And She's Buying a Stairway to...

Two weeks ago, the now year-long construction project to widen the Panamerican Highway from two to four lanes made it to my literal doorstep. I awoke to the rumble roar of heavy equipment. When I went to open the door in the great sliding porton through which cars may enter or exit the property, I found it tied shut with heavy wire. Through the crack, I could see that the expanse between my wall and the existing highway had been excavated, leaving a deep earthen gap. I tried to squeeze my arm through the crack to alert the crew that there was a person imprisoned therein, to no avail. I was stuck inside for the weekend.

Happily, I had no plans to leave and had plenty of food. Alas, the electricity was turned off, so I had to carefully measure out my computer time, and with no pump for inside water, no showers or flushing. I briefly considered the possibility of a stroke or heart attack, but decided to read instead. Thus passed two days of clanking, bumpedy-bump grinding din from beyond the wall, and hours of excited barking within.

Monday morning, Maria José arrived at her usual time, and simply untied the door and let herself in. I do admire her anarchismo! Her brother cobbled together a little stairway of stones and earth to help me negotiate the drop to cross the gap to the road. It worked well when I left on Tuesday morning to go to San Marcos for tutoring duty. When I returned, the road crew were hard at work, having unceremoniously destroyed the stair. Two days later, I turned my ankle trying to get down from the wall, so Thursday's trip to San Marcos did not happen.

After endless hours of rolling back and forth, compacting the earth, the bulldozer disappeared for some days. MJ's husband Jonathan seemed to think the gash in front of my wall would be there at least two months. Months?  He rebuilt the little stair, adding a nifty handrail of scrap lumber. The next morning, the bulldozer returned, and while it left the stair intact, it neatly sideswiped the rail and snapped it off before my eyes. Anarchy works both ways.

Yesterday, Maria José and I went shopping in San Marcos, When we returned, the heavy equipment was back, with a big backhoe digging out the gap even deeper!  The steps, needless to say, were history, and when one of the crew helped us across with our parcels, he assured me that my path would be leveled before they left. And it was!

Looking north from my porton.

13 Dec.2018

Apparently, the backhoe is loading the dump truck at that end of the wall, and the earth is dumped at the other end. Why dig it up in the first place, I wonder.

And the backhoe looks like a dinosaur from inside the wall, hence the barking chorus!

The approaching holidays had me wishing to do somebody some good. I asked Maria José if she knew of someone who would be glad of a food donation. It took her no time to tell me about an old lady who cares for her adult mentally disabled son, with no income.  Our shopping trip yesterday began with the purchase of a plastic garbage can, which we filled with rice, beans, corn flour, oil and sugar, powdered milk, cleaning and hygiene supplies, and cookies. The lady will not know from whom the gift comes, but I hope it will give her some nights of good rest, comfort and joy.

Had Enough?

I state the obvious that these posts are arriving with less frequency. This I chalk up to two realities in my somewhat spare existence here in Carazo. The first boils down to the rather severe limitations of my day to day life. I spend almost all my time at home, seeing no one save for the people who come to work in the garden or do housework. Twice each week, I go into San Marcos to do my tutoring shifts at Keiser University, and enjoy the opportunity to speak English. And once or twice a week, I go into Diriamba or Jinotepe to pay bills, shop for perishables, pick up medications, and buy a newspaper. I almost never do anything new, which was the point of many past postings here. I do plan a future trip to the east coast, the Costa Atlantica, to Bluefields to visit my old friend Carla, and that could give me the grist for a couple of entries. And one of these years, I really should go south to San Juan del Sur, a beach town with a large ex-pat community. People say it is a fun town, though I could not be less interested in going. Someday, when and if anyone ever visits me again...

The second reality is my waning relationship with the real world. I retain my need for news and views of the Motherland, but the first half of the tRump presidency has tarnished my sense of America and Americans.  Whatever is true of the US now, it bears little resemblance to the land I called my home for 64 years. It isn't just the Orange One; it is the millions of people who put him in charge and throng to his partisan rallies, and who hate people like me. I keep hearing about the blue urban areas, with their well-educated, well-heeled progressive voters. And the rural red zones, with (presumably) poorly educated, financially less-secure voters. And the gloves are really off now. Trump stokes the angry fires of resentment, fear, suspicion, and hatred to excite his fans and deepen the divisions between them and everyone else.

