Heroics, Followed by Shopping Therapy

This post is lovingly dedicated to my brother Jack who slew my bureaucratic dragon with the help of his fearless daughter, Tess Mignot.

It was up to Jack to obtain the needed documents, have them notarized, and drive hours to the state capitol to get the State Department's seal of approval, the apostille, then rush them to Managua to my lawyers. Here is Tessie's account of today's events, stateside. She sent it to me and my sister Mary Mary, who also helped cobble together the plan.

Hi, my aunts! Great news! Dad had both documents notarized by 8:24am and was on the road. Arrived to meet me and we navigated Harrisburg. Found the Dept of State easily and found Apostilles with only a slight problem. We found the office and Dad didn't have his folder of documents! Slight heart attack... But it was recovered on the security x-ray belt. Phew!!! All was done by lunch. Off to the Mail Room in Lemoyne. The gentleman who helped us was great and it was in the FedEx envelope with three customs forms by 12:45 pm. Dad is so relieved and you should have the envelope by Thursday.

She also documented her Dad's good work with pics of him leaving the State Department, and then finishing the deed at the FedEx store. Big kiss and hug, Jack!

My very obliging landlady, Beth, offered to drive to Masatepe, a town renowned for its furniture manufacture, where I've been planning to buy a few sticks of furniture—muebles— and as I had just received confirmation that the documents were en route, I felt light and happy, and off we went to look for a pair of rocking chairs and a couple of occasional tables.

One of the first things you notice in tropical homes is the predominance of rocking chairs, mainly cane-seated or slatted to encourage air circulation. The last thing anyone wants to sit on is a soft, fabric upholstered chair or sofa. It's just too damned hot. So, I thought a pair of rockers would solve my seating issues in my small sala—living room.

Our first stop was a large, pretty fancy showroom, Muebleria Irwin (oy?), with a long covered porch, filled with rattan, wicker, and wooden wares, and some upholstered stuff that will surely result in buyer's regret.

 The porch, above. When Beth spied the wacky zebra-striped couch with the colorful pillow, she exclaimed, "They're bringing the '80s back!"  And dig the crazy green-painted wicker in the showroom.

I found my pair of comfy rockers and three small tables, and we went on to "El Chele" Muebleria to look for an armoire. There are no closets in many Nicaraguan homes, including mine. I found a beautiful, inexpensive armario of a deep flame red and dark stained wood called, according to the salesman, Herbie (Air-bee), Madera Lecho y Genicero. I could not verify this online, and it may be local nomenclature. 

Nearby, I found my last lamp table, above wrapped in plastic, and Beth and I went to find some lunch while we waited for Nery, a furniture mover I had met a couple of weeks ago. He said he would meet us at 1:30, and showed up at 2:30.   That is not Nery on old-fashioned conveyance; Masatepe has plenty of modern conveniences, but also ox carts.

This is Carmen, who sold me the rockers.                 And Beth, standing near Nery's truck.

And here is Nery (pronounced Neddy), left, with a helper loading the last table onto his truck, as helpful Herbie stands by in the shade to make sure they do it right.

Everybody Dance!

When I next return to the Palacio de Cultura, I must reacquaint myself with this realization of an ancient game or dance, also found in Mexican culture, that was added to the Palacio's central court in the 1990s. Presumably, it celebrates hunting or hunting skills, as these fellows seem to have the necessary accoutremént for stalking and killing. Also tattoos!

This early ceramic platter features a being -- a deity, perhaps? -- wearing an enormous headpiece. The large stone figures below feature big hats as well, and date to early centuries, Common Era. 

The figures without hats are Ivan and Noel, the aforementioned crack legal team.

