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...