Walking the Walk

Exercise and I have never have never achieved any sort of comfort level together. I have always accepted the importance of physical workouts for a healthy body, just as I have never doubted the need to floss my choppers. Acceptance of these truths has yielded only sporadic adjustments in both cases to my preferred, rather slothful, pace of living. When I quit smoking 15 tears ago, I wondered if my increased lung function would lift that indolent veil and find me leaping, sylph-like, from one cardio-positive nostrum to the next, brimming with vitality. Alas, no, my cigarette-less oral fixation leapt, slug-like, instead, to eating and drinking to excess, until I leveled off some 50 pounds heavier.

Here, now, in this tropical clime, I have embraced the slower pace that comes with the heat of the Nicaragua sun. Here, we do not hustle. Ever. We amble, we mosey, we sashay, and sometimes, we even move so slowly that we actually stop, especially under the odd shade tree, until we resume movement toward some eventual end.

The only time of day in which purposeful locomotion is at all feasible is at about 5:30 in the morning. For about an hour, it is almost cool. Not only that, but the street is empty, save for the occasional pig or skinny dog, and Brynn and I can hoof the mile to the beach at La Boquita and put our toes in the surf for a few minutes before we reverse course for home. My wretched knees complain, the sun hits its stride, and the world wakes up before we arrive back at the house, but I feel so virtuous that I almost immediately decide to do it all again the next morning.

Here is the little pizza place just down our road, open Thur-Sun. The pizza is simply delicious!

A little further along is this hostel, with a "siesta rate" (see canoe) of 200 cordobas ($7.50) for a 

four-hour "no tell motel" arrangement.

This is the entrance to the tourist center of La Boquita, with a "pulperia" that sells no rum or cigarettes, which is the only reason to go to a pulperia.

Earthquakes create tsunamis, and La Boquita had a tsunami back in 1992, I believe. Hence, the warning to beach goers.

Brynn and I go right through this pavilion to the sea beyond.

Yesterday, we encountered a terrestrial crab on the roadside. It is sitting on the tree root 

in the middle of the photo.

Diriamba Puts on Her Party Dress

The Lives of the Saints was required (and often deliciously lurid) reading for young Catholic girls like me way back in the day, and few stories could match that of St. Sebastian for sheer drama and a grisly martyrdom.

He was a third-century Christian who entered the Roman army in order to protect martyrs. He refused to sacrifice to Roman gods, and was imprisoned, but managed to convert the right people and was released, and he continued to serve in the Praetorian Guards under Diocletian. He kept his faith under wraps, but was eventually outed and tied to a post where "the archers shot at him till he was as full of arrows as an urchin," (Legenda Aurea). He survived, actually, and was nursed back to health, but he publicly denounced Diocletian, who ordered that he be cudgeled to death.

The popular images of St. Sebastian show a young man of (often feminine) physical beauty, eyes heavenward as his arrow-ridden body sags gracefully from the ropes binding him to the post or tree. His feast day is 20 January, which, in Diriamba, is part of a 10-day festival in the saint's name. 

I spent last Tuesday, the 19th, in town to see some of the traditional dances and costumes that date back some 300 years. These traditions are the oldest extant examples of cultural representation of the invading conquistadors and the indigenous people whose lives were ripped forever from their ancient foundations.

This St. Sebastian looks Garbo-esque, as the finishing touches are applied to the festival stage.

In the streets just beyond the Minor Basilica of St. Sebastian, the Güegüense traditional dance is a guiding spirit of Nicaraguan folklore, which celebrates both its indigenous and Spanish pedigrees. The costumes are elaborate, the hats heavy and ungainly, the carved wooden masks seem ghoulish and bizarre. Hot, too—I noticed performers lifting the masks to let in a bit of air from time to time.

The Güegüense (El Macho Raton—Macho Mouse) is a satiric production that lampoons stock characters such as a governor and a military captain, involving theater, dance and music. In 2005 it was declared by UNESCO as Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. The original play was written anonymously in the 16th century, and handed down as an oral tradition, finally appearing in book form in 1942. Other traditional dances—The Old Man and the Old, El Gigante, Guacal (calabash gourd)(the Inditas), and El Toro Huaco (The Toothless Bull). 

Small musical ensembles abounded.

Here's a lame web promotion of El Güegüense

And more pix of costumes and dancing!

This little horsy lost his mask, but his mane is magnificent!

A Spay Odyssey

"Are you sure you want to do this," asked the veterinarian in Spanish. "She could be worth a lot of money to you in puppies."