There are several galleries displaying a well-curated assemblage of mainly 20th-century art, and a selection of contemporary Nicaraguan artists.  I loved the section devoted to Armando Morales (1927-2011), one of the country's most important painters, with great success in Paris and New York City and elsewhere around the globe, who was also a Guggenheim Fellow, among many honors. His small painting, "The Last Supper of Sandino," is a haunting tribute to the revered leader who led the 1927-1933 rebellion against U.S military occupation of Nicaragua, and who was assassinated in 1934 by the forces of Anastasio Somosa, who imposed four decades of tyranny and dictatorship until the Sandinista Revolution of 1979. In spirit, as well as setting, I think this painting accords Sandino the martyr/saviour's place in Nicaraguan history that Christ, as depicted by da Vinci, holds for the Christian world. Sandino was only 38 when he was killed. Unlike da Vinci's painting, the table is viewed at an angle, placing Sandino into a less symmetrical point of dominance, to the viewer's left. Political symbolism?  (Forgive the reflections of gallery ghosts in the glass.)

Another painting I especially liked was by Alfonso Ximenes, a contemporary Nicaraguan artist. I regret I did not note the title of this rather homely village scene, but I love the unsaturated faded colors he used to depict a sweet grouping of typical rural houses. You can sense the affection he has for his subject; the line of laundry breaks my heart. Noel told me that the structure in front to the right is a latrine!

One of the last galleries is devoted to a theatrical tradition that reminds me of the Commedia dell' Arte of 16th-century Italy. It is a satire/drama and dance spectacular known as El Güegüense which is performed annually during the feast of San Sebastian in Diriamba, right here in Carazo! This I intend to see, but it won't be until January. Here are a couple of  images from the Palacio:

     "Güegüense speaks for the people"  (Ruben Darío)

Afterwards, we were hungry and thirsty, and bounced through the streets of Managua to a famed Ceviche hangout called Goussen (pronounced "Hussein"), where some cold cervesa and fresh ceviche worked wonders to help me forget my visa complications.

Crushing Disappointment, Cultural Elevation

Yesterday, Friday, was my big cita (date, appointment) with the Instituto de Turismo to apply for my residence visa. It turned out to be an object lesson in humility. Yes, I had all the proper documents, and yes, all the required translations were in good order, and all was well, EXCEPT that the dates on my health statement and my criminal record check (oh, I am a bad girl...) would soon outlive their six-month lifespans. And unless I could produce newly minted originals, notarized, with apostilles from the Pennsylvania State Department in Harrisburg by the end of next week, my hoped-for review in October would be pushed back, and more documents would expire, leaving me up a woeful creek with no visa.

Let me say only that I marshaled my forces back in the Mother Country, and I will not sleep very well until I know that the documents have been created, notarized, received their apostilles, and have been FedEx-ed by Tuesday (at tremendous cost in miles and misery to brother Jack).

After my defeat at the hands of INTUR, I and my crack legal team headed off to the Palace of Culture for my promised tour, and very soon my mood lifted, thanks in large part to the patient and knowledgeable guidance of Ivan's law partner, Noel.

As mentioned previously, the Palacio is a neoclassic building that survived the 1972 terremoto intact, and it is a lovely spacious place with a two-story cloister design of roofed walkways giving on to galleries to one side and a beautiful central courtyard to the other. The galleries compose a generally chronological account of the history and culture of what is widely accepted to be some of the youngest terra firma on the planet.

Dinosaur bones and mammoth jaws, millennia-old tree trunks preserved in volcanic ash, and footprints of ancient man held forever in petrified earth are here, in the first galleries,




There are displays of early weaponry and hunting culture, as well as some fine pre-Columbian ceramics and metallurgy, including this tiny figure of a dog (god, backwards) rendered in pure gold.

I enjoyed the explanation of the culture that arose around the cultivation of corn.The grinding mortars to the left are of the sort used in those early kitchens of the maize culture. Also on display were large clay pots used to store corn and to ferment corn spirits!

Corn must have been revered as such a life-sustaining gift of the corn gods (dogs, backward!) that the mortar held a prominent place in religious ceremony and custom, but these mortars were fancy, with animal heads to signify some sacred acknowledgement of their powers. Or not. I cannot pretend to understand all the nuance of these objects, but I think they are powerfully evocative of ancient times.

