Tempus Sure Does Fugit

Today, I am doubly pensive as I look back on a rather rotten year, and a supremely happy week with Mary Mary. On this day, they both seem to have flown by. MM is home with her beloved Great Dane Sophie, and the Obama's are packing. How I shall miss them all.

This past Tuesday, Mary Mary and I waited for the bus to Masaya, and a grim little woman with a machete wrapped in cloth approached us, chattering away. Other bus-bound people smiled, as she is likely a local character.

You talkin' a me?

We hailed a taxi in Masaya and headed for the famous volcano (my 5th visit!). The lava was still visible, though further down than in August when I was last there. MM got a great photo:

After shopping at the Masaya mercado, we stopped briefly in Caterina, a town nearby that is famed for its plant nurseries and for its high view of Laguna Apoyo, a crater lake in an extinct volcano. A friend of Erlinda is a retired teacher who now runs a store there with good quality "ropa tipica," traditional Nicaraguan clothing. We shopped some more, and then she took us to a restaurant for coffee and the famous view.

The extraordinarily windy weather affected our Wednesday fishing excursion. The sea was choppy, with white caps. In a panga, each little bump in the water threatened to toss us into the drink! The water was cold, as well, and the fish kept their distance. But we had a great time, and afterwards, MM consoled herself with yet ANOTHER lobster at the El Casino Hotel in Casares. We sat on the hotel's porch which gives on to the beach and the lined-up pangas. Not to mention some adorable porkers poking around in the sand. MM caught this funny juxtaposition with her Iphone:

Thursday, we again found ourselves on the bus to Masaya, exiting at Caterina, where we had forgotten one of our Tuesday purchases. We lunched at home, and MM packed up her suitcase and we bubble-wrapped some breakable gifts. Then off to Managua to meet Stefan and Noel for dinner before checking into the Hotel Las Mercedes, opposite the airport (MM's flight was very early on Friday). I was delighted to find my new friends from Pochomil, Dave and Mary, and we had a less than spectacular meal at the restaurant Don Pargo. Caveat emptor...

Mary Mary departed Friday morning at 5:50, and Stefan collected me later for a visit to Radio Tigre, where his father Ivan records his radio show devoted to the works of famed 19th-c. poet Rubén Darío. Ivan asked me to read several poems in English, and we discussed the quality of the translations, among other things. On the radio again! Whoopee! The show airs on 5 January. 

Happy 2017, everyone! Salud, Dinero, y Amor! (Health, money, and love!)

Nativities by the Score

My Xmas trip to Managua with Mary Mary in tow ended with a nighttime slow drive down the Avenida Bolivar, the primary north/south street that ends at the National Theater and the remains of the once-magnificent cathedral, now a relic of the 1971 earthquake. Block after block of Avenida Bolivar is lined with large Nativity displays, each illuminated and accompanied by deafening Christmas music, The ensuing cacophony is at once celebratory and absurd. The whole area is bedecked with illuminated bells, xmas presents, angels, and ornaments, and thousands of people strolled the Avenida, munching candy apples and tortillas on offer from street vendors. There was plenty of free-market action, with Christmas souvenirs lined up cheek by jowl with Star Wars light sabres and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys. Mosquito swatters and baggies filled with water, juice and other libations competed for the crowd's cordobas with boards of sunglasses, jewelry, watches, and peanuts. Here are some visuals:

"Jesus Forever" was this year's theme.

Santa?

Cathedral shell illuminated.

Hugo Chavez, tho' long gone, lives in light forever in Managua!

The godawful "trees of life" have spawned children...

A large question looms over this extravagant celebration. A friend explained that each of the dozens of Nativity displays is supplied by an industry or company that does business in Nicaragua. According to him, they are obligated to provide a spectacular display each December if they wish to continue doing business. If this is true, it would be a most unseemly mix of church and state and extortion. It is a new tradition of just a few years, so perhaps it may morph into a voluntary and truly celebratory event. The lights are extraordinary, the vendors make some money, and the people? We saw very few smiles except on the faces of children.

Best Christmas Present!

Four blissful days ago, my sister arrived to spend a week with me, and I have been foolishly happy for every blessed minute!

23 Dec.: We hopped a bus west to La Boquita beach for a swim and a beer and a sumptuous lunch at Samoa del Sur of red snapper (me) and TWO lobsters (!) for Mary Mary. Afterwards, we stopped at my former digs and had a chat with my former landlady and friend, Beth, and I was silly glad to see Brynn's old gang of three-- Roxie, Rasta, and Lukie. MM snapped some nice beach photos.

