More than one post-mortem here, actually. I'll start with the apparent solving of the recent murder here in La Boquita. Some good police work yielded evidence that produced a confession, and the pieces began to fit together. It turns out that the victim had been surreptitiously sedated. Once the drug was identified, a survey of pharmacies yielded the identification of the purchaser of the drug with which a glass of wine was laced. As suspected by those who had known of the victim's relationship with the young woman, it was indeed she who confessed to the plan to drug and rob him with the help of some young male accomplices. The drug did not last long enough to complete the robbery, and the victim awoke to discover the plot, and lost his life as a consequence.
Christmas in Latin America sounds a lot like the Fourth of July in the U.S. In the latter case, the old "bombs bursting in air" allusion to warfare would seem to explain the American penchant for firecrackers, sparklers, and Roman candles on and around Independence Day. But how to explain the deafening reports of explosions and amateur pyrotechnics that pepper the nights leading up to and culminating on La Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) in Mexico, Nicaragua, or Peru (to name a few countries of which I have personal knowledge)? Was the Star of Bethlehem imagined to have been a nuclear attack? Were the shepherds keeping watch by night with gun powder lanterns? Were Joseph and Mary, in fact, terrorists? I checked a few web sites in search of an explanation for this practice, and found only acknowledgment that fireworks and other explosives are indeed a Latin Christmas tradition.
I recall a Christmas Eve in Lima, Peru with my son's grandparents. Gabe was about six years old, and we clambered up onto the roof of the house, like thousands of other Lima residents, and lit cherry bombs and firecrackers -- cuetes, they are called. (The next day's Christmas earthquake easily surpassed the cuetes in memorability!) They have cuetes in Managua, too. I spent Christmas Eve with Erlinda and Ivan, and we enjoyed a stream of visitors, mainly family, who stopped by throughout the evening, for drinks and conversation punctuated by explosions and whistling bombs. Strictly speaking, the evening should have culminated with a midnight meal, followed by presents, but we were all famished by ten, and I was the first to cave in to exhaustion at not quite midnight. The rat-a-tats and boom booms continued without me. For all I know, I was dreaming I was in Anytown, USA, running for my life from some pathetic mass-killer wannabe trying to make a dent in history without actually having to accomplish anything worthwhile.
I admit I was bluer than blue with all the holiday hoopla, and I am grateful to Erlinda for saving my sanity with her kind invitation. Now I just have to make it through New Year's Eve. Ah, yes, sleeping pills will handle that nicely. Here, at least, one can be pretty sure that the sound of firecrackers and cherry bombs in no way involves firearms. Is there a town left in the US where this is still true?
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Stirring the Compost
After beginning and ending the month of November with most welcome visitors from Texas and Mexico, respectively, and all the attendant activity implicit in providing a good time, I find myself idling. The date on my computer says December, yet here we enjoy perpetual summer, and my only taste of December chill is the Pittsburgh forecast I hear as I listen to WESA, the NPR provider I continue to hear (and support) via the internet.
Christmas, Shritzmas
I went cyber-shopping for holiday gifts for my son and my other Stateside family members here on my porch the other day. I have a few more things to buy locally, and although the Diriamba stores and businesses are crammed with Christmas decorations to admire and purchase, it is simply too abrupt a juxtaposition of summer heat and greenery and Santa's warm furs and sleighs, fer chrissake, to feel even a molecule of christmas spirit! Oh well, it is a holiday for me so little connected to its religious origins, and so deeply tied to my late parents, that it has meant little more than an opportunity to shower my son with gifts. And, he being elsewhere, even that pleasure has lost some of its luster.
Beautiful Church
The day before she left, friend Tey went with me to explore the big church in Diriamba, whose basilica is widely considered to be the most beautiful in the country. Pope John Paul II visited there, and the church is the home of the big Festival of San Sebastian, held over eight days each January. Here are some of Tey's photos:
Flying Machines?
Here, by the sea, I have never had so unobstructed a view of the big blue sky, and yet I never ever see a contrail of a jet passing overhead! There simply is no coastal air corridor in this region; sometimes,in Pennsylvania, I could count eight or nine white stripes at a time of jet trails headed for Pittsburgh or Chicago or other points west. Here, I see only the rare passing of a pair of military helicopters, patrolling the coastline, I suppose. The dogs go berserk, and the noise is considerable, but it lasts only seconds, like an earthquake.
A Sense of Unsafety
The aforementioned violent murder of our Canadian neighbor ten days ago and the more recent robbery of another nearby house has put us all on edge. Our cuidador has lectured me on locking my doors punctiliously, even if I take an afternoon nap. My laptop and phone are never to be left sitting on the back porch if I am not using them, and no keys are to be left in doors. All good advice, despite the tall wrought-iron fencing that surrounds the compound. Living in a country where so many live in wretched poverty, it is sensible to assume that some robbery, if not most, is occasioned by familial need. Desperation is a powerful force. I hope these security measures become second nature soon, as the mere act of doing them is disconcerting to my peace of mind.
Sorry
Lastly, an apology: My camera's lithium battery finally died for good, and getting a new one from the States may take some time. It has been ordered, and now I must rely on hook and crook to get it. So, unless I manage to take an acceptable shot with my phone, photos may be scarce for the nonce.
Christmas, Shritzmas
I went cyber-shopping for holiday gifts for my son and my other Stateside family members here on my porch the other day. I have a few more things to buy locally, and although the Diriamba stores and businesses are crammed with Christmas decorations to admire and purchase, it is simply too abrupt a juxtaposition of summer heat and greenery and Santa's warm furs and sleighs, fer chrissake, to feel even a molecule of christmas spirit! Oh well, it is a holiday for me so little connected to its religious origins, and so deeply tied to my late parents, that it has meant little more than an opportunity to shower my son with gifts. And, he being elsewhere, even that pleasure has lost some of its luster.
Beautiful Church
The day before she left, friend Tey went with me to explore the big church in Diriamba, whose basilica is widely considered to be the most beautiful in the country. Pope John Paul II visited there, and the church is the home of the big Festival of San Sebastian, held over eight days each January. Here are some of Tey's photos:
Flying Machines?
Here, by the sea, I have never had so unobstructed a view of the big blue sky, and yet I never ever see a contrail of a jet passing overhead! There simply is no coastal air corridor in this region; sometimes,in Pennsylvania, I could count eight or nine white stripes at a time of jet trails headed for Pittsburgh or Chicago or other points west. Here, I see only the rare passing of a pair of military helicopters, patrolling the coastline, I suppose. The dogs go berserk, and the noise is considerable, but it lasts only seconds, like an earthquake.
