Nicaragua Ain’t for Sissies

 “Nicaragua ain’t for sissies, but it’s got a lot of soul. Folks accustomed to life in the US need an incredibly adventurous spirit if they are to adjust to Nicaragua. Life is challenging here,  for everyone. If you’re from the US,  forget the creature comforts of home. But the reward is that one develops intimate relationships with the people and the land, and these will fill one’s heart forever” ~ Silvio Sirias

He’s right, you know. Nicaragua ain’t for sissies. When the water stops running just as you step in the shower or start a load of wash, the electricity blinks off near the end of your favorite movie,  and the lack of a reliable infrastructure rears its ugly head…

When the fiery dragon breathes down upon the land in March and April, and the only relief is to stick your head in the freezer, find a shade tree, go swimming, or spend an hour in the air-conditioned ATM…
When you make an appointment and the office is closed for a two-hour lunch, or “manana” means today, tomorrow, or a year from now, or you wait in a long line at the bank, only to have ten people step in front of you because there is a SPACE …
Don’t be surprised if your frustrations melt away, and are replaced by contagious chuckles and a ‘knowing’ smile because…..
Nicaragua is a country of poets, artists, and lovers. There are no strangers, everyone is welcome.
Generosity, creativity, and a simple zest for life abounds. Smiles are freely passed along the dusty trails. Adios means hello and goodbye.
Passion and humor light up every face. Sometimes, you just gotta laugh in the land of the not quite right.
Frustrations? Yes. However, the rewards of developing intimate relationships with the people and the land far surpass my frustrations. My heart is full; I am sitting on top of the world.
If you would like to read more about the Nicaraguan author, Silvio Sirias, click HERE.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Parades of Culture

If you really want to experience the culture in Nicaragua, then go to a parade. Bombas burst, drummers rat-tat-a-tat, horns blast soulfully, and vendors shout enthusiastically. Vibrant colors assault the eyes, while smells of perfumed flowers and freshly shampooed hair swirl through the crowds. Sweat drops on freshly pressed costumes, children lick  melted drips of ice cream from their chins, while La Gigantona entices the crowds with fruit laden hats and remembrances of traditions of long ago.  Everyone loves parades in Nicaragua…and I’m no exception.

A Piñata Kinda Day

Sayid turned one year old in October. In honor of his first birthday, we were invited to a modest celebration, which included his initiation into the world of piñatas. His mother made a small orange carrot piñata. But, when she showed it to him the morning of his first birthday, he burst into tears and wailed like a pig going to slaughter.

I can understand his fear because according to the Catholic interpretation of the piñata, it symbolizes man’s struggle against temptation. The traditional piñata has seven points, which represent the seven deadly sins. To me, it resembles Sputnik, whirling around in space forever reminding us of our greed, sloth, pride, envy, gluttony, lust, and anger. No wonder the Nicaraguans named the famous land grab of the Sandinistas  “La Piñata”. After losing the 1990 election, the Sandinistas frantically confiscated property and government funds sharing their bounty among themselves.

With preparations for the fiesta underway, balloons “chimbombas” inflated like the rising cost of frioles, cooks flipped tortillas like IHOP professionals, and a political rally down the street seduced party goers with ear-piercing music and fireworks minus the sparkling fire. But, they soon returned when they discovered there was no piñata. For the piñata is the life of the party… the soul hidden among clusters of candy… seducing and reminding good Catholics everywhere to heed temptations that could lead to a life of misery.

Adults with sharp machetes whittled sticks of various sizes for the fiesta clad participants. When it was time to begin the celebration, Sayid swung his miniature stick at the swaying piñata with glee and determination. Older children, blindfolded to represent their faith, wiggled their hips to the ear thumping music, while adults tuned them in circles several times to represent the disorientation that temptation creates.

Whacking the piñata over and over, symbolically portrays the struggle against temptations and evils. When the piñata finally broke, the forlorn look on the children’s faces said it all. Where was the prize, the treats that represented keeping the faith? Ron and Francisco frantically searched through the shredded piñata and discovered the candy tightly wrapped in the head of the carrot. A few more strong whacks, and the candy showered the faithful children. The day was saved!

Some say that the piñata has lost its religious significance, but I don’t agree considering how many birthday parties I’ve attended in Nicaragua. Birthday parties ooze religious significance. After the broken piñata, the mountains of food, and the exceptionally long birthday song over Sayid’s first chocolate chip cake, I asked Francisco why the gifts were not opened in front of the guests. He said without a thought,  “It is a sin.” “I don’t understand why it is a sin,” I questioned. His response was, “We believe in the act of giving regardless of how small the gift. We would never embarrass anyone who offers something small, for all gifts, regardless of size, are gifts from God.” Now, that’s what I call a piñata kinda day!

Weekly Photo Challenge: Happy Masks

“I wish everyday could be Halloween. We could all wear masks all the time. Then we could walk around and get to know each other before we got to see what we looked like under the masks.” ~ R.J. Palacio

Masks fascinate me and make me happy.  They are reflections of unique cultures, worn like bridges from the outer phenomenal world to the inner person. Embossed with bold colors and expressions, masks evoke many reactions to the beholder, but for me, they always make me smile in wonder.  Masks are the poetry of a culture, the exquisite spirits of the past, and entertaining portrayals of our inner emotions.