I wish I could understand why it is so important to so many that the U.S. be the "greatest country,"the richest, the most powerful, the best of the best of the best. Clearly, the U.S. is far from the best at, well, pick a category. Taking care of veterans, old people, and the indigent; making healthcare available to all; responsible stewardship of natural resources; reducing corruption in government and the justice system; fair and just enforcement of intelligent laws. I could go on and on. I think I have Denmark envy. Or perhaps Finland. Those populations seem so much more content to have small defense budgets and high taxes. They feel optimistic.They like the way their taxes are used to provide healthcare, education, welfare institutions.

By now, you are wishing I would just go back to travelogue posts, or none at all, for that matter. Perhaps this blog has run its course. I seem to have found a very small niche for myself that is not especially interesting or productive, a perch from which to watch the U.S. implode. It all makes me feel incredibly sad, and very forlorn.

Listen to Me!

A friend writes that he suspects that the noise of electronic media has rendered even old-fashioned conversation suspect.

"Face to face with another person looking at them straight in the eye and talking just doesn’t seem to work because, in my estimation, the other person is just too distracted to have their voice hearing senses turned on and tuned in to another human voice  - I think it is because they fear missing some other information that may be coming, at any second, his way."

Think about it. A population so attuned (addicted) to the siren call of a text message beep or an email blip that they are incapable of truly listening to what a person standing right there is saying. 

This is distressingly sad, to me. Like my friend, I have thus far avoided the "smart phone" obsession, if not by design, by my sheer ignorance of how to use one. I can barely manage a flip phone, a necessity here in Nicaragua in the absence of landlines. I rarely carry it with me, as I almost never use it. I think I can count the texts I've sent on one hand!

This is a very poor country, to be sure, yet half the people seem to have cellphones -- are they even still called that? Here, as everywhere, the sidewalks are full of people hunched over their phones, scrolling away, ignoring the potholes in their paths. Or on the bus, earbuds in place, grooving to tunes while checking email or horoscopes. Thank goodness only half the people are living in digital reality. It is still possible to pass the time of day with disconnected individuals who wonder if it will rain or worry about rising bread prices.

Mind you, my demonstrated preference is for written communication. I like to think out what I want to say and find the best words to clearly communicate my thoughts. And I so appreciate a well turned phrase or piquant metaphor when I am reading another's thoughts on a page. But there are times when a person needs and deserves our unreserved attention. When one soul aches for intimate connection with another and only 100% concentration will suffice. If we lose the capacity to be one on one for as long as needed, we may well have lost the best aspect of being human.

We might think about reserving space for deliberate face-to-face communication, careful listening and hearing each other, in our busy schedules, so we do not lose this precious ability. Of course, I am not busy in the least. And heaven knows, I never hear the text beep. All I need is an actual person to listen to. Or perhaps my dogs.

Elementary?

And now for something completely different...

Reading books is my primary daily activity. I will happily read anything I find to be well written and interesting, and since the library at Keiser University has been closed all summer, I have invested in a Kindle. My bank account tends to limit my purchases to books costing less than $2.99, free if I am lucky. I read voraciously, so it is not unusual for me to churn through three or four good-sized texts per week. To my disappointment, I find the vast majority of Amazon's low-cost volumes to be popular action or romance gack, or spin-off genres like an enormous latter day supply of Jane Austen-inspired blather. Wading through the Kindle library is a troublesome bore, especially as my weak internet service takes forEVER to load each page! Yet, there are gems lurking there.

I was happy to see a 16-volume collection of English mystery works on offer for about a dollar a book, the first of which turned out to be a selection of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of Sherlock Holmes, which I have just enjoyed over the past few days. It is hard to imagine a more perfectly realized, affectionately rendered, singularly memorable character than Holmes, with all his eccentricities, attitudes, failings and triumphs. Likewise, his faithful chronicler and frequent investigative cohort Dr. Watson establishes himself as the reader's trusted friend and confidant. He is ever ready to drop everything in service to his friend Sherlock, and respectfully records the various individuals and case studies they encounter with graceful language and only occasional lapses into melodramatic extravagance. Arthur Conan Doyle was not above the purple prose his readers loved, but Dr. Watson manages to surmount the temptation for the most part.