A Sense of Unsafety
The aforementioned violent murder of our Canadian neighbor ten days ago and the more recent robbery of another nearby house has put us all on edge. Our cuidador has lectured me on locking my doors punctiliously, even if I take an afternoon nap. My laptop and phone are never to be left sitting on the back porch if I am not using them, and no keys are to be left in doors. All good advice, despite the tall wrought-iron fencing that surrounds the compound. Living in a country where so many live in wretched poverty, it is sensible to assume that some robbery, if not most, is occasioned by familial need. Desperation is a powerful force. I hope these security measures become second nature soon, as the mere act of doing them is disconcerting to my peace of mind.
Sorry
Lastly, an apology: My camera's lithium battery finally died for good, and getting a new one from the States may take some time. It has been ordered, and now I must rely on hook and crook to get it. So, unless I manage to take an acceptable shot with my phone, photos may be scarce for the nonce.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Mayhem and Murder
The modest temblor chronicled in the last post seems likely to be related to even more dramatic geologic activity that has ensued in the vicinity of Lake Managua. Majestic Vulcan Momotombo sits on the northern shore of the lake, opposite the city of Managua, and provided my friend and me long lovely vistas en route north to Leon last week. It smoked in the morning, but as we passed on our return trip, it was quiet. Then, two days ago, a blast of gas and ash erupted from the flank of the cone. Within 24 hours, pyroclastic outflow and spouting lava were visible in the night sky, and the residents of nearby La Paz were being evacuated. Corresponding seismic activity was also being recorded throughout the volcanic episode, which, as I write, continues.
Momotombo has not had such a significant eruption in well over a century; it remains to be seen if the event will end quickly and if the volcano will be noticeably changed.
The lives of foreign residents of the Carazo coast—extranjeros—were jolted as well this past Monday morning. Word spread quickly about the apparent murder of one of our number, a Canadian national well-known to the expat community as a successful businessman who spent time each year in his waterfront villa, just a long city block from our house. He had arrived for an extended visit just about three weeks ago. He dropped by to chat with my landlady, who introduced us. I did not get a chance to know him. He was my age, single, with a daughter in Canada. He had what seems to have been a sort of relationship with a young Nicaraguan woman 40 years his junior.
She was with him Sunday night at his house. The cuidador, or security guard, was away, and several young men entered the property and tied up the owner and killed him via blows to the head with a large pipe, possibly a fire extinguisher, according to rumor. The woman was also tied up, according to the newspaper accounts. The man's SUV was missing, presumed stolen. There was a power outage that night—I know, because I could not sleep without the electric fan. It meant that the property's security cameras were not functioning. The vehicle was found the next day, miles away, abandoned.
Today, the newspaper reported that the young woman and four young men have been arrested. This would bear out the suspicions of many of the expats who posit that the man was hoping to pursue a more satisfactory relationship with someone who suited him better. If the young woman suspected she was soon to be dropped, well, it seems not a great leap to imagine what might ensue. Her mother defended her in the papers. The incident sends a chill into Nicaragua's efforts to attract extranjeros to invest in living here. We all expect a speedy resolution, in the interest of demonstrating the country's zero tolerance of this crime. Let us hope justice is also served within those time constraints.
La Prensa ran this upper foto on day one, and later that night, the second view.
The lives of foreign residents of the Carazo coast—extranjeros—were jolted as well this past Monday morning. Word spread quickly about the apparent murder of one of our number, a Canadian national well-known to the expat community as a successful businessman who spent time each year in his waterfront villa, just a long city block from our house. He had arrived for an extended visit just about three weeks ago. He dropped by to chat with my landlady, who introduced us. I did not get a chance to know him. He was my age, single, with a daughter in Canada. He had what seems to have been a sort of relationship with a young Nicaraguan woman 40 years his junior.
She was with him Sunday night at his house. The cuidador, or security guard, was away, and several young men entered the property and tied up the owner and killed him via blows to the head with a large pipe, possibly a fire extinguisher, according to rumor. The woman was also tied up, according to the newspaper accounts. The man's SUV was missing, presumed stolen. There was a power outage that night—I know, because I could not sleep without the electric fan. It meant that the property's security cameras were not functioning. The vehicle was found the next day, miles away, abandoned.
Today, the newspaper reported that the young woman and four young men have been arrested. This would bear out the suspicions of many of the expats who posit that the man was hoping to pursue a more satisfactory relationship with someone who suited him better. If the young woman suspected she was soon to be dropped, well, it seems not a great leap to imagine what might ensue. Her mother defended her in the papers. The incident sends a chill into Nicaragua's efforts to attract extranjeros to invest in living here. We all expect a speedy resolution, in the interest of demonstrating the country's zero tolerance of this crime. Let us hope justice is also served within those time constraints.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Smokes, Quakes, and a Giant
It is nearly impossible for me to meet my responsibilities to this web log AND be an attentive host to a visiting friend, especially if that friend has a rented car and a peripatetic passion to perambulate all over de place! My pal Tey and I spent many happy hours traveling about the eastern portion of Nicaragua, as far south as possible (see last entry) and north to Matagalpa where we found German influences, coffee culture, and a rather uninspiring coffee museum.
After our day trip to the Costa Rican border, we spent Saturday traipsing up and down Vulcan Masaya, which was smoking pretty enthusiastically that morning, followed by stops in the Masaya Nuevo Mercado, and on to Granada for lunch and a look at the beautiful church in the town center.
Our next sojourn took us north to Matagalpa. Our destination was a restaurant/hotel/coffee estate called Selva Negra, or "Black Forest," yes, just like the pine forests in Germany. It seems a German family were so taken with this slice of their homeland that they bought the place and entered the coffee business, later expanding the operation to become a destination for both locals and tourists. They even offer a couple of German entrees on the restaurant menu. I had Wiener Schnitzel, and it was pretty dry. Tey had the sausages and pronounced them excellent. Near the dining area was a play space for children (happily empty) with several geese in residence. A big gander moseyed over and terrorized a foursome of German-speaking diners for a few minutes.
Also on offer was a tour of the coffee operation, but for day visitors, the price was a steep $20 each. So we opted to visit the little coffee museum in Matagalpa, which had lots of information on large posters, and a few artifacts, like a coffee bean de-pulper which removes the red fruit-like covering from the bean. The beans must be soaked and hulled and fermented, and dried slowly before roasting. Just south of Matagalpa city, we saw the drying phase in action, as workers raked the piles of beans over and over to make sure the bottom layers had their time in the sun and did not become moldy.
This region of Nicaragua is mountainous and cool. We enjoyed the scenery, as well as our German lunch in coffee country. We also learned that Nicaragua produces only about 2% of the world's coffee. But what coffee they have here is "cherce," to paraphrase Spencer Tracy.
Tey and I planned to visit Leon on the day before Thanksgiving, to collect her friend Tom who had traveled down with her from Mexico. We drove to Managua on Tuesday and visited the Plaza de la Revolución, and the Palacio de la Cultura. Tey was unimpressed with Managua, which is really such a large collection of barrios, with no cultural district to speak of. Managua could use a free map for tourists interested in gallery crawls and artists' studios, which must be all over the city.