Enjoy the masks of Nicaragua. I hope they make you smile.

And this just in! Nicaragua is the 8th happiest country in the world! Click here.

A Molotov New Year

The Molotov Scarecrow

You’ve probably heard of the Molotov cocktail, but I doubt that you’ve heard of a Molotov scarecrow. The Molotov cocktail originated in the 1930′s during the Spanish Civil War. General Francisco Franco’s Spanish Nationalist army threw the incendiary weapons at Soviet tanks. Upstaging the Spanish Nationalists, the Nicaraguans devised an ingenious method to usher in the new year.

Munecos

A boisterous tradition is to ‘burn the old’ year. Old men, called muñecos, are crafted and stuffed with gunpowder. The dolls are adorned with vices, such as cigars, cigarettes, and guaron ( homemade moonshine). The old men are hung in the streets, and when the new year arrives, they burn them. All of their vices explode in a flame of glory. It’s a spectacular good riddance to the old year!

Next year, I’m going to slightly alter the tradition. I’m going to design a muñeca ( an old woman doll). I have a year to think about stuffing her with my vices. As Cory says, “No more resolutions, just live the dream.”  It sure sounds easier to blow up my vices immediately, instead of making New Year’s resolutions that I’ll probably never fulfill.

Happy New Year everyone! My hopes and wishes for all are to follow your chosen path, but don’t stop too long to debate on whether you’ve chosen the right direction. Someday, our paths will come to an end. In the meantime, gently tend to the needs of your path, live with passion, explore with love, and let your vices explode into a million tiny pieces.

 

It’s a Beautiful Day in This Neighborhood

Steven helps Ron

You know how a song gets stuck in your head and you hum it all day long?
Yesterday, as I was raking and burning the mango leaves, Mr. Roger’s song, “It’s a Beautiful Day in This Neighborhood” cycled repeatedly through my brain. If you have forgotten the words:

“It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?…

It’s a neighborly day in this beauty wood,
A neighborly day for a beauty.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?…

I’ve always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So, let’s make the most of this beautiful day.
Since we’re together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

Won’t you please,
Won’t you please?
Please won’t you be my neighbor?”
― Fred Rogers

Mister Rogers had two distinct neighborhoods on his show: The Neighborhood of Make-Believe and The Real Neighborhood. The Neighborhood of Make-Believe was comprised of puppets, where each character played a role much more complex than one would think.

Yesterday, I felt like I was living in The Neighborhood of Make-Believe. With each bar I hummed, more and more neighborhood kids arrived to play in our gringo world of make-believe. Steven, the two-year-old, crawled under the fence and toddled over to our house wearing his cloth diapers. He reminded me of the character, Daniel Striped Tiger, in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. Like Daniel Striped Tiger, Steven is shy, yet affectionate and loving when he gets to know you. Ron plopped him in the wheelbarrow and Steven helped him dig a trench and drop bricks and stones into the trench for a needed retaining wall. Steven’s favorite greeting is “guapa” ( the female adjective for handsome). In fact, everything is “guapa”. “Steven, do you want some lunch?” I asked. “Guapa”, he responded.  “Steven, do you want to color?”  “Guapa,” he said. “Steven, your diaper is dirty. You can’t sit on my couch.”  “Guapa”, he replied as he plopped down on my couch with a giggle.

Christian (10 years old) and Reyna (12 years old) arrived to play with Cory and Sam, but Cory and Sam weren’t here, so they hung out with the old gringos.  Christian reminds me of Cornflake S. Pecially because, like Cornflake, she is good-natured, inventive, and industrious. I showed her how to cut the grass with my sickle. It took a few swings to perfect her stroke, and in no time the grass was flying. She’d make a wicked golfer.

Reyna reminds me of Hula Mouse. Hula Mouse was a Spanish speaking character that could do many wondrous things with his hula hoop. Cory and Sam had their slack-line suspended between two trees (It is similar to a flat tight rope), and Reyna demonstrated her keen sense of balance in walking the slack-line.

Johnson showed up with a sack of bananas for us. Yesterday was his birthday. Johnson comes to our house every Sunday and Ron teaches him  English, as well as trains him for marathons. Johnson is like Prince Friday. He is curious, interested in his schoolwork, dedicated, and very respectful.

Julio arrived with his machete. I have been asking him to machete our yard for us for days. Remember, we have no lawn mowers on the island ( and only a few in the entire country). Julio is Bob Dog, the lovable, good-hearted, and rather timid dog, who loves to howl. Like Bob Dog, Julio is shy around girls and sometimes gets confused when things get complicated (especially when we are all speaking English). Julio is practically part of our family. We’ve known him since he was 9 years old. His birthday is next Tuesday and he will be 19 years old. He also is graduating from high school. There will be a dual celebration, his family has a big fiesta planned for Saturday. I’m making a chocolate cake…Julio’s favorite.

There were probably a dozen other people that showed up at our house yesterday. Marvin, my iron man, measured my kitchen walls for two more projects. Santiago stopped by to pick up a memory card I purchased for him in the states. He’s going to help Ron with his retaining wall in lieu of paying us money for the memory card. Roberto arrived in his truck to pick up some gravel and barbed wire for Izzy. Izzy, from Australia,  is staying with Roberto and she is building a little earth bag house for herself on Roberto’s property. Too many visitors to remember…but that’s the way it usually is in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. I love the spontaneity.