Does the date 1492 ring a bell?  A large display centers on the fateful voyage of Christopher Columbus when he discovered Hispaniola and sailed on into the Caribbean Sea to find what would soon thereafter be considered the southern Atlantic coast of Guatemala , but is now the east coast of Nicaragua. The Spaniards streamed into Central America, as well as Florida, Mexico, etc., looking for gold, and had their nefarious ways with the indigenous residents of these lands, as we well know. I was struck by the sheer violence of this replica of an etching showing the sport to be enjoyed by setting vicious dogs upon native people to avoid getting blood all over their cute outfits and pretty swords. Just look at the posturing of the Spaniards. 

To be continued:

Chikungunya. New recipe? Uh, no...

It sounds to me like something delicious. I had never heard the word until the other evening when I arrived in Managua for a meeting with a lawyer on the following day—to complete my residence application. Ivan and Erlinda had been ill for several days after I left for La Boquita, and I inquired after their health. Turns out, their empleada (cook/housekeeper) was the first to fall ill, and later both sons as well. The symptoms they described were immediately familiar to me.

Nobody wants to give an organ recital in a blog, and I mos' def omitted to chronicle my wretched first few days here in this space, save for the aforementioned mosquito misery. In fact, I was on the verge of admitting I had made a terrible mistake in coming here. I believed the heat was the culprit; I had a fever, my legs were hurting (due to arthritis, I figured), and at night, my hands were so itchy, I could not keep from scratching deeply, to little avail. In the morning, I expected to find a scabrous mess where my hands used to be, but they were only a little pink. Then, a bright red rash bloomed on my arms and chest. I chalked it up to heat rash, but just felt truly ill. The fever persisted for about five days, and the rash slowly faded, and suddenly, I felt just fine. Oh, the relief in the realization that the heat had not gotten the best of me—and then,when Erlinda described her semana desdichada (awful week), I realized I too had contracted chikungunya, a disease transmitted by mosquitoes first described in the 1950s in Tanganyika.  The illness is not transmitted human to human, and it can be fatal to infants. The joint pains can last for years—oh, goody—and though "itchy hands" is not listed as a common symptom, all in Erlinda's household suffered with it.

Well, my first tropical disease! May it also be the last.

I had a great visit to Managua. My new lawyer is a lovely chap, with long experience in promoting the rich cultural history of this country. He told me that Augusto Cesár Sandino visited the Pacific coast in high heat and dubbed it "this damned country!" We paid a brief visit to the Plaza de la Revolución and I maxed out my camera's memory card. To whit:

Managua's fine old cathedral, which was heavily damaged in the 1972 earthquake in which 50,000 people died.

And just to the other side, the neoclassic Palacio Nacional, built in the 1930s.  It is now the National Palace of Culture or Palace of Culture and comprises a museum, archives, newspaper archive and National Library along with the Nicaraguan Institute of Culture INC.         It was barely touched by the earthquake.       

                                                                                        

                              Fine interior court

Opposite the cathedral is the tomb of Carlos Fonseca Amador, founder of the Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional (FSLN) who died in the revolution, marked by an eternal flame, and flanked by the tombs of Col. Santos Lopez, one of the original twelve revolutionaries, and Tomás Borge, a co-founder with Fonseca; he was a statesman, poet and essayist, who served in various post-revolution governmental posts, lastly as Ambassador to Peru, who died in 2012. Here is the mausoleum:

There is also a monument to Nicaragua's famed modernist poet Rubén Darío, which I hope to explore next week when I finally present my residence application. 

(I promise more pictures, Mary Mary.)

And just as I was about to publish this entry, this little guy ambled by, scooping up ants under my table! Thank you very much!

More Compost on the Pile

High Drama
(Friday) Thursday evening, Lukie, Beth's youngest dog, suddenly went into a paroxysm of vomiting and howling in an agony that was unearthly to hear. The evidence on the ground showed that she had eaten at least two poisonous frogs; she vacillated between grotesque body spasms with screeching cries and periods of silence with her neck extended and her legs frozen straight out. It was horrible to witness. To mitigate the effects of the poison, Salvador and his partner Regina, the couple who look after the place, went into ER mode, forcing milk down Lukie's throat and keeping her as calm as possible. Beth was not here at the time, and the internet was barely functioning, so I couldn't contact her to get the vet's phone number. Lukie survived the night, and we await the vet as I write this.