Something I have noticed about reading authors from more than a century ago is the characterization of people over the age of 50 as, well, elderly. At 67, I am only recently retired, and enjoying mature living, shall we say? But I hardly feel aged or particularly antediluvian. Dr. Watson's favorite descriptor seems to be "grizzled," or graying, as hair, if you will. It puts me in mind of a Rooster Cogburn-ish sort of rough, aging cowhand, but Watson even describes a "once-lovely woman of about 40" as grizzled. Well! He invariably describes most male characters as "handsome," though they may also have thick long beards (grizzled, usually) and bushy eyebrows. How does one find handsomeness under all that fur?

The episode in which Holmes meets his end (Or does he?) plummeting over a waterfall in a climactic struggle with his nemesis Moriarty allows Dr. Watson to express his tender affection and admiration for his extraordinary friend in some of Doyle's most lyrical writing. The author's creation of a longtime, occasionally fractious, but consummately loyal and trusting friendship between two quite different men as a conceit through which to spin his tales of mystery is a joy to read.

I do not know if this collection is comprehensive or if there are other Holmesian adventures to enjoy, but I must observe that only once in the whole of some 20 hours or so did Sherlock say "Elementary!"

Unreal News

This evening, I watched Channel 2, an Ortega-owned television channel, to see its version of the current situation in the country. After a story about some millions of dollars of aid from Taiwan for four national projects came an analysis of the state of affairs regarding Nicaraguan production of basic grains – rice, corn, beans and sugar. Smiling experts attested to bumper crops at good prices, with lots of footage showing mounds of corn, beans, etc. and many smiling workers. This was followed by a story about tobacco production, with footage of dozens of workers rolling cigars, smiling and rolling.

After a short break, a story about a new campaign by INTUR – the government tourism ministry – to promote, of all things, upcoming religious festivals. The irony being that the Ortega government has roundly criticized the country’s bishops and clergy for supporting the popular uprising. Another story featured lurid video of wounded and murdered victims of “terrorismo,” the latest descriptor of the uprising, put forth by Ortega in some recent U.S. cable news interviews.

Things have definitely quieted down, but I wonder how many citizens will turn out for the religious festivals this September. Tough to tell, as so many people feel proud of their towns’ festivals, and are devoted to their various denominations. Certainly, there will be few tourists. 80% of the country’s hotels have closed. Don’t nobody want to come to Nica now.

In the meantime, work continues on the project to expand the PanAmerican Highway from two to four lanes. A crew passed by the other day, cutting down trees that obstruct the planned expansion. The little tree just outside my porton is now no more. I guess I will step through the gate directly onto the righthand lane heading north when it is all finished.

For Now, Calm

Following the drama described in my last post, circumstances here in Carazo have returned largely to normal, as before the mid-April uprising and the ensuing tranques and defenses against the dreaded caminetas. The streets are again open to traffic and commerce, albeit a heavily-armed police presence, especially around banks, is now in evidence. The shops are full of people, street vendors are hard at it, and save for some blackened patches on the road surface from car fires, there is little testimony to the privation and terror of the preceding weeks.

The buses and microbuses are back to their original routes, although the fares have risen. It now costs 40 cordobas to Managua from Diriamba, a 33% increase; 15 from Las Esquinas to Jinotepe, up 50% from 10. The passengers seem not to be interested in discussing the absence of the tranques or the general return to apparent normalcy. What, I wonder, was the point of the struggles, the deaths, the sheer loss of jobs and income from the now devastated tourist economy?