Later, we headed to Ivan and Erlinda's house. We were chatting with Erlinda, and the subject of the 1972 earthquake came up. As Erlinda was speaking, our chairs began to vibrate and sway. Hello...
An earthquake! Not so big, really. About 4.2 on the Richter scale, it turned out. But it lasted about ten seconds, and was timed perfectly with our conversation!
We spent the night with Erlinda and family, and rose early to leave for Leon in the morning. The "new" road to Leon passes the large volcano Momotombo, which sits just north of Lake Managua. It was a clear morning, and the vulcan was smoking briskly.
In downtown Leon, a large effigy of a colorful woman with a top hat, enormous bosom and ruffled skirt had been erected next to the park in front of the cathedral. We learned that she is called "La Gigantona," and Tey did a bit of internet research to find our about her and her sidekick, El Enano Cabezon, "big-headed dwarf," a little chap with a big round head.
The kids below were drumming and dancing nearby, playing out the passion of the diminuitive Mestizo for the tall, busty European Spanish lady! Well, La Gigantona's leg man was taking a break, apparently.
Photo credits: Tey, la Yucatana.
After our day trip to the Costa Rican border, we spent Saturday traipsing up and down Vulcan Masaya, which was smoking pretty enthusiastically that morning, followed by stops in the Masaya Nuevo Mercado, and on to Granada for lunch and a look at the beautiful church in the town center.
Our next sojourn took us north to Matagalpa. Our destination was a restaurant/hotel/coffee estate called Selva Negra, or "Black Forest," yes, just like the pine forests in Germany. It seems a German family were so taken with this slice of their homeland that they bought the place and entered the coffee business, later expanding the operation to become a destination for both locals and tourists. They even offer a couple of German entrees on the restaurant menu. I had Wiener Schnitzel, and it was pretty dry. Tey had the sausages and pronounced them excellent. Near the dining area was a play space for children (happily empty) with several geese in residence. A big gander moseyed over and terrorized a foursome of German-speaking diners for a few minutes.
Also on offer was a tour of the coffee operation, but for day visitors, the price was a steep $20 each. So we opted to visit the little coffee museum in Matagalpa, which had lots of information on large posters, and a few artifacts, like a coffee bean de-pulper which removes the red fruit-like covering from the bean. The beans must be soaked and hulled and fermented, and dried slowly before roasting. Just south of Matagalpa city, we saw the drying phase in action, as workers raked the piles of beans over and over to make sure the bottom layers had their time in the sun and did not become moldy.
This region of Nicaragua is mountainous and cool. We enjoyed the scenery, as well as our German lunch in coffee country. We also learned that Nicaragua produces only about 2% of the world's coffee. But what coffee they have here is "cherce," to paraphrase Spencer Tracy.
Tey and I planned to visit Leon on the day before Thanksgiving, to collect her friend Tom who had traveled down with her from Mexico. We drove to Managua on Tuesday and visited the Plaza de la Revolución, and the Palacio de la Cultura. Tey was unimpressed with Managua, which is really such a large collection of barrios, with no cultural district to speak of. Managua could use a free map for tourists interested in gallery crawls and artists' studios, which must be all over the city.
Later, we headed to Ivan and Erlinda's house. We were chatting with Erlinda, and the subject of the 1972 earthquake came up. As Erlinda was speaking, our chairs began to vibrate and sway. Hello...
An earthquake! Not so big, really. About 4.2 on the Richter scale, it turned out. But it lasted about ten seconds, and was timed perfectly with our conversation!
We spent the night with Erlinda and family, and rose early to leave for Leon in the morning. The "new" road to Leon passes the large volcano Momotombo, which sits just north of Lake Managua. It was a clear morning, and the vulcan was smoking briskly.
In downtown Leon, a large effigy of a colorful woman with a top hat, enormous bosom and ruffled skirt had been erected next to the park in front of the cathedral. We learned that she is called "La Gigantona," and Tey did a bit of internet research to find our about her and her sidekick, El Enano Cabezon, "big-headed dwarf," a little chap with a big round head.
The kids below were drumming and dancing nearby, playing out the passion of the diminuitive Mestizo for the tall, busty European Spanish lady! Well, La Gigantona's leg man was taking a break, apparently.
Just as we were leaving Leon, we caught a glimpse of the volcano Telica, which had erupted within the past couple of days, and was smoking.
Photo credits: Tey, la Yucatana.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Racing for the Border
Great friend Tey arrived last week from her home in the Yucatan peninsula for a ten-day visit, her first to Nicaragua. She is an enthusiastic world traveler; last November, she spent a month exploring Cuba just prior to the beginning of the thaw in that island's relationship with the U.S. The recent brouhaha on the Costa Rican border with Nicaragua, as Cuban emigres sought to enter the U.S. via Central America, was on her mind upon arrival. The Nica government wasn't having it, and got all up in Costa Rica's face and brought in army troops to deal with those Cubans who got through the border crossing.
Naturally, we were curious to see where all this was happening, so we drove southeast toward Peñas Blancas, the border town site of the troubles. En route, we stopped at San Jorge, where two weeks ago Bob and I caught the ferry to Ometepe. Tey just wanted to take a gander at Vulcanes Concepción and Maderas from the port, and then we continued on to the border. Peñas Blancas turned out to be little more than an outpost, with facilities to serve the truckers who pass back and forth between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. There is a small hostel with an inauspicious restaurant, where we had some lunch.
We did not immediately return whence we had come, but continued along the southern edge of Lake Nicaragua to Cardenas, where we found a modest park along the shore, populated by a number of white storks or cranes, wading among the marsh grasses. Also a happy piggy, munching the lush greenery in a watery culvert.
From there, we retraced our route, and were stopped twice at military checkpoints set up to nab Cuban illegals, which was actually a bit of a tickle. One soldier checked the trunk just to make sure we weren't trafficking in Cuban humans.
A lovely day, with much driving through Nicaragua's spectacular scenery.
Naturally, we were curious to see where all this was happening, so we drove southeast toward Peñas Blancas, the border town site of the troubles. En route, we stopped at San Jorge, where two weeks ago Bob and I caught the ferry to Ometepe. Tey just wanted to take a gander at Vulcanes Concepción and Maderas from the port, and then we continued on to the border. Peñas Blancas turned out to be little more than an outpost, with facilities to serve the truckers who pass back and forth between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. There is a small hostel with an inauspicious restaurant, where we had some lunch.
We did not immediately return whence we had come, but continued along the southern edge of Lake Nicaragua to Cardenas, where we found a modest park along the shore, populated by a number of white storks or cranes, wading among the marsh grasses. Also a happy piggy, munching the lush greenery in a watery culvert.
From there, we retraced our route, and were stopped twice at military checkpoints set up to nab Cuban illegals, which was actually a bit of a tickle. One soldier checked the trunk just to make sure we weren't trafficking in Cuban humans.
A lovely day, with much driving through Nicaragua's spectacular scenery.
Monday, November 16, 2015
A Day to Forget.
