Motels in the U.S. were a key element in the evolution of American car culture. Here in Nicaragua, not so much. Motels do indeed serve weary travelers on occasion, but according to my sources, they exist primarily for sex. Now, not only does my official address include mention of the motel that lies almost directly across the highway, but I cite it as a landmark for my parada (stop) to every bus porter I meet as I am riding back from Diriamba on a Managua-bound run. Today it just occurred to me that somebody could reasonably connect my bus stop with my potential occupation which takes me regularly to the motel. However, at my age, there conceivably may be a compliment in there somewhere...
Mares Eat Oats
And plenty of what grows on the other side of the famous Godzilla fence. For three mornings in a row, a pretty little chestnut mare and her rather homely foal have browsed for an hour or so, and seem not to mind the frantic yelping of Brynn. To the contrary, they ignore her completely. It is I of whom they are afraid, as these pictures testify.
The moment they noticed me, off they went!
A Tragedy of Trash
Last Friday, the trash brigade stopped by to tell me that I needed to visit the alcaldia, the local municipal office in San Marcos, to pay my basura recogida fee. Trash collection is on Fridays and Tuesdays. Saturday, I went to San Marcos to find the office closed. Monday I went again, but it was still closed, this time for May Day, El Día de los Trabajadores, or Labor Day. Tuesday was the charm, and I paid 400 cordobas for the remainder of the year, about $15.
I had purchased several large woven plastic sacks to hold the trash for pickup. In La Boquita, the cuidador carried out the sacks to the truck, the men dumped them and threw back the sacks for reuse. Last Thursday evening, I dragged out a big red sack of basura, including many large plastic soft drink bottles left by the fence crew, and a few moving boxes for the Friday pickup. When Maria José arrived the next morning, she brought to my attention the appalling array of garbage that covered the ground where my neat pile had been. Someone had admired my nice new red sack and decided to take it home, after dumping out its contents as chaotically as possible.
We cleaned it all up in time to greet the garbage truck and get the word on paying the fee. The crew hit me up for cold water, which I was happy to provide; I hope the request doesn't become routine. It's a hot trot from my exterior gate to the house. The house, by the way, is looking more and more like home. More pix coming soon.
Oh, It's Now the Rainy Season.
Today, my grounds guy Byron showed up to spread gravel around the outer circumference of the house, which is, well, dirt when it's dry and mud when it isn't. Byron was careful to stay in the lines and did a fine job of covering the dirt and creating a deterrent to muddy paws that keep Maria José busy with her mop. Just as Byron finished his work, the heavens opened and a twenty-minute torrent ensued. The yard quickly flooded, as did the whole area around the house.
Byron (L), Maria José, and her brother Roger, who was working next door.
We couldn't tell if the gravel was being washed away or not, but I am delighted to show that it survived intact, and there is no gucky mud in evidence! Just look at that marvelous gravel!
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