If I had to compare myself to a character in The Neighborhood of Make-Believe, I would say I am most like Harriette Elizabeth Cow. She was the school teacher at the school house at Some Place Else. She is a kindly  teacher who has a warm relationship with her students and likes to help them in interesting ways. Yep…that’s me.

Comparing Ron to a character is a little more difficult. He is a blend of several characters. He could be part Edgar Cooke, the chef at the castle. Edgar Cooke generally sang his messages in a minor key. Ron…poor Ron, loves to sing, but he is tone deaf. His messages shriek in a low pitched song, making all the neighbors giggle behind his back. He is definitely not like King Friday XIII. King Friday XIII ruled in a regal and pompous manner. So unlike Ron, mi esposo. Instead, I think he has many virtues and qualities like Mister Rogers. He is a gentle, compassionate, creative, and virtuous man. Yep, that’s Ron.

My trip to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe must come to an end, now. It’s time for me to return to the Real Neighborhood, where I’ll take on new roles. Today, I’m Miss Paulificate, who had a cleaning service and was always seen with a duster. My duster is my little whisk broom. Ron will return to the Real Neighborhood playing the role of Handyman Negri, who was the royal handyman and always available to help with repairs around the kingdom.

Mister Rogers always ended each episode with the song, “Tomorrow, Tomorrow”. Now, I’ll have that song stuck in my head all day. Here’s to starting each day with a song or two, and a smile!

 

 

 

 

 

Our First Nicaraguan Thanksgiving

I am in travel mode again. I’m headed to Florida with my mother and step-father, then back to Nicaragua. While I am traveling, enjoy a story I wrote about our first Thanksgiving in Nicaragua in 2004.

Seven years later, many things have changed, while many things stay the same. I’m hoping that I will be able to buy a frozen turkey on the mainland this year. A new airport is almost finished where the old airstrip used to be. Norman still drives his truck around broadcasting the local news. Tourists still die climbing our volcanoes. (The two boys lost on Vulcan Maderas in 2004 were found dead, three weeks later) Our electricity is still sporadic. Yet, for all that remains the same…I wouldn’t trade it for a mansion or a million dollars. Home is where the heart is…and my heart is embedded on Ometepe Island.

Our 2004 Thanksgiving Dinner

A Nicaraguan Thanksgiving

November 24, 2004

            The biggest problems we have encountered in living on Ometepe are speculation and rumors.  Lacking a local newspaper, radio station, or television station, the islanders have to rely on information from an outside source to keep them abreast of current conditions on the home front.  If there is a death, birth, wedding, political rally, or a new bank in Moyogalpa, someone hires Norma’s son to broadcast the announcement.  He hops into his beat up old Nissan truck with two giant speakers in the bed and travels the rutted roads blasting the news, which is gratefully appreciated by even the most auditory challenged listeners.  However, Norma’s son only delivers local Moyogalpa news, so anyone needing information about other parts of the island has to rely on media that isn’t always accurate.  Such was the case on Thanksgiving Day.

A week before Thanksgiving, Ron and I were on a wild chompipe chase, ‘a wild turkey chase’.  I wanted a turkey for Thanksgiving, even though we have no oven to cook it.   Necessity is the mother of invention, so I had a plan to roast it in a big hole that we would dig in the sand on our beach.  Things didn’t turn out as I had planned because, although we found a live turkey, Ron wanted no part of my plan and refused to bother with such a massive production.  However, a day before Thanksgiving, Francisco, my dedicated English student, and now a good friend, came to our rescue with a 5 to 6 pound Guapote that his Uncle Foster caught in his fishing net.

While wandering the streets of Moyogalpa looking for a chompipe, we heard Norma’s son broadcasting the opening of a new bank.  We’re getting rather good at identifying the shish kebob of Spanish words in context and are now able to get the drift of most conversations if we know the subject.  We stopped at the Hospedaje Central for a cold beer and listened to a discussion about the two lost hikers on Vulcan Maderas.   A tourist asked if they found the boys and Valeria launched into a tirade about the stupidity of hikers that refuse to spend ten dollars to hire a guide to trek the volcanoes.

Thanksgiving Day, a week after the boys were lost, Ron and I were disassembling our broken fan to get parts to make a grill for our Guapote, when we heard a helicopter flying above our house.  The only other time we saw anything flying above Ometepe was in early November, right before the elections.  Daniel Ortega hovered above our house and landed in the La Paloma playground near the elementary school.  He campaigned hard for the Sandinista mayor and handed out US dollars to all the kids at the school.  Previously, the islanders had seen one plane in February, 2004.  A prop plane flying from Columbia to Guatemala lost altitude over Ometepe and their choice was to dump their cargo or crash into the lake.  They opted to dump their load, which consisted of many kilos of cocaine dropped from the sky like manna from heaven.

We dropped our fan pieces and ran out to see the helicopter flying in the direction of Vulcan Maderas.  All the neighbors were jumping and running excitedly to catch a glimpse of the novelty.  We wondered if it was the old Sandinista helicopter hired by the US boy’s parents to search for their son.  It looked exactly like the helicopter that Daniel Ortega flew in… an old, army helicopter painted in camouflaged colors.  I wondered who was piloting the antiquated thing and if it was an old Sandinista pilot who had both of his legs blown off in the war.  I wondered why there wasn’t a helicopter hired to search for the El Salvadoran and if the boys on Vulcan Maderas were still alive.