Every other day, the electricity goes out. Usually, I hop up and down and beg, " Please come back!" —and it does. It comes back, and all I need to do is reset the electric clock and reboot the computer, and all is well.
Once every two or three weeks, the power does not come back. The computer dies. The internet dies. The lights die. The fans die. The fucking fans die, and do not come back. Today: 8:30 a.m. Reading Edith Wharton on my Google Nexus. A short story, The Reef. Not so short. 90+ degrees. No fans. Oh, when will the electricity return? 12 noon. 92 degrees. No fans. Still reading Wharton. Dogs flaked out on the tile floor. A little puff of a breeze appears. Hallelujah! For only a moment... Come back! More Wharton, in the hammock now. Sweating profusely. 95 degrees. No fans.
Still have ice. Orange juice -- with ice. Bliss. No fans. 3 p.m. Still reading Wharton. Switching to scotch and water and, yes, still ice. Sacrifice five ice cubes to dog water. Appreciated, I think. 4 p.m. Current should have returned by now. Please come back, o god of electricity. Need fans! Please!
5 p.m. Sun starting to set. I gather candles and matches. Oh, please come back, o great godfruits of electrical juice. I light a candle. Then a second. And— the fans come back! The computer comes back. Fuck Edith Wharton. Hurray for electricity! Life is good again. Fans -- what a concept! The end.
Once every two or three weeks, the power does not come back. The computer dies. The internet dies. The lights die. The fans die. The fucking fans die, and do not come back. Today: 8:30 a.m. Reading Edith Wharton on my Google Nexus. A short story, The Reef. Not so short. 90+ degrees. No fans. Oh, when will the electricity return? 12 noon. 92 degrees. No fans. Still reading Wharton. Dogs flaked out on the tile floor. A little puff of a breeze appears. Hallelujah! For only a moment... Come back! More Wharton, in the hammock now. Sweating profusely. 95 degrees. No fans.
Still have ice. Orange juice -- with ice. Bliss. No fans. 3 p.m. Still reading Wharton. Switching to scotch and water and, yes, still ice. Sacrifice five ice cubes to dog water. Appreciated, I think. 4 p.m. Current should have returned by now. Please come back, o god of electricity. Need fans! Please!
5 p.m. Sun starting to set. I gather candles and matches. Oh, please come back, o great godfruits of electrical juice. I light a candle. Then a second. And— the fans come back! The computer comes back. Fuck Edith Wharton. Hurray for electricity! Life is good again. Fans -- what a concept! The end.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Another Beast of the Tropical Wild
Nearly every morning, the dogs all line up on the porch to receive a treat of little hot dog pieces. I started doing it as a way to help Brynn become part of the gang, and it is such a pleasure to see them wait so patiently as I go down the line, one after the other, doling out little pink bits. One morning this week, Roxie, the Rottweiler, showed up as usual, but was unable to eat due to spines impaling her tongue and muzzle. At first I thought she'd chewed a cactus plant, of which there are many about. I found Roxie's muddy pawprints on my bedsheets, and when I pulled the sheets off the mattress, a stray spine ended up in my little finger. This was like no cactus spine I'd ever seen.
I asked Salvador to examine Roxie's mouth. He did, and then looked around the compound for a possible source of the stiff, multicolored spines. He found it, up a tree—a Mexican dwarf hairy porcupine.
When I looked it up online, I found many photos of people holding these apparently gentle creatures with admittedly wicked defenses and long prehensile tails. Their spines are not as long as their North American cousins' but are similarly engineered to have barbs that make extraction a very difficult and painful proposition. Even with tweezers, Salvador could not remove the dozen or so spines in Roxie's mouth.
Footnote to last weekend's flurry of activity with Bobby:
Bobby caught this moment when everyone joins in to help beach an incoming panga, as well as a sad-visaged tyke in the fish market.
Sunday, after an early morning visit to the Casares fish market, we drove to Masaya, the town that poet Rubén Darío called "the city of flowers," widely regarded as a haven for artisans and craftsmen, and home to a large mercado frequented by tourists. These kids are performing as a couple traditional characters for tourist change. Just out of view, two very loud drummers.
When we reached the market, we were guided to a parking spot by one of the ubiquitous street entrepreneurs—factota, if you will —who will keep an eye on your car, find somebody to wash it or pop out a dent while you shop, do your laundry (kidding!), direct you to a restaurant or a booth within the mercado. Bobby and I really just wanted to stroll and enjoy the sights, and we fended off various "helpers" along the way. We also bumped into our car watcher a few times, at some distance from the actual car. But he turned out to be a help when we wanted to visit a tapiceria, a place where they make the rope tapestries — creating pictures of villages, or people, birds, or fruits, by stitching together flat portions of coiled rope into colorful wall art and rugs. Bob remembered a tapiz I had brought back for our mother years ago, and hoped to buy one for himself.
Joseph, our car watcher, sent us off on a fruitless search on foot, after which we returned and found a good sandwich cafe with air conditioning, Cafe Nani. As we were finishing our lunch, who pops up but Joseph, dismayed that we had not found the tapiceria. He suggested we collect the car, and he would direct us to another, too far for walking. So we did, and we ended up a a couple of other places that turned out not to be tapicerias. We did, finally, find the spot, and Bobby managed to find a very beautiful village scene in gorgeous saturated colors. And, just around the corner, a hammock studio, with exquisite hamacas strung up on the porch. The master explained the process of teams who crochet the side panels, weave or knit the body, tie off the sections and attach them to the wooden spreaders on either end. Ten people in all, and about 60 hours of labor for each hammock. Well, both Bobby and I decided to purchase one, at about $75 apiece. A good day's business for them, too. Why we neglected to photograph both the tapiceria and the hammock place is a mystery. Apologies. We dropped off Joseph back in town before we set off for home, with a nice tip for his efforts.
Here is Bobby's tapiz, with Heidi:
—
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
The Whirlwind That is My Brother
My weekend with my brother Bobby flew by, and in three short days, we covered more ground than do I in two months! All these photos are his.
Friday, after his flight arrived on time, he rented a car, and as the GPS was slow to kick in, we scrambled a bit navigating through Managua, which has almost no street signs, and few signs to direct the neophyte Nicaraguan. But we managed to find Erlinda's neighborhood, and had a quick visit before heading south to Diriamba and La Boquita.
I thought Bob might want to dine at La Boquita's little beach restaurant zone, and we arrived there after the early sunset and the dark that quickly ensues here in the tropics. It didn't appear that any people were dining anywhere, but we parked and asked a couple of the usual tourist herders if Ronaldo was cooking. I had heard that he prepared good lobster at a better price than anyone else. No, they said. Ronaldo was at home, but his "aunt" could rustle up some lobster. We were guided to an empty elevated pavilion to which a table and chairs were brought, along with cold beers, and we awaited our dinner. I swear we were the only customers in the whole town that night, but we made the most of our impromptu eatery. The lobsters were small, and were served on one large platter, along with rice, plantain tostones and salad. Delicious, really, and we ate our fill. For a Friday night crowd, it seems we were it, and I cannot fathom how those places stay in business. No wonder Ronaldo stayed home!
