Thoughts Without Pictures

Immigration has been on my mind lately, in great part because of the seemingly endless stream of people exiting Syria and other war zones I see nightly on the BBC. People who had normal, aspirational lives, who had professions and homes and hope. People like us, like Americans who have actual expectations of long lists of things and stuff and must-haves that far exceed the short list of basic necessities that those disenfranchised Syrians can only dream about right now. Shelter, food, and a reasonable certainty that death is not an immediate threat are the modest hopes of thousands, millions, really, of former citizens of a modern world. They thought about the local and global economies, scientific advances, higher education, even affordable vacations.  Now, if they are lucky, they sit in the intolerable limbo of refugee camps, trying to preserve their own human dignity while scrabbling ruthlessly for enough rice to feed their children for another day.It is almost incomprehensible.

On the other hand, I am no immigrant. I am an "expat," living on my small American pension, in an underdeveloped country. That small pension is far in excess of the average income of my neighbors. My five-room house for one is absurdly grand in contrast to the single -room earthen-floored casita that houses my housekeeper and her husband and two children. (Yes, my small pension allows me a housekeeper, and gardener.)

One thing I do not have is a car. There are times I miss having a means for transporting groceries and building materials, dogs to vets. However, the inter-municipal bus and van system here is very satisfactory, and all are willing to collect me in front of my front gate, and drop me there as well. I spend almost nothing on transportation. And those little "motitos" -- the 3-wheeled mini-cabs-- are only slightly more expensive than the bus. Great for vet visits, groceries, etc.

Some things in Nicaragua have changed dramatically since I first visited here nearly 30 years ago. The U.S. embargo ensured that just about everything I was accustomed to having at home was unavailable here. Lots of sub-quality Russian stuff was imported, like rough toilet paper and elephantine . toothbrushes. Now nearly everything is available, and plenty comes from the U.S. Even Wal-Mart is here, dammit. The rich minority and the U.S. expats and a few other diplomatic types can buy imported brie cheese, frozen sides of salmon, tahini for hummus, and decent imported wines. Chanel perfume is on offer at the Metro Centro mall in central Managua! However, few can afford non-necessities like microwave ovens or clothes washing machines. Small refrigerators are semi-affordable, but a sizeable chunk of the population do without refrigeration and gas cookers. Firewood is in high demand, delivered by horse carts piled high with dead branches. The contrasts are stark indeed.

A recent personal discovery is that I miss wooden floors. (You cannot get more fundamental than that...) Every floor here is of stone or ceramic tile, unless there is no floor at all on the hard earth. Sometimes, I am tempted to relieve my hot feet on the cool tile by going barefoot, but my ankles and knees and hip joints start complaining -- loudly. Why? There is no "give" in tile, like there is in wood planks. No response to my step, no bounce or creak. Very hard on the joints, tile is, now that I am officially elderly. Foam rubber flipflops are de rigueur.

As of last night, I am halfway through the "History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." The barbarians have all become Christians and the 6th century is about to begin. Three books to go...

Wanted: A Fountain of Youth

Something I have discovered in my dotage is the absurdity that my appearance could match what is inside this aging corpus. I shun mirrors. Who is that older lady reflected in the glass door of the bank? (The door guard at the bank always directs me to the line reserved for pregnant, disabled and elderly people!) Is is that obvious? Isn't 65 the new 40? I'm nobody's granny, I still feel sexy - well, sometimes -- even though it is becoming obvious that nobody else thinks I am.

My new gig at Keiser University started a couple of weeks ago, and I simply love strolling the campus, smiling at the students, and feeling young and purposeful. Below is the entrance to the campus I use. The campus has rather tight security, which is doubtless comforting to parents of dormitory students.

I've been helping to put together a little writers' community blog to which students, faculty, and people in the local region are welcome to submit. (More coming on that soon!) I've gotten my tutorial toes wet with the first post by a Keiser student. I can relate to the difficulties of writing in a second language - my written Spanish is laughably literal. I hope I can be truly helpful, in a fair exchange for the positive dimension this arrangement has already given my life here. The campus is very tranquil and well landscaped, the staff and faculty have all been friendly and welcoming. I wish you could hear this burbling fountain! So calming...

And just before my home office, a little container garden:

Uh,oh... there's my reflection in the glass door of the Academic Support center...>>>

Isn't this a lovely campus?

Best of all, from my perspective as a neophyte Spanish speaker, Keiser is an English-language campus, with occasional signage to remind its denizens:

Now, about a date for the spring formal...

A Loss, a Lunch, and a Libro or Two

Disaster struck recently, or so it seemed at the time.  I tried to pay for some groceries with my debit card and was asked, as usual for my cedula, my official residence card. It was not to be found, and I felt my heart in my throat as I fumbled for my passport to identify myself. Frantically, I retraced the previous few days to recall the incidents in which I was asked to produce my cedula. Paying the cable bill, seeing the oncologist, paying my rent at the bank. I spent the next two days revisiting all these places to see if I had dropped or forgotten the cedula. No luck. This little card that took me almost nine months to achieve, and that gave me legitimacy as a permanent resident in Nicaragua, had vanished. I was gutted, really, and could not sleep. What to do?