A few minutes later, a new Piper Cub buzzed our house.  It circled four times headed for the old landing strip near our house.  We all hopped on bicycles and peddled frantically to the old landing strip to see if it would land.  Julio clung to the handlebars, Luvis straddled the rear tire, Ron panted as he wove through the rutted, black sand road, and I ran along the side.  At the old air strip, everyone from La Paloma had gathered to watch the event.  I really don’t know if the landing strip had ever been used and after a heavy rainy season, the volcanic sand had washed most of the strip into the lake leaving crevices large enough to park a Mac Truck inside the holes.  The islanders watched in fascination as the shiny bird circled four more times, each time getting lower to inspect the potential landing site.  But, to the disappointment of all, it was unable to land and it sped off across the lake toward Managua .

Like the fish kill in September, speculation and rumor abounded.  Everyone thought these unusual sightings of novel flying machines had something to do with the boys lost on the volcano.  One onlooker said he just heard on the radio that one of the boys had been found alive.  Another said, “No.  All they found so far was a wallet.”  Everyone agreed that it was a huge event because the lost boys  were gringos.  Although the other boy was from Great Britain, all the islanders called anyone with white skin a gringo. Technically, that term is reserved for citizens of the USA because during the war with Mexico, when the Mexican soldiers saw the green uniforms of US soldiers, they said, “Green, go” in other words, “get your asses out of our country.”  But, the islanders use the term affectionately and we don’t find it offensive.

Where was Norma’s son when you needed him?  We didn’t know what to believe about the lost boys.  We returned to our house and it began to rain, so instead of grilled Guapote, Ron made a delicious Guapote Thanksgiving stew.  I think it topped the turkey.  We sipped a bottle of Chilean wine and toasted our lives on this wondrous primitive island lacking any hint of tourism infrastructure.  We gave thanks for the many blessings bestowed on our lives and prayed for the safety of the boys on the volcano.  We drank to our generous neighbors, whose family has increased now that Papa’s two older daughters and their little niños have moved back home ( another long, sad, story) , and thanked them for translating the TV news that evening using slow, well pronounced words for our benefit.  The Managua station said there is no new information.  It’s been ten days now and the boys still haven’t been found.  We’re all dreading the news that maybe they didn’t survive and wondering what the effects of these deaths will have on tourism on Ometepe.

Sideline:  Sorry, this letter is so disjointed.  We’ve been without electricity 2 days now, and tonight (Sunday) our neighbors who own the little palm leafed bar down the road have somehow bypassed the transformer that blew up so they could have electricity for cold beer and loud music.  Lester’s Papa sent him on his bicycle tonight to tell us that we’d have electricity until 3 am .  With lots of sign language and pictures on our white board, we figured out that the temporary line is dangling dangerously close to the lake water and we have to shut off the power to our house before we go to bed so we don’t get a dangerous power surge.  Anyway, that’s the best I can make of it.  It has been a relaxing change without power.  I’ve read, painted a beautiful watercolor scene looking out our front door, and Ron’s been busy in the garden… which I promise will be the next newsletter.  We had our freezer full of chicken, Guapote, and hamburger.. so today we had a big feast with the neighbors.  We grilled hamburgers, made two types of delicious fish and cheese stews, and ate delicious grilled chicken and plantains.  Lourdita, the 3-year-old, wore her red party dress, which she tore on the fence; we danced, drank lemon/rum drinks, warm beer…, and sang lots of Spanish songs.

It’s almost December and we’re looking forward to many celebrations.  Cory will be here Dec. 9th, Julio’s birthday is the sixth, ( now, he and Luvis have told me that Papa looked at The Paper and said that Julio is only 11 and Luvis is only 10 ) go figure….no one seems to know how old they are here!!  Our neighbor’s daughter at the local bar is getting married this month, and many French Canadians have flown in for the wedding, because Eric, the groom, is from Quebec .  We feel like we are becoming a part of the community now.  I even helped to birth Don Jose’s litter of piglets.

Today started a festival of the Immaculate Conception.  Apparently, they take the Virgin Mary out of the church and she sleeps in various homes for the next eight days.  Everyone gets to hunt for her at 7 o’clock each evening.  When they find her, the house owner has to give everyone presents, like fruit, candy, and little toys.  Then, the home owner has to cart her back to the church and they start all over again.  Ron and I are hoping that she doesn’t end up at our house because we’ll have to buy lots of toys and candy and she’d be very heavy to carry a mile back to town.  We can’t quite figure out how the Immaculate Conception occurred on Dec. 8th and Jesus was born on Dec. 25th.

Well, I’m really rambling, now…trying to fit it all in and copy it before we shut off the power to the house.  I’d better close this before I really get carried away.  I’ll write a better letter when I have reliable power.

 

Sharing the Light

Francisco, Esther, and baby Sayid

When Nicaraguan women give birth, they say, “Da la luz.” It means give the light.” I adore that phrase. Three simple words that signify hope, love, and anticipation of a bright future…a shining star is born.