24 Dec.
Saturday, we visited with my neighbors to again thank Fatima and Solomon for their quick assistance when I was so sick two weeks ago. And off to the mercado in Diriamba for some last minute Christmas shopping! MM loved it, especially the sheer overload of STUFF...

and the distinctively refrigeration-free butcher shop...

We had hired Ernesto, a moto (tuk tuk) driver to collect us for Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) Mass at the beautiful church of San Sebastian in Diriamba. His son Osmond showed up instead, right on time (!) and we entered a packed church for one of the most glorious and weird experiences I have yet had in Nicaragua.

That Latin tradition of cherry bombs and cuetes I mentioned a post or two ago added the weirdness to the devotional proceedings. The homily was punctuated by huge bursts of explosive reports. The obvious religiously-inspired congregation did not blink an eye. It was simply part of the Christmas Mass. When the small (and youthful) chorus chimed in, Mary and I were stunned at the sheer beauty of their sound. Perfect harmonies and a director who conducted from an electric piano created a rich, simply splendid effect that resounded throughout the church. I thought of the  gorgeous choruses in the opera Orfeo of Monteverdi.  Here are more photos from MM:

Rather tragic pose for St. Sebastian in his niche, sporting gold lame!

Poe John Paul II visited the church in 1983, commemorated thusly:

This little guy slept through even the most violent explosions outside!

The altar was much photographed after the Mass.

The church was adorned with tons of blinking Christmas lights that made me feel slightly epileptic. The local sense of decor is somewhat different than mine, but hey, it should be! We loved every moment. We were greatly moved by the outpouring of wishes for peace by many people and children!

25 Dec.
Merry Christmas to one and all! We went to Managua to spend this day and night with my friends in Ciudad Sandino. Maria José, her husband and two little boys stayed here with Brynn and Suzy, and enjoyed a roast chicken dinner, the makings for which I bought yesterday in Diriamba.

First thing Xmas morning, MM snapped a selfie of us in our jammies, smiling through our disappointment that I have no chimney and Santa passed us by. Note the extravagant Christmas lights behind us!

Suzy with a new toy from Santa Tom in Florida!

As I entered the gallinero to feed my biddies, Barbie, the alpha hen, hopped onto my shoulder!

So happy to have Mary Mary here. Tuesday, off to Masaya and the volcano. Wednesday, we're going to go fishing in the ocean with Harold. Merry Christmas to us!

A Bit of Biological Warfare

Once more into the breech, and yet another adventure into  the hazards of tropical health threats.

Last weekend, Noel and a new friend, Silvio, an architect, and I were collected by an American couple, Dave and Mary, for a visit to their gorgeous new (slightly incomplete) new house in Pochomil, about an hour's drive up the Pacific coast.

Dave combined old and new ideas in his design for the house.

Dave, Noel and Silvio, with Patch, and the ocean beyond.

Below: Pepper and Patch

 

 The seaside community is bigger than La Boquita, but similar, in that the homes lining the sea and beach are large, modern, and bespeak a level of means not usually seen in small Nicaraguan towns. Across the road inland and beyond, the houses are much more modest, with dogs ranging freely amidst pigs and horses, oxen and cattle. These last are only occasional, I hasten to clarify.

We had a nice meal on the aft porch and Mary and I fell to yakking with gusto, neither of us having many English-speaking women friends here. We found we had much in common, and I had a few too many rum and Cokes.

As it happened, I had gotten a large insect bite on my back about two weeks prior—a spider, I thought. It had become a bit bigger and warmer, and I suspected it was infected. So, the next morning, as Dave was driving me home, we stopped at a farmacia where the clerk took a photo of the ugly red bump and emailed it to a physician, who recommended an antibiotic and a medicated topical cream.

A mile or so of the road is gloriouslyshaded in a tunnel of leaves.

