I called Noel, my famous lawyer, who investigated my options; it turned out that it is relatively simple to replace a lost cedula. So yesterday, I bused into Managua and met Noel at the bus terminal at UCA, the University of Central America. We spent the morning at Inmigración running hither and thither, in one line and then another, sitting sometimes. Eventually, I paid the 750 cordobas ($26) and was invited to return on the 30th to have my photo taken and receive my new cedula.

 Noel and I headed out for lunch at a rather novel restaurant called Fuente de Vida (Fountain of Life) which sports a colorful Disney mural (no trademark infringement lawsuits here). Noel was frisked as we entered, my purse was opened -- a first since coming here. The prices were cheap and did not include taxes, for some reason. The cevíche was good and the resident pigeons were very sociable, especially if crackers were crumbled for them.

The sign beneath the pigeons actually says "Cocteles - Fuente de Vida" -- they could use some graphic advice from Mr. Lopez, pictured beneath with his delightful mural!

As we were leaving, we were told that a chap outside the entrance painting a black wall was the artist who had produced the Disney mural. David Lopez is his name and his Facebook page attests to his wonderful talent.

Next, we taxied to Hispamer, one of the nicest stores in Managua. It is a bookstore, cum tech shop, cum cafe. Those bright colored pencils are a clever way to disguise the security fence around the store. I found a couple of books to send to Gabriel at his new teaching post, where he has many Hispanic children in his music class.

Orchids, Unexpected and (Just a Few) Unwelcome Visitors

Byron, my gardener, brought me another orchid the other night. I had offered to pay for his pregnant wife's sonagram -- she's six months along -- and they stopped by unexpectedly. Nobody calls to say they're coming to visit here! It does not offend my sense of common courtesy, to be honest, but it is a bit of a walk to my front gate, in utter darkness after 6:30, and I do not know that many people. Hearing the boom, boom on the metal door is disconcerting, when no one is expected.

The other morning, when Byron was working in the garden, he came to the door and said my friend was here to see me. "My friend" turned out to be a man who had seen me on the bus, and saw where I lived, and decided to visit. I asked him his name, and explained that I preferred to be alone, and good-bye, have a nice day. Oh, right, I was in my nightgown! I read the riot act to Byron about ever letting anyone inside the gate, especially if they do not know my name!  He was very sorry, but I am not sure he understands why I value my privacy so highly.

In any event, the first orchid he brought seems to be doing all right in its perch on a tree trunk to which we had wired it. Byron said we should remove the plastic bag we had taped to the tree to contain the roots and some soil. This July photo should refresh your memory.

We undid the tape at the top and peeled it down, to reveal two gigantic cockroaches! They were nearly four inches in length, and not particularly fast. Before I could run in to grab my camera, Byron had removed his shoe and smashed them. Apparently, they had been feeding on the tree bark, as this photo shows:

The orchid is doing well, having developed some pods you can see just to the right of the tree. The new orchid is wired to a tree in a shadier spot nearby, and promises to have some pretty white blooms one day.

Maria Jose has given me several cuttings of a variety of what we call the Bird of Paradise flower -- I cannot recall the term she used -- but here's an image from Pixabay:

It's pouring rain at the moment -- the BBC is airing some analysis of the US presidential campaign. It is VERY depressing. Ah, me.

A Desultory Survey of Autumn's Approach

The falling leaves, as the song goes, drift by my window. Here, it is advisable to stay the hell out of the way of the falling leaves, which are likely to decapitate the unlucky singer in mid-phrase. The teca trees in my garden have been shedding gigantic leaves now and then throughout the summer; my morning routine has been to collect them for disposal in large plastic sacks. As autumn approaches, however, the shedding has accelerated, and I may have to buy a bigger rake!

 I added my life-sized goose for scale.

How about my noggin for scale? 

Plenty more to come...

Below is what I hope will become a gallinero - chicken coop- in the near future. The gynormous squash growing in front of it is finally producing some actual fruit, and I am loath to cut it out to make room for the chicken yard

It has even climbed into the lime tree!

These squash had better be big. My garden is almost a complete failure.  The zucchini all died, one by one. They flowered beautifully, but something gnawed at their roots.

Yesterday, I replanted the zucchini, in hopes that a seasonal change might do the trick. Those grubs may have morphed into something else by now, and perhaps I'll have better luck.

My first measly harvest of green beans was delicious! As soon as they are finished, I plan to replant half the garden in green beans. They did well, they taste good. No downside.

Today, I'll get estimates on the materials list from Jonathan and see if I can afford to frame up the gallinero. Cannot wait to hear the clucking of hens, the most comforting sound in the world!