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!
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Thursday, November 24, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, November 21, 2016
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!
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!
Saturday, November 12, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
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.
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!
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