We rose early Saturday and drove southeast to Rivas, and on to San Jorge, a little port on Lake Nicaragua, which is the largest freshwater lake in Central America, home to freshwater sharks, reportedly. And it is a great lake; one cannot see the opposite banks, and when we were there, white-capped waves dotted the surface, and broke on the shore as do ocean waves. From San Jorge, a ferry takes people and cars to the island of Ometepe, which was formed by a pair of volcanoes.
Bob booked us a package which included being met by a driver at the other end of the ferry ride, and being driven to the El Ceibo museum of pre-Columbian artifacts found all over the island, then to lunch at a beautiful hotel on the western shore of Ometepe, and a visit to Ojo de Agua, a mineral water spring where people swim and dunk themselves for the purported medicinal benefit. And throughout, the lush greenery and dramatic vistas of the two volcanoes: Concepción, the larger, and still smoking northern vent, and Maderas, an extinct vulcan, now topped by a beautiful lake. The two circular island portions are joined by an isthmus, giving the isleta a lopsided hourglass shape.
Bob's photo from the ferry:
(below) from Google Earth.
The Museo El Ceibo takes its name from the large farm in which it is situated. The magnificent ceibo tree stands like a sentinel just off the main road, where a dirt road leads back to a grassy clearing where the museum's wealthy benefactor installed buildings to house a large array of artifacts from the pre-Columbian indigenous population, as well as his own extensive numismatic collection, which we bypassed, neither of us being interested in currency. There must also be an El Ceibo Hotel nearby, according to the sign beneath the tree. The museum opened less than a decade ago.
An obliging docent, Tony, guided us through the centuries of ceramics, petroglyphs, ceremonial and agricultural tools, jewelry, toys, sculpted stone, and funeral containers that compose the museum. I was happy to find I could follow Tony's Spanish narrative pretty well, and it was all very interesting and worthwhile. No mention of human sacrifices, dammit. Bobby wondered if the petroglyphs were scratched by indigenous teenagers, spreading graffiti, to their parents' dismay...
We left the museum and were driven west along the southern rim of Concepción, and our driver pointed out the site of an enormous landslide that occurred a year ago after 40 hours of torrential rain. It took eight days to clear the road, he said, and there are still many uprooted whole trees flung about by the avalanche of volcanic material that gave way. Our destination was the Villa Paraiso hotel at Santo Domingo beach, on the eastern shore of the isthmus. It is aptly named, as it is pretty darned paradisial. Elegant tropical wood structures, lush plantings of flowers and greenery, and even some semi-tame magpie jays who flit about awaiting crumbs from the mostly foreign diners. A welcome breeze blew in from the water, and Bob and I enjoyed a delicious lunch and some decent table wines.
Our avian friend visited our table before dining on fruit from a Veitchia palm just beyond the deck rail.
It was a leisurely lunch, to be sure. We waited and waited for our food, and afterwards, we had only a few minutes to view the mineral water pool before we caught the return ferry at 4 p.m. It was, well, a nice woodland pool, with many happy tourists paddling about, or sitting cross-legged in hippie gauze peasant skirts. Bob spotted a monkey and got this shot:
Then, it was a race against the clock to return to the other side of the island before the ferry left at 4. We made it with 6 minutes to spare. Bob caught a few shots of these fishermen, standing in impossibly narrow boats, casting their nets.
The ferry ride takes about an hour, and we left Ometepe in the embrace of its cloud/smoke canopy. A wonderful day that we concluded with a couple of bottles of wine, some heavenly brie cheese brought from Texas, and crackers supplied by Beth. Early to bed.
Friday, after his flight arrived on time, he rented a car, and as the GPS was slow to kick in, we scrambled a bit navigating through Managua, which has almost no street signs, and few signs to direct the neophyte Nicaraguan. But we managed to find Erlinda's neighborhood, and had a quick visit before heading south to Diriamba and La Boquita.
I thought Bob might want to dine at La Boquita's little beach restaurant zone, and we arrived there after the early sunset and the dark that quickly ensues here in the tropics. It didn't appear that any people were dining anywhere, but we parked and asked a couple of the usual tourist herders if Ronaldo was cooking. I had heard that he prepared good lobster at a better price than anyone else. No, they said. Ronaldo was at home, but his "aunt" could rustle up some lobster. We were guided to an empty elevated pavilion to which a table and chairs were brought, along with cold beers, and we awaited our dinner. I swear we were the only customers in the whole town that night, but we made the most of our impromptu eatery. The lobsters were small, and were served on one large platter, along with rice, plantain tostones and salad. Delicious, really, and we ate our fill. For a Friday night crowd, it seems we were it, and I cannot fathom how those places stay in business. No wonder Ronaldo stayed home!
We rose early Saturday and drove southeast to Rivas, and on to San Jorge, a little port on Lake Nicaragua, which is the largest freshwater lake in Central America, home to freshwater sharks, reportedly. And it is a great lake; one cannot see the opposite banks, and when we were there, white-capped waves dotted the surface, and broke on the shore as do ocean waves. From San Jorge, a ferry takes people and cars to the island of Ometepe, which was formed by a pair of volcanoes.
Bob booked us a package which included being met by a driver at the other end of the ferry ride, and being driven to the El Ceibo museum of pre-Columbian artifacts found all over the island, then to lunch at a beautiful hotel on the western shore of Ometepe, and a visit to Ojo de Agua, a mineral water spring where people swim and dunk themselves for the purported medicinal benefit. And throughout, the lush greenery and dramatic vistas of the two volcanoes: Concepción, the larger, and still smoking northern vent, and Maderas, an extinct vulcan, now topped by a beautiful lake. The two circular island portions are joined by an isthmus, giving the isleta a lopsided hourglass shape.
Bob's photo from the ferry:
(below) from Google Earth.
The Museo El Ceibo takes its name from the large farm in which it is situated. The magnificent ceibo tree stands like a sentinel just off the main road, where a dirt road leads back to a grassy clearing where the museum's wealthy benefactor installed buildings to house a large array of artifacts from the pre-Columbian indigenous population, as well as his own extensive numismatic collection, which we bypassed, neither of us being interested in currency. There must also be an El Ceibo Hotel nearby, according to the sign beneath the tree. The museum opened less than a decade ago.
An obliging docent, Tony, guided us through the centuries of ceramics, petroglyphs, ceremonial and agricultural tools, jewelry, toys, sculpted stone, and funeral containers that compose the museum. I was happy to find I could follow Tony's Spanish narrative pretty well, and it was all very interesting and worthwhile. No mention of human sacrifices, dammit. Bobby wondered if the petroglyphs were scratched by indigenous teenagers, spreading graffiti, to their parents' dismay...