No, I was not feeling at all sure I wanted to spay Brynn. But not because I thought I might want to breed her. For all I know, she is the only Pembroke Welsh Corgi in all of Nicaragua, though I think I might have seen one in Managua. My hesitancy was more immediate. I looked around the modest vet office, at all the typical dusty dirt on the floor, on the counter, clinging to every surface. The medicine case was well-stocked with drugs and remedies for every sort of farm animal, dogs, cats, and birds. Marvin, the vet, also known as "Gato," for his dark blue (cat's) eyes, has the physique of an avid soccer player, with handfuls of long dark curly hair, and an infectious smile. He seems a tad hyperactive and talks so fast, I needed help from my friend Rey, who is Marvin's cousin, to translate.

My heart was in my throat as Gato filled a syringe and jabbed it into Brynn's hind leg, something to make her drowsy. Gato did not ask me if she had fasted (she had) or how much she weighs. He gave her a second shot to knock her out, and carried her limp body back into another room. All I could do was sit on the tattered sofa, admiring the many soccer trophies lined up against the wall, and talking to Rey and his wife Mildred for about a half hour. I was spaying Brynn in an excess of caution to try and forestall the cancer that claimed the life of my first corgi, Sugarbunny. I knew that most vets' facilities here are a far cry from the antiseptic, well-equipped and staffed clinics in the U.S., but I also believe that much of the sterility of those lavishly appointed suites is for the comfort and benefit of the pet owners. Surely it is possible to create a sterile field on a table for a surgery, and I crossed my fingers to make it so.

When Gato brought Brynn out to me, she was limp, tongue lolling, her belly orange from the disinfectant, with a neat incision in the center. Gato wrote out instructions for medicines and care, and charged me $40. We went home in a taxi. No sleeping in the dirt with the other dogs for the next few days for Brynn. She was not cooperative with her tummy swabs or pills, but her appetite soon returned, and now, six days later, she is more herself than ever.

Phew.

Life Cycle

I am of two minds regarding my status as a jubilada, a retired person. Part of me has long dreaded the idea of retirement because of the whole "advanced age" thing, this nearness to death, the final stage, the very winter of my life. Of course, there was a long time when I viewed an age in the mid-60s as downright decrepit. The other, much smarter part of me realizes that I may easily live quite vibrantly another 20 or 25 years, with luck, and isn't it marvelous to have so few responsibilities in this relatively youthful stage of the last third of my life?

This afternoon, I had a half-cantaloupe for lunch. I put aside the scooped-out remains while I was working at my laptop. Some flies gathered to feast on the leftover melon, and I briefly considered its removal to the waste can. Then, a brightly painted butterfly alit, its torn wings still brilliant with vivid shades of yellow, orange, black and white suggested that it was nearing the end of its lifespan. The butterfly extended its proboscis and tucked in to the cantaloupe flesh, flexing its wings now and then, leisurely enjoying the sweetness. It loitered thusly for a good ten minutes, and then flew off for awhile before returning to renew its addresses to the melon.

I wondered if the butterfly had an instinctive understanding that it was not long for this world. I wondered if it would linger as long as the melon rind were available, hoping to be nicely sated at the moment of death. Or was it just tired after meeting its obligation to mate and lay eggs for the next cycle of butterfly life, and just wanted to relax and drink? It sat on my table, returning to the melon again and again. Such a lovely creature. I crept away to get my camera, and when I returned, the butterfly had flown. An internet pic will have to suffice.

Is it too early for a glass of wine?

Compostible Bits

New Year's Eve Shiver
How did I neglect to relate this item earlier? On 31 December, I was awake at 4, as usual, and reading in bed until sunrise, when it (the bed) began gently shaking from side to side. An earthquake! I glanced at the clock: 4:56. And that was the time reported in La Prenza later that day; with a Richter reading of 5.7, the quake was centered just off the coast of Nicaragua from Huehuete (way-WAY-te), a town just a few miles south of La Boquita.

This Pennsylvania girl never felt an earthquake stateside, except in 2011, when the temblor that damaged the Washington Monument registered 5.8, and was centered south of D.C. We felt it only slightly in Johnstown. So my apparent glee when I feel two within a few weeks of each other is perhaps forgivable. The thrill is undeniable.

Terns' Cirque du Soleil
On 2 January, I noticed a new bird behavior about 100 yards or so off shore from the house. A group of mainly-white terns (Common Terns, I believe) were wheeling and swooping above the water, and then diving headlong beneath the surface. Doubtless, a school of bait fish was passing. It was a nonpareil spectacle of aerial maneuvering, and suggests that this migratory species is now here for the northern winter. I look forward to more splendid diving displays!