Esther went into labor right on schedule. I was hoping that she would bring forth the light on Cory’s birthday. On our walk to the local hospital I asked Francisco, “Can you attend the birth of your baby?” “I do not think I can help Esther because men are not permitted in the delivery room,” he responded. What a shame, I thought, because a birth is a family affair. “Maybe you can ask the doctora if you can be with Esther when she gives the light,” I said.

We parted a blue sheet that separated the waiting room full of coughing people from the patients, and entered the labor-in-process room. Six beds lined the light green room, each with an assortment of bed linens the women were required to bring for their beds. Frayed posters hung on the walls displaying various birth-control methods and the importance of breast feeding. Francisco wasn’t allowed to enter the room, so he stood at the doorway.

Esther was sitting on the bed close to the open window. “It’s so hot in here,” she panted. I looked for a fan. Nada. The beds were full of women in an array of labor or post delivery. Two mothers-to-be were chatting with their families, another mother was nursing her newborn, and one woman, in heavy labor, was moaning, while her mother stood behind her cradling her limp body.

“I brought you water, food, and a few gifts for the baby,” I told Esther. There are no cafeterias in the hospitals in Nicaragua. In fact, the patients bring everything…sheets..pillows…food…everything. Esther called to Francisco standing in the hallway. “Did you remember to bring rags?” Rags? My imagination was running wild. Rags? “Did you remember to bring me a loose dress when I give the light?” she yelled. ” I forgot to bring rags and a dress,” Francisco lamented. “No problemo,” I said. “I’ll call Ron and he can pick you up on his motorcycle and take you to your house.”

Meanwhile, the sweat was rolling off my eyebrows and into my eyes. “Esther, let’s go outside and sit under the mango trees,” I pleaded. I called Ron, he was on his way, and we settled into 3 metal chairs under the mango trees eating ice cream. “Francisco, ask Esther if she knows how to breathe and how the labor process works,” I asked because Francisco speaks English, too. “She says, the doctora told her to breathe deep and she will tell her when to push..nothing more,” he translated. So, with Francisco’s help, I explained everything in vivid detail, and we practiced breathing through her contractions.

A friend of Francisco’s delivered a plastic bag with more food and a special cactus drink for Esther. Apparently, this Pitaya cactus juice lubricates the birth canal and it is also good for a man’s prostate. “Francisco, when Esther gives the light, will they give her any pain medication or anything?” I wondered. “No,” Francisco stated emphatically, “It is illegal. The baby is delivered naturally with no pain medications.”

When Francisco returned from his house with all of the necessities, Esther was in heavy labor and it was getting dark. Francisco asked the doctora if he could attend the birth, and she replied with surprise and delight, “No man has ever attended a birth before. It will be a first!”

Ron and I returned home, and Francisco lovingly attended to Esther. Sayid was born early in the morning on Cory’s birthday. Esther and I now share a special bond. We both gave forth the light on the same day, 28 years apart.

Francisco spent the night at our house. Esther’s family spent the night with Esther and baby Sayid at the hospital.  I made a big chocolate cake to celebrate our bonds and births of our children on the same day. We invited our neighbors and sang happy birthday in Spanish, then in English. Once again, I am humbled and awed to be sharing our lives and our lights with my gracious Nicaraguan community.

The Human Termites

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Last night, at 2:30 am there was a loud crash that interrupted the sleep of most of my neighborhood. The flashlights scoured the area like a well-cleaned cooking pot, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. Ron thought it was a crash landing of the German satellite, due to hit Earth last night. “Space junk,” he yawned and fell back into a deep sleep. Cory thought it was a spaceship. I guessed the Mango tree had fallen into Cory’s house. Our neighbors thought maybe Vulcan Concepcion had erupted.

With the light of dawn, I saw that a giant limb had fallen off an enormous tree behind our property. The heavy rains must have weakened the tree. “Time for the human termites to do their job,” I yawned.

Last September, after a strong wind storm, a huge dead tree fell into the lake obstructing my view and messing up my beautiful beach. I hired two men to cut the tree and they arrived early in the morning armed with machetes, strong backs, and an ancient ax.

They parked the horse cart beside my beach chair hoping to load the wood into the wagon and cart it off for firewood. “How much will this cost?” I asked apprehensively because it looked like a huge job. “Five dollars,” they responded.

At dawn’s first light, they waded into the warm water and proceeded to whack at each limb with their well-worn machetes. Machismo at its finest!

Meanwhile, Marina, my neighbor, ran over to my house wearing a black velvet party dress and smelling of strong flowery perfume…at 6 o’clock in the morning. Her 77 yr. old husband, Don Jose, has been in Rivas all week with his sick sister. “What are they going to do with all that wood?” she asked. “I told them to haul it off,” I said. “How much are you paying them to cut the tree?” Marina inquired. Discovering that I was paying them 5 dollars, she screamed, “Oh, muy caro!” Very expensive.

“Don Jose isn’t here, and I need wood for my cooking fire.” she exclaimed. “Can I help to pay if we take the wood?” Knowing that my neighbors are very poor ( I had to lend Don Jose $10 to visit his gravely ill sister in Rivas) I said, “I don’t want you to pay. I’ll tell the machete men that you can have the wood.” So, the machete man sent for his 7-year-old to take the horse cart back home.