Poison frogs. Now I can worry about Brynn developing a taste for amphibians.
I did a little research and the likely culprit is the Marine Toad (Bufo marinus). The symptoms, time of year, and locale match exactly. 


(Saturday) The vet injected an antidote -- toad poisoning is not uncommon-- and declared a good prognosis for Lukie. Here she is (L), being welcomed back by the pack:

Happily, Brynn has recovered the use of her hind leg that had been injured in a mishap with another, larger dog. She has also recovered her happy puppy demeanor, and has truly joined the pack here in La Boquita. When Beth is not around, all four dogs tend to lounge on the floor in my small kitchen. They recognized a sucker for doggies when they met me, and I find them wonderful company. I am, after all, here alone, with Brynn, of course, and no other human being to whom I am at all close. I am not lonesome, not yet. But I was remembering hugging my son goodbye on July 2, and realized it has been six weeks since I've hugged anyone like that. I do miss physical contact, and this little pack of dogs wants all the contact I can give them.

Bumpedy-bumping to Diriamba
Bus service to Diriamba is cheap and frequent. albeit there is no schedule. Usually, if I perch on the low wall out front by the road, an old Canadian Bluebird school bus will come rattling along. Some buses are the original yellow but many are painted in green and white or bear the signs of replacement panels in different colors. The bus is normally less than half full when it leaves La Boquita, but it stops for absolutely everyone en route, and detours off the main road to a catholic school in La Trinidad to deliver and collect students. It can get pretty tight.

The trip can be mighty entertaining, especially if someone rises to address the riders to sell something or preach a gospel, as this lady did recently. It was not unlike what my (little) son referred to as "robot talking," when my family prayed grace at the dinner table. She went on for a full half hour in alleluia-mode.

The guy to her left is the porter, who jumps out at every stop to help little old ladies (like me!) and children up the steps into the bus. He also collects fares, and seems able to remember each person to whom he owes change and how much, which he delivers later during the trip. The fare is 16 cordobas, about 60 cents.

By the Clock

Building addresses in Nicaragua are expressed as directions, and can go on forever. In Diriamba, most addresses refer to the town clock tower, e.g. "From the clock, two blocks west and three blocks north, the green building across from the pharmacy." The supermarket where I shop, Palí (incidentally, a subsidiary of [anguished groan] Walmart) is not far from the clock, and its address is Del reloj  1 C al E y 1 C al S (From the clock, 1 block to the East and 1 block to the South). Here is where I hop out of the bus. Some font, eh?

The clock keeps excellent time, by the way. Someday, I shall read the plaque and tell you something about the figure on the pedestal. And here is a look at the large church of St. Sebastian in Diriamba. San Sebastian is a pretty important chap hereabouts, I gather. The school in La Trinidad is in his name, as well as a couple of other small churches I've seen.

Across from the church, a colorful gazebo sort of affair
in the main plaza of Diriamba. One day, I'll investigate
the church for a future report here.











Below, a caponero, or tuk tuk, or tut tut, or moto, as many       call them. There are 400 motos in Diriamba alone!

Cucarachas! My Nighttime Malady

Any account of life in Nicaragua that fails to mention the bugs and creepy-crawlies that come with the territory is neither accurate nor helpful. I see now that every cleanliness-obsessed North American insectaphobe who comes to Central America must either find a way to accept this reality or go mad.

When I made my first trip to Nica in 1988, I spent a week in a house in Managua owned by a Catholic base community. These folks arranged to have a man sleep just outside my door, armed with an impressive machete. I was fine with that, as I'd been forewarned that a solitary gringa such as my incredibly pale self was a tempting target for robbery and worse. The house was sparsely furnished, with a sagging box spring under a ratty mattress, a few chairs and table, and a working refrigerator (thanks to the gods!). Sleeping was out of the question. The mere thought that mosquitoes were gorging themselves on my delectable corpus meant hours of flailing about and slapping wildly trying to fend off the attack, both real and imagined, to little avail. I finally arose at about 2 a.m. and walked barefoot to the kitchen, where I had stowed some beer in the fridge. The moment I turned on the light, I stifled a scream when HUNDREDS of gigantic cockroaches scattered for cover.