The Nipples on the Bus
Most U.S. natives must admit that there is a national discomfort, if not outright distaste (right, Mr. Trump?) for the idea of public breastfeeding. To be sure, there is energetic support by the medical community as well as La Leche advocacy for the practice of maternal nursing, but aside from the occasional "mothers and babies" curtained-off areas in shopping malls or office buildings, the country seems unwilling to consider that hungry babies are everywhere, and woe to the mother who cannot locate a bathroom stall in which to sit and nurse without causing a shocked uproar on a park bench under a tree.

Here in civilized Central America, mothers and nursing babies ride the bus every day, and if a baby should fuss or cry, it is a great relief to all the other riders to have the youngster attach to a breast for a calming snack. Nobody looks around to see, no obvious towel or blanket camouflage is draped over the mother's shoulder—just a quiet infant nursing while mommy talks to her seatmate. Sometimes, I have seen a mother with babe-in-arms board a crowded bus, and no one offers a seat, so she perforce must balance baby and bolsa (bag), while trying to extract a needed nipple and remain upright all the while. Even so, with no chance for discretion, nobody looks, no men stare open-mouthed at the spectacle of a lactating breast, nobody cares! How very civilized indeed.

Bread to Share
I bought three small loaves of local bread just after I arrived last summer. I found it tasteless, bland, and inedible. I ate little bread thereafter until I decided to start making my own. This is not something I ever did more than two or three times in my life in the States, so I am no natural baker, but my efforts are improving, and I do enjoy my bread when it is fresh and aromatic. With no preservatives, the bread must live in the freezer or fall prey to mold within three or four days. I end up throwing out a good portion of each loaf, as it stales so quickly. Happily, our grackles like to feed on the bread, and now, the lizard who lives in the roof over my porch is a regular consumer! He emerges from a hole next to an electrical socket and climbs down the porch column and scarfs up a few bites before he jumps to the tree and makes his daily rounds. He also enjoys watermelon and grapes, which I sometimes provide.

 Un gorrobo (lizard.)

                                                     And back for a nap.

My First Half-Year

The New Year heralds the start of my seventh month in Nicaragua. Fitting that I should end 2015 scurrying around Managua sorting my visa renewal. After six months here as a tourist, I can only renew for an additional month at a time. Most folks prefer to exit the country and return as a brand-new tourist, with an automatic 90 days visa. Some simply drive south and cross over into Costa Rica for a couple of days, and then re-enter Nicaragua at the border. It make economic sense in one way: to renew the tourist visa for 90 days costs about $60; to enter the country costs $10, for three months. I paid $20 for an additional 30 days.

Happily, I was able to accomplish a critical element of the residence visa Thursday at the Oficina de Inmigracion. Instead of waiting for a representative of the office to visit me in La Boquita for an interview, a young woman did the interview on the spot after I got my passport stamped. My blood-sucking lawyer Noel (just kidding about the blood-sucking part) was with me to translate anything I could not understand.

The big question, I thought, was about why I wanted to reside in Nicaragua. I launched into my story of having visited the country in 1988 with Athletes United for Peace, and being inspired to try and provide sport equipment for the youth of San Isidro. The woman was taking notes, and abruptly looked up and asked, "So, you really like our country?" "Yes, of course, " I answered, and that was that. No history required. I would think that something more substantial would be in order. It's like when Donald Trump dismisses his questionable treatment of women by saying, "Hey, I love women. They're great." Or, why do you want to attend this university? Oh, because I really like it. Huh? When did insultingly simplistic answers become acceptable?

Well, I hope it moved me closer to my resident visa. I have a distinct feeling that I am nearing a better understanding of what the shape of my life here will be within the next six months or so. I am not much for new year's resolutions, but I do think it is time to begin looking for an opportunity to apply my limited talents or skills to something's or someone's benefit, even if it is only a day or two each week. I miss feeling useful.

Grasshoppers have arrived in La Boquita. In a country where the climate barely differentiates seasonal changes, I believe the various life cycles of flora and fauna may provide an alternative. If January/February are grasshopper season, perhaps August-October might be pelican season. My favorite birds have been absent since then. Perhaps they have moved elsewhere for better fishing?
And my luscious sandia - watermelon - is still plentiful, but I have been advised that one day, they will be hard to find, and then, gone utterly until they return for the next growing season.

New Year's Day brought a carload of young friends from Managua, with late lunch at the Casino Hotel in Casares. It was fun to see the restaurant busy for a change, and the sopa de mariscos (fish soup) was heavenly good!

Feliz año nuevo, friends! Let's hope for good things to come for all of us!