Within an hour, they had most of the small branches cut off the dead tree and hauled ashore. “How much more do you want us to cut?” they yelled across the dead tree to where I was snapping pictures of their toothless grins. “I want more of the dead trunk cut.” I yelled back. After much debate and a demonstration of where I wanted the trunk cut, they said, “Oh, but it will cost you more money because the trunk is very thick.” “How much more?” I asked.” Five more dollars,” they said kind of apologetically.

So they grabbed the ancient ax and began to cut the thick trunk. Within another hour, they had most of the thick trunk hacked away. The wood was piled up on the beach and Marina’s father,and her son, Julio, carried the piles of wood to their house.

While they were hacking away at the trunk, Marina brought refreshments for all of us, warm bread from the local tienda and pinole drink ( Marina drinks this every morning instead of coffee).

A few more whacks with the ancient ax and their work was done. Not a bad day’s wages for 2 hours of work. Soon, the little termites swarmed to the beach to collect the wood for their cooking stove.Grandpa joined in the collection, and in no time at all, the beach was cleared.

The human termites were remarkable. For $10 I had my incredible view and a clean beach. My wonderful neighbors had enough firewood for a month of cooking. And best of all, we shared our blessings with our lovely community.

Looks like we’ll have to hire the human termites again!

 

The Legend of El Chupacabra

El Cupacabra and El Duende

Legends of bloodsucking creatures are present all over the world and throughout history. Seven years ago, I read in La Prensa that a young man was lost on Vulcan Concepcion. He had attempted to climb the volcano without a guide and was ill-prepared for the dangerous trek. Those foolish enough to scale the 1610 meter slopes without assistance are usually seriously wounded, lost, or as in the case of the 24-year-old Salvadoran, eaten by El Cupacabra.

My English students told me that the guides found his body a week later.  His head was wedged between two rocks, his leg was broken, and an arm was missing.  Luvis pounded her fist on my plastic table when she heard the news and emphatically stated, “It was the Chupacabra.”  “What in the world is a Chupacabra?”  I asked curiously.  They all looked at me astounded because I had never heard of the creature.

“The Chupa Cabra is all over the world,” Francisco informed me. They began arguing when I asked for a description of the monster.  One of my students said he was half goat, half man.  The other said he could fly and was probably an alien.  Luvis described him with fierce, pointy teeth and an amazing ability to jump from volcano to volcano.  Francisco said he only sucked the blood from goats.  Luvis said, “No, he eats many people on the volcano because that’s where he lives.”  They all agreed that the monster was dangerous and called him “The goat sucker.”

What I did learn to be fact throughout this strange conversation is that the islanders are very superstitious people.  They attribute any unexplained death or illness to creatures such as duendes, women that turn into monkeys, monsters that leave the dark lake bed at night in search of blood, and the famous Chupacabra.

Halloween is coming.  The children don’t celebrate Halloween in La Paloma.  Seven years ago, it was different.  We taught Luvis and Julio how to say “trick or treat” and helped them make masks.

Luvis was a duende and Julio was the Chupacabra.  We taught them to knock on our door on Halloween and say, “trick or treat.”  We were undecided whether to treat them or trick them, so we did both.  We stocked up on cajeta de leche (sort of like fudge) and Ron made no bake chocolate cookies with oatmeal. I dressed up like a fairy ( I even made a tin foil wand) and Ron dressed up as a monkey with a machete.

I asked Ron if we should teach all of the little ones that came to our house for English lessons, about 20 of them, about Halloween and invite them to our house for trick or treating.  But, thanks to Julio and Luvis, we had a better understanding of the superstitions surrounding our community,and we decided it wasn’t a good idea.  Our house was the good luck house in the neighborhood.  Who knew what the parents might think if we told them to wear scary masks and come to our house for candy.  We may have ruined our good reputation in La Paloma.  So, it was only Luvis and Julio that came.

Now that Halloween is approaching again, we decided to forgo the annual pagan tradition. After all, our house is still considered the good luck house in the neighborhood. We have a reputation to keep up. But, I do miss all the fun surrounding Halloween, so I’m thinking of making a poster to hang on our front door:

Wanted: El Chupacabra

Name:         El Chupacabra
Nickname:  The goat sucker
Height:        4.5 to 5.5 feet
Weight:       Unknown
Eyes:          Very large, very red
Build:          half goat-half man, very agile, can hop from one volcano to  another, fierce pointy teeth
Likes:         goats, blood, people, chickens, pigs, dogs, cats, travel
Favorite hangouts:  The volcanoes on Ometepe Island
Reward:     Come to our house on October 31st and receive a piece of candy for any sightings or known whereabouts of El Chupacabra.

Signs of the Times

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Warning: This post is hypocritical, cynical, and questionable because I have no answers, only more questions.

Yesterday, I read a post from a blogging friend. She was invited to speak at an International Living Conference. I enjoy reading her informative posts about creating blogs, new technological advances, and portable careers. So, I clicked on the International Living Conference website to see who was presenting and what their areas of expertise were.

I should have known better, because out of the 16 presenters, nine were real estate developers. I read through their bios. Phrases included: has made more than 50 real estate investments in nine countries across five continents, moved into real estate development and acquired 1,100 acres and three kilometers of coastline, an accomplished real estate professional whose expertise in international investment real estate sets him apart from most, and has more than 33 years experience in commercial and residential property investment.