Once home, I bid adios to Maria José, who had stayed the night with my pups, and drank a couple of bottles of water to re-hydrate my slightly hungover system. I read the paper online, fed the chickens, skipped lunch in favor of more water, and suddenly spiked a fever, followed by chills. I put myself to bed and panic began setting in. I was well and truly sick. I could not feel my legs under the sheet, and my heart was pounding. And still the chills and fever. I wondered if I had waited too long to address the infected bite, and feared I had a blood infection. I was shaking uncontrollably. Frantic, I called my next door neighbor, Fatima. She and her husband drove me to the Jinotepe hospital, and also called Maria José and asked her to meet us there.My blood pressure was sky high, and the doctor put something under my tongue to reduce the BP.  They diagnosed an abscessed bite, and sent me home with a new antibiotic and orders to have my blood pressure checked daily for a week.

This I did at my local health center, a short walk from my house. The nurse declared that my ugly red bite was the result of a kind of fly, who had deposited an egg in my back. (My blood pressure was back to its normal good levels,) The clinic was busy, so she arranged to remove the presumed maggot on Friday.

Despite much squeezing and pushing and genuine pain, no worm emerged. The abscess remains, minus what had been evacuated. I return to the hospital Sunday for a checkup, and I owe Maria José big time, as she has accompanied me to the clinic daily and cared for me like a pro. And, by the way, all my healthcare at the hospital and clinic was free.

Christmas Go Boom!

A hundred years ago, when Gabriel and I first visited his abuelita (grandma) in Lima, Peru, we were introduced to the noisy Latin American custom of celebrating Christmas with fireworks, cherry bombs and all manner of (usually) minor explosives. And usually at night, to show off the visuals to best effect.

In fact, a few years later, when Gabe was about 6, we stood on the house roof and set off our own cuetes, little poppers that made a big sound a few seconds after being lit, and thrown off the roof. Gabe passed the unlit cuetes to his abuela's maid to do the dangerous part. People wisely avoided the residential streets during the holidays.

Today, as we begin only the second week of December, the cherry bombs have been going off day and night every few hours, four or five in a row. Brynn thinks it's thunder and runs into the kitchen where she cowers under the sink counter. Suzy stares in the direction of the explosion and waits for more specific info.

There are other noises worth mentioning, primarily for the benefit of Mary Mary, my sister, due here in two weeks. A 4:30 a.m., the big semi-tractor trailers start blasting their blasted horns all the way down the highway, a mere 25 yards from the house. At about 5:30 a.m., the bats who live under my roof start returning from their nightly food forays. They thump and scrabble just above the ceiling, as if they are squabbling about the good roosting spots. "Hey, that's my place!" Oh, yeah? Well, now it's mine. Wanna fight about it?"

I have already replaced a couple of my dropped ceiling tiles because of the guano buildup. I sweep up the stuff and put it in the garden. I like bats, especially because they eat tons of mosquitoes and other insects. Such a little word in English is merciélago in Spanish. Five whole syllables!

The clip-clop of horse carts mingles with the distorted unintelligible PA announcement cars that pass occasionally. And then there is the blare of assorted radio speakers pumping out everything from rap to salsa, sentimental ballads to mariachi. And the tinkling bells of the Eskímo vendors. All punctuated by those damned explosions. Boom! Boom!

(And I am an authentic baby boomer! What's my problem?)

Lost in Time

My cable TV service carries three Florida network stations, all on Eastern Standard Time, an hour ahead of me. Sometimes it feels as if I am living in two time zones simultaneously. For example, sometimes I have my 5 p.m. cocktail twice. I watch BBC International News, as well, and they only mention the time occasionally, and usually from London, Singapore and Washington DC.

My whole body clock has been reset by the near-instant darkness of nightfall in the tropics. Back in Pennsylvania, during the summer, it doesn't get dark until about nine. It is eternally summer here, but the sun goes down at about 5:30, and in fifteen minutes, it is dark night!  I have almost always been an early-ish riser, say, 6:30-7. Here, I awaken at 4:30 or 5, and I am ready for sleep at 7 p.m.

In retirement, I have found that "the weekend" is almost meaningless. No more M-F schedule. I do try to keep track of the days I am expected at the university, where I spend four hours available for tutoring English writing. But honestly, if I do not check the date and day on my computer first thing, I easily lose track of what day it is.  The days pass and there have been quite a few "senior" moments when I was absolutely clueless about when in the world I was!

At this moment, I am acutely aware of the date because my sister Mary Mary is due to arrive in about three weeks to spend her Christmas break with me. I am quite fraught with emotion and excitement, really. I am eager to show her my new country, of course, but just to be in the same room, talking face to face, well, I am bursting with anticipated happiness!