We left the museum and were driven west along the southern rim of Concepción, and our driver pointed out the site of an enormous landslide that occurred a year ago after 40 hours of torrential rain. It took eight days to clear the road, he said, and there are still many uprooted whole trees flung about by the avalanche of volcanic material that gave way. Our destination was the Villa Paraiso hotel at Santo Domingo beach, on the eastern shore of the isthmus. It is aptly named, as it is pretty darned paradisial. Elegant tropical wood structures, lush plantings of flowers and greenery, and even some semi-tame magpie jays who flit about awaiting crumbs from the mostly foreign diners. A welcome breeze blew in from the water, and Bob and I enjoyed a delicious lunch and some decent table wines.
Our avian friend visited our table before dining on fruit from a Veitchia palm just beyond the deck rail.
It was a leisurely lunch, to be sure. We waited and waited for our food, and afterwards, we had only a few minutes to view the mineral water pool before we caught the return ferry at 4 p.m. It was, well, a nice woodland pool, with many happy tourists paddling about, or sitting cross-legged in hippie gauze peasant skirts. Bob spotted a monkey and got this shot:
Then, it was a race against the clock to return to the other side of the island before the ferry left at 4. We made it with 6 minutes to spare. Bob caught a few shots of these fishermen, standing in impossibly narrow boats, casting their nets.
The ferry ride takes about an hour, and we left Ometepe in the embrace of its cloud/smoke canopy. A wonderful day that we concluded with a couple of bottles of wine, some heavenly brie cheese brought from Texas, and crackers supplied by Beth. Early to bed.
and back to San Jorge by sunset.
Monday, October 26, 2015
A Ninetieth Birthday Observed
My Dad's birthday was yesterday. It would have been his ninetieth. His was a powerful presence in the lives of his children, and that power continues to be felt, now six years since his death. I do not know if I think of him daily—I read somewhere that memories "wear out" with use, and each time we recall an event or a face, we are actually remembering the memory, which erodes a little with each reference. How many times may a memory be summoned before it bears no resemblance to its origin? I've become stingy with my deliberations on past times, past people—I do not want to be unable to conjure my father's smile or the sound of his laughter or the rhythm of his lanky manner of walking. Even now, I want to shoo away the images these words evoke, lest they be thoughtlessly recalled to their eventual detriment.
Fortunately, I have tucked away so many memories of each of my parents that that I no longer fear that I will outlive them, that I will wear them out before I no longer need them. Not all the memories are happy or pleasant, but no matter. They each contribute to my sense of having become myself through those experiences, including those influences and individuals who shaped my worldview and my expectations of this life. Like DNA, the events of one's life, especially in the pre-adult years over which one has no real control, are cards one is dealt. Sussing out the degree to which my personal desires or decisions have affected the playing of those cards is not my preferred activity at this point. It is enough to be out of the game at last. Finally, I feel I can live mindfully in the present, observing birthday anniversaries, not as memorials to departed loved ones, but as ongoing milestones in my own life, in my own heart, where these dear ones will forever reside.
Fortunately, I have tucked away so many memories of each of my parents that that I no longer fear that I will outlive them, that I will wear them out before I no longer need them. Not all the memories are happy or pleasant, but no matter. They each contribute to my sense of having become myself through those experiences, including those influences and individuals who shaped my worldview and my expectations of this life. Like DNA, the events of one's life, especially in the pre-adult years over which one has no real control, are cards one is dealt. Sussing out the degree to which my personal desires or decisions have affected the playing of those cards is not my preferred activity at this point. It is enough to be out of the game at last. Finally, I feel I can live mindfully in the present, observing birthday anniversaries, not as memorials to departed loved ones, but as ongoing milestones in my own life, in my own heart, where these dear ones will forever reside.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Mission Creep?
All right, I am going to go out on a limb and declare, "Death to all missionaries." Oh, perhaps not all of them. I know that Mother Teresa and her army of helpers placed actual need here in earthly life far above any mission to save souls in the hereafter. But here in Nicaragua, I am baffled by the hordes of earnest do-gooders who believe that this already religious population somehow needs saving of the spiritual kind above and beyond their obvious need for economic assistance.
When Gabe and I came down in May for a two-week visit, we met people in the Florida airport who were flying to Nicaragua for a one-week stay in Masatepe, previously mentioned here as the town where one can find good furniture. These people were not on a mission to help build a school or plant a crop or be otherwise useful. Their purpose was to fly to this country, at great personal expense, and pray for a week. Granted, some agency that arranges these sorts of travel opportunities was making a profit, and perhaps some Masatepe residents might garner a few extra cordobas by providing beds for the prayers. I seem to recall that it mattered not where one prayed; surely, these people could have stayed home and prayed and donated the money they would have spent lining the travel agent's pockets to some worthy project that would have actually benefited the citizens of Masatepe.
I was a proud do-gooder myself when I developed a sport project some 28 years ago in San Isidro, Nicaragua. I did bother asking what would do some good for the town's children. They had no sports equipment, period. They wanted baseball, basketball, soccer, and volleyball gear. They needed some money to repair the town's ball field. And that's what they got. I paid my own expenses, and raised funds to purchase the equipment. My boss's boss at Westinghouse took care of the shipping costs, and San Isidro got its sports programs. It felt good to be helpful. I do understand the impulse.
This afternoon, two fresh-faced norteamericanos appeared at our back wall, having climbed up from the rocky beach below, and asked to pass through our compound to the road. They were neatly dressed in dark trousers, with white shirts and long black ties, not the usual uniform for traipsing up and down the rocky escarpment. Ah, missionaries! Never mind that every bus sports calligraphic adornment of new testament praise for Cristo, or that every tenth structure on the average road is a church of some sort—Seventh Day Adventists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Catholics, Apostolic Pentecostal Whatevers. Religion is not a crying need here. WTF are these missionaries in their ties and trousers doing in this poor country that faces real economic challenges? The arrogance of the righteous is quite breathtaking!
Voluntourism. This portmanteau term to describe travel opportunities that include participation in projects to benefit local populations is, I hope, falling out of favor now. If, as suggested above, one truly wants to help, the cash for expensive air tickets could be used so much more effectively in direct aid to a sensible, trustworthy organization that knows best how to direct it. By all means, travel to the third world, learn about problems first-hand. But do not deceive yourself that your half-day stacking bricks in the hot sun did anybody any good at all. That road to hell is paved with such aspirations.
For the record, I have not the slightest notion of doing anybody any good at all. I just want to live in peace and do no harm. Amen.
When Gabe and I came down in May for a two-week visit, we met people in the Florida airport who were flying to Nicaragua for a one-week stay in Masatepe, previously mentioned here as the town where one can find good furniture. These people were not on a mission to help build a school or plant a crop or be otherwise useful. Their purpose was to fly to this country, at great personal expense, and pray for a week. Granted, some agency that arranges these sorts of travel opportunities was making a profit, and perhaps some Masatepe residents might garner a few extra cordobas by providing beds for the prayers. I seem to recall that it mattered not where one prayed; surely, these people could have stayed home and prayed and donated the money they would have spent lining the travel agent's pockets to some worthy project that would have actually benefited the citizens of Masatepe.
