and relaxed, feeling it was well-deserved after the bee-frenzied days we'd endured.
Once back from Bluefields, things didn't slow down much. We took Kyra to Granada and Laguna de Apoyo, then finally back to Buenos Aires, in time for Semana Santa. We spent a lot of time out at our house, on the beach, hanging with local friends, playing with all the kids. On the last Sunday of the week, Edwin's family and some friends took us to Marsella, an amazingly uncrowded but very beautiful beach on the Pacific. We found a little thatched beach hut to shield us from the blazing sun, and spent the day swimming in both the ocean, with its crashing waves, and a nearby estuary, flat and calm, and ideal for the kids. We distributed hats (in Bluefields, too, we passed out some, and left around 40 with Pablo and Felipa, to give out to the families in the area, and the kids Brad and Ruth work with), took lots of pictures, ate too much, drank too much, and generally celebrated Holy Week like native Nicas. Towards the end of her stay, we took our bikes across to Ometepe Island, and nearly killed ourselves peddling halfway around the island in the heat of the day—poor planning on our part due to time constraints—something you should never have when traveling in Nicaragua. We spent Kyra's last night back up in Managua, this time at Christina's (Edwin's cousin's) house. They took us to a traditional Nica restaurant, where Kyra ordered a mixed plate and was presented with enough food for a small village, including blood sausage, twice-fried plantain slices, spicy sausage, grilled pork chunks, fried pork fat, and hunks of salty but tasty cheese. She impressed everyone by polishing off more than half—the rest was packed up for Pat for his trip home the next day. And for her final adventure, after I was on my way to visit friends and family on a 7am flight, as Pat drove her to the airport a few hours later, they were pulled over for an imaginary violation ("You ran a red light." "It was yellow." "You're still supposed to stop." Sure.), which cost three times the going rate to get out of—a fat $18.
Throughout my three weeks in the States, Pat has been here, where I am now, in Laguna de Apoyo, helping out a new friend with his building project. It was supposed to be ten days, but as we enter the fourth week, he is starting to get a bit antsy, the time remaining to work on our own house eking away. Nevertheless, this is an amazing place, constructed from stone and concrete, the work of an architect with an unlimited imagination. I'll put in a couple pictures, but they don't do it justice. We hope to head home by the weekend, and resume some sort of "normal" life, get the house further along, and enjoy the two months remaining to us here.
Monday, March 10, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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.
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