The price for the 2 1/2 day convention was $647 per person. I had to scroll all the way to the bottom of the website to find this information, bypassing many clicks for “sign up now.”  No surprise that the international real estate developers were targeting wealthy white people for their gated, sequestered resort communities. This is not a conference for those seeking simple, compassionate, culturally immersed lifestyles.

Four of the presenters were international attorneys. I imagine that if one has enough money to buy into their overpriced resorts, one will need a good attorney when it comes time to flip the property for a hefty profit.

It’s a mad, mad world in the field of international real estate flipping. Poor, unsophisticated campisinos sell their land for pennies to hungry real estate developers. Then, wealthy, fearful foreigners buy the gated compounds seeking paradise in a McDonald’s wrapper.  Prices for everything are jacked up, making it impossible for the locals to get to their jobs as the dishwashers, maids, and waiters in the heavily guarded compounds because they have had to move far away to find affordable housing.

To be fair, in exploring several international development websites in Nicaragua, I found one website that included a page on “Giving Back”. ONE WEBSITE ONLY.  Shameful. We are destroying this country with our greed, our consumerism lifestyles, and our selfish shouts of “give me more for less”. Mas barato!

I am a hypocrite! What makes me any different from the wealthy white people attending the International Living conference? We bought beach front property, built two small houses, and hire the locals to machete our grass. Am I wrong for moving to Nicaragua? Am I creating more problems for the local islanders? Have I done enough to help and pay forward the blessings I have received from living in a first world country?

Should I be writing about my experiences living in Nicaragua? The remaining three presenters at the conference are expats touting their publications of living cheaply in paradise. I am writing a book, too. What makes me any different? Just because I’m a ‘poor economic refugee’ with a passion for cultural immersion doesn’t set me on top of the pedestal of expats seeking their retirement dreams.

There are no answers. All I know in expressing my vulnerabilities and doubts about living abroad, is that I am changed. I have a greater appreciation for life, the struggles, the joys, and the sacrifices we all make in pursuing our dreams. I am a better person for it…a more forgiving and compassionate person. Life is real here…there are no hidden agendas or pretenses. It’s the sign of the times for me…fulfillment of passions, cultural immersion, and peace in our troubled world.

All in the Family

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I had just finished cleaning the second story guest house that we built for our son, when Marina crouched under the barbed wire fence with a glass of warm, delicious atol. (a strawberry flavored, sweet liquid pudding drink). “Marina.” I commented between sips, “I haven’t seen you for ages. Where have you been?” “I have been very busy,” she responded. “Jose’s girlfriend and their two babies are living with us.”

If there is one thing that I have learned while living in Nicaragua, it is that few Nicaraguan homes consist only of the parents and children. Typically, one finds the presence of grandparents, aunts, uncles, grandchildren, and a few friends thrown into the mess of people living under one hot tin roof…usually in one bedroom!

Economic factors play an important role in this phenomenon of the extended family; however, I like to think of it as a raucous episode of All in the Family, whose family members become an efficient nucleus, supporting one another, interdependent, and responsible for each others’ well-being. I wanted an extended family, too.

Draped over the barbed wire fence, snow-white diapers flapped in the wind like the Egrets’ nightly ritual at sunset. Marina stoked the cooking fire, while the chop, chop, chop of Don Jose’s ax whittled the mounds of sticks and logs to usable fuel for the fire. Jose’s girlfriend tenderly nursed four-month old Dustin in the backyard, while balancing on a broken plastic chair with only three strong legs. Meanwhile, two-year old Stephen chased the litter of puppies through the dirt-floored kitchen and into the backyard. He dragged one of the yelping puppies around the yard like Pigpen’s blanket. Julio swung a small plastic bucket, as he walked along the volcanic black sand ruts of the beach to the dairy farmer’s house to get milk for breakfast. And his brother, Jose, prepared for work at the water department. Jose’s job is to repair the water line breaks. He always notifies us when he is repairing a water line break because that means that we will be without water for the entire day. Today was one of those waterless days.

Don Jose, the 77-year-old patriarch of the family, waved goodbye to Luvis. She was taking their one shared bicycle into town to deliver breakfast to her sister, who had been sick. Don Jose’s presence emanates throughout the family, although the classical patriarch pattern of a macho man who beats his wife, is not reinforced in this family. Everyone knows that Marina, his wife, is the boss. She is the glue that holds this nucleus together. Every cell in her body oozes strength, fortitude, and persistence.

“Marina,” I asked between sips of the delicious atol, “Cory will be here in a few days. I’d like to find him a Nica girlfriend. Do you know of any good Nica girls?” She grabbed my arm, pushed me into the rocking chair on my porch and said, “Sit and listen to me carefully. We need to have a mother to mother talk.” In my idealistic fog, I expected to hear condolences and thoughts on how she cherishes her extended family and tends to all their needs.

Instead, she admonished, “I refuse to find Cory a Nica girlfriend. You have no idea what will happen, do you?” “No,” I replied naïvely. “But it sure would be great to have a cute Nica grand baby.”

She waved her arms like she was shooing the dogs, cats, chickens, and pigs out of her kitchen. “Fueda!” she shouted. (Out!) “You and Ron will be out! Out of your minds and your house because a Nica girlfriend will bring her entire extended family to live in your house.”