I guess I am truly lonely for family. Mary Mary sent a few pix of Thanksgiving dinner at our sister Anne's home, which also included two of our brothers.  Of course, I spent Thanksgiving waiting for a hurricane that barely showed up. I looked at those pictures, and I felt my isolation most keenly.

So, on the day after Cyber Monday, I spent a few hours buying and shipping my modest Christmas presents to my family and friends. I used Ebay, mainly, because I am boycotting Amazon (they're on the list of companies that sell Trump merchandise), which sadly lacks a gift option. So I sent requests to all the dealers I dealt with asking them to include my name and holiday greetings. Who knows if they will condescend to help my giftees to make sense of the thing they receive from me?

Happily, I did feel better connected after this activity. And I have only three weeks before I am hugging my sister and getting all the family news and bitching about Trump and eating lobster and going fishing... It's going to be grand!

Deflated Expectations

Thanksgiving Day, 2016.

8:00 a.m.
Two days ago, a tropical depression formed in the southern Caribbean Sea and developed briefly into a hurricane named Otto. It is a rare occurrence, not only because it is late in the hurricane season, but it is threatening both Costa Rica, which has never recorded a hurricane strike, and Nicaragua. Forecasters warned of heavy rains, winds, and mudslides; the fragile electrical grid here in Nica might cut out for a period of days.

Yesterday, I went to Diriamba to buy some extra water; my water pump needs electricity to provide the house with showers, flushes, and kitchen water. I looked for candles in eight separate stores in the mercado, and found birthday candles only. Weird, that in a place where the power regularly fails, candles would not be a staple commodity. I also bought a bottle of scotch and stockpiled ice cubes to get me through without electric fans, should the power go out.

Last night, Otto regained his hurricane status, and was expected to make landfall today. It is moving very slowly, and as of 8 a.m., not a leaf is stirring, no rain is in evidence. The forecast model puts my home just above the northernmost edge of the cone. Of course, the wind and rain can still be quite fierce on the perimeter. For the moment, the proverbial calm before this storm continues.


4:00 p.m.
And continues. Well, I am disappointed. Indeed, hurricanes are nothing to make light of, and I should be relieved that my first hurricane is anticlimactic, despite my preparations and my excitement. But I cannot help but feel cheated of a phenomenal weather experience. It will be dark in two hours, and if any wind and rain should appear, it will be useless to take pictures.  Well, I'm going to crack that bottle of scotch, and wonder why, when the radar showed the entire country engulfed in swirling clouds, we had sunshine and only a slight intermittent breeze all day. Cheers.


6 p.m.
Not a drop. Nothing. I spoke to my former landlady down in La Boquita about today's earthquake off the coast near El Salvador. She said the tsunami warning horn went off, but the sea seemed unchanged.  No rain there, either. As Otto moves into the Pacific, there could be some storm surge, I suppose.  I'll head off to bed with Henry Fielding shortly. Otto has turned out to be rather a turkey. As far as I'm concerned, hurricanes blow.

Food and Death

One chicken did not live to see its first week at Chez Egg Factory. There seemed to be no evidence of violence, and until Maria José examined the corpus this morning, I assumed the pullet ate a stray nail or something or was already sick when I bought her. MJ took a closer look and declared that un zorro was the likely culprit. A fox. She said that zorros can climb the fencing like a cat. This was of no comfort. But I still have nine, and they seem content. Brynn is still obsessed with them and endlessly trots up and down the fence, until she comes to the house, drinks deeply, and falls over into a long nap.

My family in Managua love to eat lamb, it turns out, and so this morning, I walked to Mr. Bond's farm again and inquired about buying a leg of lamb for Christmas dinner. No, I was told, I'd have to buy the whole lamb, on the hoof. Is there someone in Diriamba who could butcher the beast for me, I asked. Sure, but you might talk to Gilberto. He could take care of that for you.

Gilberto was off in a field making hay. When we waved, he came over with the farm's German Shepherd, "Biter," a misnomer if ever there was one. The dog is friendly and loves to be petted. Gilberto said he would be glad to do the deed - we did not talk terms, but I doubt it's more than $20. The lamb will cost $130, but I will have a freezer full of good meals well into the new year. I'll go back and pay for the lamb in early December and reconfirm with Gilberto. I expect to take a frozen leg to Managua a week before Christmas.