I was a proud do-gooder myself when I developed a sport project some 28 years ago in San Isidro, Nicaragua. I did bother asking what would do some good for the town's children. They had no sports equipment, period. They wanted baseball, basketball, soccer, and volleyball gear. They needed some money to repair the town's ball field. And that's what they got. I paid my own expenses, and raised funds to purchase the equipment. My boss's boss at Westinghouse took care of the shipping costs, and San Isidro got its sports programs. It felt good to be helpful. I do understand the impulse.
This afternoon, two fresh-faced norteamericanos appeared at our back wall, having climbed up from the rocky beach below, and asked to pass through our compound to the road. They were neatly dressed in dark trousers, with white shirts and long black ties, not the usual uniform for traipsing up and down the rocky escarpment. Ah, missionaries! Never mind that every bus sports calligraphic adornment of new testament praise for Cristo, or that every tenth structure on the average road is a church of some sort—Seventh Day Adventists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Catholics, Apostolic Pentecostal Whatevers. Religion is not a crying need here. WTF are these missionaries in their ties and trousers doing in this poor country that faces real economic challenges? The arrogance of the righteous is quite breathtaking!
Voluntourism. This portmanteau term to describe travel opportunities that include participation in projects to benefit local populations is, I hope, falling out of favor now. If, as suggested above, one truly wants to help, the cash for expensive air tickets could be used so much more effectively in direct aid to a sensible, trustworthy organization that knows best how to direct it. By all means, travel to the third world, learn about problems first-hand. But do not deceive yourself that your half-day stacking bricks in the hot sun did anybody any good at all. That road to hell is paved with such aspirations.
For the record, I have not the slightest notion of doing anybody any good at all. I just want to live in peace and do no harm. Amen.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Spain and Rain, Mainly
Friday's sojourn to Managua was a rain-sopped mess of a trip. No sooner did the old Blue Bird pick me up in La Boquita but the heavens opened and the heavy downpour continued most of the way to Diriamba. This meant that the bus's occupants closed all the windows in the interest of staying dry, which locked in the heat and sweaty human aromas. Mile after claustrophobic mile I fought down the urge to scream bloody murder if I didn't get some air. Bring on the wet stuff, just let me breathe!
I grabbed the last seat on a crowded micro-bus to Managua and rode, white-knuckled, as the driver floored the accelerator, braking sporadically to accommodate the rare sensible motorist until we were able to pass and resume hurtling over the mountains of El Crucero, barreling down the ess-curves into Managua. The slick roads merely added to the drama, summoning visions of my mangled corpse, crumpled beneath the wreckage, as the zopilotes gathered to feast on fresh carrion. Where is Fellini with his camera?
Nevertheless, I made it in one piece, and as the rain continued to fall, Erlinda and I and her friend Delfina, visiting from El Salvador, waded through heavy traffic and flooded streets to collect Ivan and drive to the Spanish Cultural Center to see the exhibition of drawings and lithographs of Salvador Dali. We arrived late, just as the empty gallery was about to close, but the three staffers spectacularly offered to accommodate our wet selves for an hour.
Two sets of works were on display. The first, inspired by Rabelais's Pantagruel novels, was suitably bizarre, scatological, and thoroughly surreal! Here, at last, on my blog, are the flatulence, the twisted genitalia, and wildly anthropomorphic imaginings of Senor Dali, to whit:
Feel free to irritate your more discerning correspondents with repeated postings of bandaged penis people, spoon-billed eagles, erupting pustules, and mushroom caps!
I grabbed the last seat on a crowded micro-bus to Managua and rode, white-knuckled, as the driver floored the accelerator, braking sporadically to accommodate the rare sensible motorist until we were able to pass and resume hurtling over the mountains of El Crucero, barreling down the ess-curves into Managua. The slick roads merely added to the drama, summoning visions of my mangled corpse, crumpled beneath the wreckage, as the zopilotes gathered to feast on fresh carrion. Where is Fellini with his camera?
Nevertheless, I made it in one piece, and as the rain continued to fall, Erlinda and I and her friend Delfina, visiting from El Salvador, waded through heavy traffic and flooded streets to collect Ivan and drive to the Spanish Cultural Center to see the exhibition of drawings and lithographs of Salvador Dali. We arrived late, just as the empty gallery was about to close, but the three staffers spectacularly offered to accommodate our wet selves for an hour.
Two sets of works were on display. The first, inspired by Rabelais's Pantagruel novels, was suitably bizarre, scatological, and thoroughly surreal! Here, at last, on my blog, are the flatulence, the twisted genitalia, and wildly anthropomorphic imaginings of Senor Dali, to whit:
Feel free to irritate your more discerning correspondents with repeated postings of bandaged penis people, spoon-billed eagles, erupting pustules, and mushroom caps!
The second collection comprised lithographs created in cooperative inspiration with chefs at famed Parisian eatery Maxim's.
Lobster, shrimp, served on the backs of short-legged elephants? But of course!
This face? Not so appetizing...
But Dali's synthesis of line, wit, and graphic mettle is irresistible!
Thereafter, we repaired to Taska Kiko for good Spanish cuisine. After Dali, what else?
(It turns out "Kiko," which sounds Japanese, is a diminutive for "Enrique.")
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
O Trazadone, Where Art Thou?
Photos posted stateside show autumn colors, football, sweaters, pumpkins. Here all is moist, green, bougainvillea-pink. My sense of detachment from the old reality is growing at an accelerated pace now. My sleeping pills ran out a week ago; the ensuing nights of torturous wakefulness may be clouding my perceptions, true, but still I have a sense that I am viewing the life I left behind through the wrong end of the telescope.
My addiction to news remains intact. Though I am persuaded that the NY Times has morphed into The Onion of late. How else to explain the sheer incomprehensibility of the Republican party's crowded primary field, with barely a whole mind among them? How is it possible that Ben Carson has so little of substance to say about fuck-all ANYTHING? How may we explain the paucity both of Mr. Trump's vocabulary and his grasp of the realities of governance?
I've been prowling farmacias, looking for Trazadone without success. Erlinda called around in Managua. Nobody carries it. Now I drag through the days, catnapping; at night, I devour whole books waiting for morning. The Invention of Nature, by Andrea Wulf, is my current read. The astonishing account of Alexander von Humboldt's brilliant mind, his world travels in search of knowledge he freely offered to science and laymen alike. I dread finishing it.
I need sleep!
A bright note: brother Bobby is coming for a long weekend at month's end. We plan to make an excursion to Ometepe, a two-volcano island in Lake Nicaragua, in the Rivas department of the country. And in two days, I will go up to Managua to see an exhibition of drawings by Salvador Dali with Ivan and Erlinda. 13 years ago, Gabriel and I saw a wonderful Dali exhibit in London, and then, in 2012, I visited the fine Dali museum in St. Petersburg, FL with my friend Tom Matrullo. I take my Dali wherever I can find him!