That thought never entered my mind. I shuddered with the thoughts of a Nicaraguan family blowing up my house because they wouldn’t know how to use a propane oven, or breaking all of my electronic equipment that I so carefully protect from the harsh tropical elements, or reprogramming my satellite TV, or burning plastic bags because they know nothing about recycling or protecting the environment. My beautifully trimmed grass would be littered with green and pink plastic bags, and poopey diapers..the national flowers of Nicaragua.The toilet would overflow constantly, with the novelty of a swirling flush…over and over…and over again.

“You are manna from heaven… rich gringos,” she stated like it was a common fact. “But, Marina,” I whined, “we are not rich. We worked very hard for what we have. I can’t help it. I am a gringa.” She laughed, not understanding our economic differences, but fully understanding the implications of a Nicaraguan girlfriend for Cory. “People have taken advantage of you because you are gringos,” she said. “I’ve seen how they charge you ‘gringo prices’ for your house. People, who do not know you, cannot look past the color of your skin. Listen to me, because I know. You are part of our family now. I am telling you the truth,” she whispered in a motherly voice.

Cory arrived the following Monday. He and his friend, Sam, moved into their new second story casita. They will be here for six months, taking Spanish lessons, exploring Nicaragua, and developing cultural programs. This morning, they walked past Marina’s house on their way to a weekend trip to San Juan del Sur, a touristy little fishing village on the Pacific coast. I overheard Marina shout to them, “Adios mi familia. There are a lot of beautiful gringas in San Juan del Sur. Have fun and good luck.”

I just had to laugh! For in my search for an extended family, and beautiful Nica grandchildren, Marina had given me a precious gift. We are part of her extended family. I can visit those beautiful grandchildren of hers any time and share our stories of love and compassion for our families, as only mothers know. I think I have the best of both worlds, now….I just have to keep it all in the family.

Culturally Correct Chic

There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.

                          ~Robert Lewis Stevenson

Walking down the street in Esteli, I spotted the Negro Barber Shop. It was early afternoon and the shop was empty, except for a black dog and a black barber. I wasn’t shocked at what would be deemed in the states as offensive and racist because the reality of Nicaragua is that color, physical characteristics, and lifestyles define everyone.

Nicaraguans are bluntly direct about physical characteristics and color. If you are not chele (white), then you are probably moreno (brown). All white foreigners are gringos or gringas. Asians are chinos. And if your skin is darker than moreno, then you are called negro. If you happen to be fat and black, then you are nicknamed gordo negro. If you are black and fat, and crazy as well, you are called el negro gordo loco. I’m not kidding!

I was watching the local news one day. There was a fight between two women. The camera rolled and the reporter gave a blow-by-blow description of the two women. Words scrolled across the bottom of the screen as the reporter announced, “A crazy, fat woman fights an old, ugly woman.” The crazy, fat woman tore off the blouse of the old, ugly woman exposing her breasts on the news…and the camera continued to roll like it was an everyday occurrence. Who knows? Maybe it was. Nothing surprises me anymore in Nicaragua.

On our way to Matagalpa, I asked our taxi driver to stop at the next gas station so I could use the restroom. I had no problem finding the bathroom because of the culturally correct chic signs posted above the doors.

                                   

 

 

 

Nicaraguans are generally accepting and tolerant of all lifestyles. Although the people are predominantly conservative in their views of homosexuality, it is my opinion that gays, lesbians, and bisexuals are naturally accepted in their communities.Their sexual orientation is simply a way to identify and name people. Every parade I have seen includes drag queens. In the Hipica (horse parade) in Matagalpa, this drag queen was the hit of the parade.

When we were invited to an elementary school dance and song program, two drag queens lit up the stage with their glittery costumes and dances!

I have joined the ranks of the culturally correct chic…and I love it. It’s reality in all its truthful glory with no offense taken or intended. Skin color, physical characteristics, and sexual orientation are simply a common way people identify one another. There is no need to redress historical injustices in matters of race, gender,or sexual orientation. No one appears to be overly concerned with ‘political correctness’ to the exclusion of other matters, like in the states. Life is simple, true, and real here, in the opinion of this loca gringa in La Paloma.

 

Multitasking

Marina makes Cajeta de Coco...a two day process

Multitasking

            I was a master at multitasking.  The dishwasher removed water spots from my stemmed wine goblets, while the timed cycle of whirling machines gently cleaned and fluffed my clothes.  I chatted online and talked on the cell phone while the Cable TV broadcast the evening news, the CD player frantically burned downloaded data, and the DVD recorded my favorite reality shows.  Dinner thawed in the microwave, coffee brewed, the central air hummed with authoritarian control, while my toilet sanitized, and Glade deodorized my sterile environment.  Everything in my life was compacted, scheduled, pasteurized, automated, and thoughtlessly predictable and reliable.

Then, we moved to Ometepe Island, in the middle of a lake, in the middle of Nicaragua, in the middle of Central America surrounded by poverty, desperation, and scarcity of modern conveniences.  My lifestyle has changed drastically.  I hadn’t really given much thought to the concept of multitasking until we mowed our lawn yesterday.  What would have taken us an hour to mow using a powered lawnmower, generally takes a week with a machete.