As I walked back up the shady road, I noticed about fifty ewes grazing near the farm entrance. They are kept closely shorn; otherwise, they'd never survive the heat. They are probably already pregnant with next year's lambs. Watching lambs gamboling is what turned Paul and Linda McCartney into vegetarians. I am a total hypocrite; I could never kill a sweet lil' lamby-pie. But I do like to eat them when they look like yummy roast lamb!

Counting Chickens

The malaise that now has blanketed life in general threatens to hang around for awhile. My normally healthy appetite for news has dulled. He who must not be named was supposed to fade off into the annals of ridiculous U.S. history as we looked forward to cementing Barack Obama's legacy and prepared to watch Hillary take us all on Adventures in Democracy. News? Who wants it? My goal now is to shrink my life into a small, manageable project that need not be unduly affected by events beyond my control. Do your worst, demon spawn, I hope not to notice.

To that end, I walked north a short distance to a sheep and chicken farm that fronts on the Pan-American Highway with a tree-lined dirt road announced by a rectangular arch sporting a large "V."  It is the business address of a "Mister Vond," or Vaughan. People say Vs like B so it is common to hear, "I work for Mister Bond." I will elucidate when I learn his proper appellido. He is also referred to as Don Tomaso.

My hope is to introduce myself and ask if he will sell me a few bales of hay for my gallinero. The dirt road leads back and curves around to reveal several farm buildings, and a security station, where I explained myself to the handsome young guard. Mister V. is not there at the moment. Would I care to sit and cool myself and wait awhile? Yes, indeed. Eventually, the guard suggests that I return early today - Saturday - and see if I can make a deal.

Later, that afternoon, Maria José and I carry the dog crate to Las Esquinas to meet her mother Rosalia (like my mother's name, Rosalie, but with an "a") and brother Roger. We board a bus to Niquinohomo in search of red chickens. The ticket is $,24 each. In Niquinohomo, the chicken dealer has not young birds, and no red ones, either. But we walk on and find another chicken farm, where there are hundreds of eight-week pullets and although they are not zackly red, they are reddish brown and white. They have blue eyes. I buy ten.

Earlier this week, Jonathan finished the chicken pen. He separated out a small stall for a nanny goat, when one becomes available, and added a 15-foot run along the wall, with shade plants and some greenery. I bought a feeder and 100 pounds of meal.

Jonathan ripped boards with a dull disk that seemed to burn its way through the grain.

Pretty nice!

These birds are pretty happy, I'll bet. No more crowded, smelly, concrete warehouse.

Notice the hay? This morning, I returned to Mr. V's farm. He still was not there, but the muchachos sold me four bales for 120 cordobas, about a buck a bale. I may return later and buy a leg of lamb as a Christmas present for somebody. A good neighbor to have.

We're All Fucked

Last night, I crashed at my usual early hour and did not get the election news until a bathroom break at 1:30 a.m. When I woke this morning, I hoped it was a bad dream, but of course, it was just the initial jolt into a sea of depressive sadness that promises to stick around.

Mostly, I feel sorry about President Obama's accomplishments, especially the ACA, and how it may come to naught all too quickly. What of those 20M Americans who will lose coverage? Will Congress wait until they have a viable replacement before they shred the law? Probably not. They seem unmotivated by higher aspirations than to undo ObamaCare, no matter the consequences to good people.  The Dream Act? Kiss it good-by, my fellow, though "undocumented" American children. Choice? Wait until the next right wing Supreme Court justice weighs in on Rove v Wade. Diversity of religion, race, gender, LGBT rights -- all in jeopardy now. NIH funding: will that now come under discretionary spending that can be eliminated to lower taxes? Or international aid: will that be now based on a stricter quid pro quo in favor of a Trump standard instead of need or basic rightness?

Will ISIS finally have the PR campaign of its dreams? This nation may be set to become the intolerable bully much of the world already thinks it is. They ain't seen nothing yet.

Our stupid, uninformed, blindly angry electorate has rejected a smart, effective, experienced, passionate leader in favor of a crude, egotistical, self-interested ass. The US deserves every misfortune that lies down this road.

Some Leave, Others Arrive

The tropical climate continues to baffle and intrigue me. My rainy season canopy of gigantic tecca leaves is rapidly thinning. Collecting fallen leaves is a daily chore, not tedious, but pleasantly mind-numbing. This bunch below are pretty average; the front right leaf is more than three feet long!