Gigantic may be somewhat hyperbolic. But they are an impressive 1.5-2-inches in length, excluding their antennae, and as thick around as my little finger. Here's an internet image:

At least one breeding couple hitched a ride back to Pittsburgh with me, as months later they began to show up in my house. At least they scared away the rats...

Here in my new house, I have found six  seven roaches in my shower. Some were dead or near death, and the two that could still run ran for the drain hole that leads to what I imagine to be the main hive in the public sewers. Most days, I see no roaches, but I always check. Beth's kitten trotted by yesterday with a mouse in her jaws, except that it turned out to be a cockroach as big as a mouse.

This one is not so big, but the key is 2 1/8 inches. The stogie key chain is a souvenir of Havana, Cuba, from La Yucatana, Tey Stiteler.

Houseflies are endemic. The winds off the ocean and from the east make spraying useless. The house is open to the elements, anyway, including insects, so I have been using flypaper in the kitchen and on my porch table to pretty good effect.

There are also tiny flying beetles and mosquitoes, moths and fleas. When I go to bed with my Nexus to read, the light from the tablet attracts them, and I have decided that ignoring them is far better than obsessing about sharing digs with them. Not that there has been an end to slapping and thrashing. Dengue fever is a worry. It's an infectious, potentially serious disease transmitted by mosquitoes. So "OFF" repellent is my new BFF. Amazingly, in the morning my sheets show no evidence of the nightly battles.

Here is some bougainvillea to help you forget these yucky pix.

Nor have I mastered the art of ignoring the excruciating itching that each mosquito bite produces. Since day one, I've had ample evidence that each time I scratch the itch, it reboots even more unbearably. So the trick is to endure the itching until it goes away; it takes enormous will power to keep from the (admittedly orgasmic) scratching that just raises the itch factor. It is torturous. My nightly routine has evolved to include a shower, followed by medicated powder and generous application of Deep Woods OFF. Thus armed against the bichitos, the little bastards, I read myself to sleep. And I am sleeping better and better.

And, in lieu of mosquito bites, a puppy.

Casares Fish Market

This morning, I rose early and headed out on foot toward Casares to buy some fish. There are buses that run between Casares and La Boquita, but this morning, I had walked nearly a mile before one stopped for me. The bus terminus in Casares is at the top of a hill that leads down to the beachside market, where the pangas are lined up on the sand after a night of fishing.

The precious motors are always detached and hauled up the hill for safekeeping. That's what those guys at the left are doing. The folks heading down the hill carry sacks and buckets and coolers for the fish they will buy.

It had been a good night. There was pargo for sale --that's red snapper-- for a pricey 60 cordobas per pound, or $2.25. I bought two fish, or three pounds' worth. Also sardines. I have seen tempting recipes for fresh sardines, so I bought a half-dozen for 60 cordobas. There was a good haul of my favorite, corvina --sea bass. It looks nothing like any bass I've ever seen, but it is delicious. My 2.5-pounder cost $3.75.

Before I started up the hill to the bus, I decided to stop at a comedor for a breakfast of gallo pinto, huevos rancheros, and fried plantains. Gallo pinto means "painted rooster," and is the national rice and beans staple of Nicaragua.

And just outside the door? One of Casares' dozens of free-range piggies, looking for her own breakfast!

It took me about a half-hour to scale and behead my fish for the freezer. And about an hour to clean the scales from every single surface in my little kitchen! From now on, scaling is an outside job.


8 Aug. postscript: Grilled the sardines, after scaling, beheading, butterflying, and de-boning. Still too many bones to eat comfortably. Sardines=delicious. Worth the trouble? I'll stick to canned in future.