If only I could find Trazadone...
My addiction to news remains intact. Though I am persuaded that the NY Times has morphed into The Onion of late. How else to explain the sheer incomprehensibility of the Republican party's crowded primary field, with barely a whole mind among them? How is it possible that Ben Carson has so little of substance to say about fuck-all ANYTHING? How may we explain the paucity both of Mr. Trump's vocabulary and his grasp of the realities of governance?
I've been prowling farmacias, looking for Trazadone without success. Erlinda called around in Managua. Nobody carries it. Now I drag through the days, catnapping; at night, I devour whole books waiting for morning. The Invention of Nature, by Andrea Wulf, is my current read. The astonishing account of Alexander von Humboldt's brilliant mind, his world travels in search of knowledge he freely offered to science and laymen alike. I dread finishing it.
I need sleep!
A bright note: brother Bobby is coming for a long weekend at month's end. We plan to make an excursion to Ometepe, a two-volcano island in Lake Nicaragua, in the Rivas department of the country. And in two days, I will go up to Managua to see an exhibition of drawings by Salvador Dali with Ivan and Erlinda. 13 years ago, Gabriel and I saw a wonderful Dali exhibit in London, and then, in 2012, I visited the fine Dali museum in St. Petersburg, FL with my friend Tom Matrullo. I take my Dali wherever I can find him!
If only I could find Trazadone...
Sunday, October 4, 2015
North to Chinandega
This past Thursday found me back on the Managua bus with Brynn in tow for a Friday visit to Migración to renew my tourist visa on Friday morning. This was accomplished with no undue fuss at the satellite office at MetroCentro, a large shopping mall connected to the Intercontinental Hotel, with the help of my hero and avocado abogado, Noel.
Afterwards, my friend Erlinda invited me to go with her to the north to her hometown of Chinandega, to help celebrate her brother's birthday. Erlinda is one of 12 siblings, and I had not yet met her older brother Miguel and his wife Merian. So we boarded a microbus crammed full for a two-hour ride up past Leon to this second oldest city in Nicaragua, a town of about 300K residents. This was no tourist visit, so I did not get a good look at the place. Miguel's house is on a quiet street, and the plain exterior belies the comfortable home within.The family has lived in this house for 47 years.
Miguel and Erlinda
Miguel has been in the business of raising sugar cane and rice, among other things, and his two sons also work with him. At 75, I imagine he is semi-retired, at least. A lovely, soft-spoken gentleman, whose wife is both hospitable and generous. We had a good meal of soup, chicken, pasta, and a sort of flan with raisins for dessert.
Merian has a few collections on display in her home, including miniature houses that are produced in Masaya, Nicaragua's famed artisan center, not too far from Diriamba. They are arranged in the small open-air courtyard of the home.
In the sala, there is an ancient scales with weights, amidst a collection of old irons on an antique sewing machine table. A breakfront houses various ceramics, and is topped by a son's baseball trophies, and flanked by papal portraits.
The sala, with Merian.
Birthday wishes accomplished, Miguel drove us back to the bus corner, with a brief stop in front of a sweet old church, whose most recent restoration was a century ago. Really lovely, isn't it?
The ride back to Managua in a window seat provided me with a lesson in the volcanic geology of Nicaragua. There is a string of active or dormant volcanoes stretching from the north near Chinandega south as far as Grenada, at the top of Lake Nicaragua. The mountain chain comprising the northernmost eight or nine volcanoes is called the Cordillero de los Marabios; Erlinda pointed out a few that do not appear on this little map, including Chonco, just north of San Cristobal, and just above Cerro Negro, Las Pilas and Casita, so-called because of its gabled roof shape. Nevertheless, as this image shows, there is a very active line extending right into Lake Nicaragua to the island of Ometepe.
As our bus headed back to Managua, I had only short glimpses through breaks in the roadside greenery of Telica, the volcano near León which erupted this past May when Gabe was here, and smoking Momotambo. These geological formations are so distinctive, rising like pyramids from the inland plains, providing clear evidence that Nicaragua is one of the most seismically active regions in the world. I love the sound of the indigenous names like Momotambo and Mombacho, Chinandega and Chichigalpa.
Here is a internet image of Momotambo in the distance, and Momotambito, a smaller version that rises from Lake Managua.
Below: Volcan Telica.
Afterwards, my friend Erlinda invited me to go with her to the north to her hometown of Chinandega, to help celebrate her brother's birthday. Erlinda is one of 12 siblings, and I had not yet met her older brother Miguel and his wife Merian. So we boarded a microbus crammed full for a two-hour ride up past Leon to this second oldest city in Nicaragua, a town of about 300K residents. This was no tourist visit, so I did not get a good look at the place. Miguel's house is on a quiet street, and the plain exterior belies the comfortable home within.The family has lived in this house for 47 years.
Miguel has been in the business of raising sugar cane and rice, among other things, and his two sons also work with him. At 75, I imagine he is semi-retired, at least. A lovely, soft-spoken gentleman, whose wife is both hospitable and generous. We had a good meal of soup, chicken, pasta, and a sort of flan with raisins for dessert.
Merian has a few collections on display in her home, including miniature houses that are produced in Masaya, Nicaragua's famed artisan center, not too far from Diriamba. They are arranged in the small open-air courtyard of the home.
In the sala, there is an ancient scales with weights, amidst a collection of old irons on an antique sewing machine table. A breakfront houses various ceramics, and is topped by a son's baseball trophies, and flanked by papal portraits.
The sala, with Merian.
Birthday wishes accomplished, Miguel drove us back to the bus corner, with a brief stop in front of a sweet old church, whose most recent restoration was a century ago. Really lovely, isn't it?
The ride back to Managua in a window seat provided me with a lesson in the volcanic geology of Nicaragua. There is a string of active or dormant volcanoes stretching from the north near Chinandega south as far as Grenada, at the top of Lake Nicaragua. The mountain chain comprising the northernmost eight or nine volcanoes is called the Cordillero de los Marabios; Erlinda pointed out a few that do not appear on this little map, including Chonco, just north of San Cristobal, and just above Cerro Negro, Las Pilas and Casita, so-called because of its gabled roof shape. Nevertheless, as this image shows, there is a very active line extending right into Lake Nicaragua to the island of Ometepe.
As our bus headed back to Managua, I had only short glimpses through breaks in the roadside greenery of Telica, the volcano near León which erupted this past May when Gabe was here, and smoking Momotambo. These geological formations are so distinctive, rising like pyramids from the inland plains, providing clear evidence that Nicaragua is one of the most seismically active regions in the world. I love the sound of the indigenous names like Momotambo and Mombacho, Chinandega and Chichigalpa.Below: Volcan Telica.
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