So my shady retreat is evaporating, but not entirely. The avocado tree at the side of the house does not shed its leaves. The heavenly fruit should begin to appear in February or March.  I have added a special cutting to a spot just in front of the porch. Sacuanjoche is its name, and it produces the lovely national flower of Nicaragua, known elsewhere as plumeria. The cutting had three leaves when I planted it, which all turned old and fell away. But more leaves appeared, as you see here. (Brynn is happily gnawing on her daily hueso rojo, scrap beef bones.)
















Coleus cuttings donated by Byron, the gardener, have thrived and show no signs of slowing down. Here are a couple of examples I added to complement two laurel trees I planted as twigs and are growing well.

There are a dozen plátano trees on the property (plantains). A few are quite large, but until Jonathan cut away some gigantic leaves, I did not realize they were fruiting. I do not love plátanos, except as tostitos, smashed slices fried and topped with cheese and hot sauce. They look almost identical to bananas, but are not sweet, but starchy. Maria José is welcome to help herself.

Only slightly prurient, right? 

As the dry season settles in this month, I'll begin monitoring the "water days," two or three days per week when the local municipal water system functions. On water days, I can feel free to soak all my growing plants and garden without depleting the supply in my tank that provides H²O to the house.

I plan to replant the garden shortly to see if the veggies do better without the flooding torrents that plague them from April through October. Fingers crossed!

A Chicken Condo Takes Shape (Gallinas Only)

Just a few months ago, the wall to the left of the house (Pan American Highway on the other side) looked like this. A one-time chicken coop, now fallen to pieces, had sprouted a large squash plant that eventually took over the yard and the lime tree to the left, and produced all of one squash, which fell prey to insects before I got to it.

Here's what's left now:

And Phase One of the new chicken coop is now in place. Next week, if I can afford the good stuff, we'll go and buy the malla, the mesh fencing. Chicken wire is cheap and ungalvanized. The stuff I put around my veggie garden is mainly rust now, and full of holes, and doesn't keep a single dog from running through my zucchinis. 

Maria José's husband Jonathan is building this project, and will also separate out a space for my planned cabra, a nanny goat.  I've heard there are Rhode Island Reds for sale in a town near here called Niquinohomo (Nicky-nomo), and a friend has a connection at a nearby farm with goats. There will be no gallos (roosters) in this convent. They are brutish to the hens and enforce a pecking order that is painful to observe. 

The post to the left below leads back to the next tree for the chicken run and shade. Nesting box is along the wall. Water and feed dispensers will hang from the roof support.

I sort of liked the original falling down coop, but it wouldn't hold a single chicken, would it?

Winter is About to Arrive, but Here, They Call it Summer.

This two-season climate is in transition: the luxuriant verdure and near daily downpours are giving way to denuded deciduous trees and the hint of a dryer landscape. Yesterday, for perhaps the last time this year, the road beautification crew, with their machetes, weed-whackers and rakes, passed by in the early morning. The noise excited the dogs, and I happily brewed a thermos of coffee with milk and sugar (yuck...) and headed out to the road. The gang were grateful for the break, and, truthfully or not, all proclaimed my coffee superb!

Daily, the massive tecca leaves come crashing through the branches like two-by-fours!  I hear the first high crash, and subsequent knocks before they hit the ground, sounding for all the world like ogres on tiptoe. I spent an hour or two daily stuffing the leaves into large plastic garbage bags on Saturday, and Byron finished the job on Sunday and puts the sacks outside the wall for pickup on Tuesday.

Finally, as the canopy thins, I have a chance to see the birds who call so alluringly in the morning. I have whistled back and forth with birds I cannot see, and finally, I have the hope of catching sight of my correspondents. This morning, an oriole appeared. There is also a species of robin, dubbed rather accurately a "brown robin," but with the same hopping style, head cocked to hear a worm under the surface.

Election day is coming up on 6 November. I have been advised to lay in whatever I'll need for both it and the day after, as all will be closed down, locked up tight - stores, buses, etc. Does the whole country stop to count the votes?  Nobody here seems politically involved or empowered by the vote. They accept the fact that Ortega may well be president for life, and though they complain about the corruption, they feel resigned to its reality. I registered to be an absentee voter for the US elections on the 8th, but when I log on to download the ballot. my lousy internet refuses to drill down the extra layers. I have asked Somerset County for assistance, with no response.

The vista is lightening up as the leaves fall, but flowers still bloom and the mercury is still in the 80s!