There have been subsequent demonstrations elsewhere. Ortega is now blaming the paramilitaries for the violence toward the populace. He’s been studying Trump’s playbook. But nobody doubts that Ortega’s regime and the Sandinista party are bankrolling the camionetas and the snipers. The people’s representatives at the “Dialogo” table, set up by the bishops to negotiate a peaceful resolution with Ortega back in May, are suddenly being charged with terroristic crimes by a justice system tainted by and beholden to the Ortega regime. Brave individuals who stepped forward to articulate the people’s discontent, to assert their demands for an end to corruption and official thievery, are now sitting in jail awaiting trial for treason. It seems there is no tactic too ignoble to employ in Ortega’s shameless efforts to stamp out opposition to his tyranny.

And here in Carazo, there is little evidence that ignoble tactics are not effective. Todo está  tranquilo.

Pagada

Travel to Toronto was less than convenient. My flight was canceled, a later flight left much later, and the 22-hour trip resulted in a somewhat blurry first few days. Somehow, the fish in Lake Ontario got over their not unreasonable fear of my famed piscatorial talents, and the local wineries survived the Beatty invasion, and a very good time was too soon relegated to the past tense. My return to Nicaragua was uneventful, thankfully.

During my absence, the violence continued. Within five days of my return, the government-paid paramilitaries and National Police forces descended on the Carazo district with deadly intent. The popular tranques in Diriamba and Jinotepe were besieged and dismantled, with more than 20 deaths, mainly of young men defending their towns. A dozen people, including journalists, sought sanctuary in the Basilica of Saint Sebastian in Diriamba.  A Catholic cardinal and the bishops of Managua and other dioceses traveled to Diriamba to liberate them, but a mob of masked Orteguistas and paramilitaries, armed with guns and machetes, attacked them viciously. The monsignor and priest of St. Sebastian were beaten. Journalists were attacked and their equipment destroyed.

Mrs. Daniel Ortega, also called vice president Rosario Murillo, described the incident as thoroughly "Christian." She is, unsurprisingly, the most hated woman in Nicaragua.

Pope John Paul II visited that Basilica. Christmas, 2016, my sister Mary Mary and I attended a beautiful midnight Mass there. I asked Maria José if there were Ortega supporters in Diriamba. She shrugged and said, "Pagada." Paid.  The local Sandinista party apparatchiks pay people to oppose the popular uprising. And beat elderly monsignors.

This is a very dirty civil war.

Duck, Duck, Duck the Gunfire

Prior to my (still hoped for) flight to Toronto this weekend, I still had one more gift to buy for a sibling. I knew what I wanted, but the shop in Diriamba where it sat in a display case has been shuttered for the past few days because of the armed gangs harassing local neighborhoods. I figured it was worth one more try, so I caught a microbus, which left me on the outer rim of Diriamba, since it could go no further. I got a motito for the rest of the trip, and, Hurray! The shop was open!

Purchases in hand, I stopped at the super, where some food was now available, grabbed another motito, and we headed off for home. Just as we reached the edge of the city, a passing moto warned my driver that the Las Esquinas tranque was under attack, and not to go there. It was lunchtime, so I told the driver to take me to Mi Bohia, a decent restaurant nearby. I figured if I had to wait to get home, I might as well have a nice lunch.

No sooner had I taken the first sip of a very cold beer when the loud rattle of gunfire erupted just outside the restaurant. We all -- I, the waiter, and the few other customers -- dropped to the floor. A fellow who worked there peered out the window and said a camioneta was there in the street, firing at a barricade in the next block.  He turned out the lights, and we waited through several more bursts of gunfire. When it seemed safe to sit up, lunch arrived and I calmly enjoyed my delicious red snapper, feeling as if I were starring  in a Fellini film. The gunfire returned, briefly. When I had paid my bill, the proprietress made a phone call to check on the situation in Las Esquinas. "You should wait here," she said. The fighting was still going on, so I sat there in the entryway for nearly another hour.  Finally, a motito came by, and said he could take me to the highway, where I could walk north in hopes of finding a microbus.

This photo of Ticuantepe from La Prensa gives a good idea of how cities like Diriamba are blocking the camionetas' access. 

When I started walking, it was nearly one-thirty, and the sun was intense. A couple of guys were also looking for a bus to Managua, and one offered to carry my shopping bag. It was hard for my old legs to keep up with two young men, but I soldiered on. We walked about 1.5 kilometers before we finally spotted a waiting micro. Sweaty shirt and burning feet. Oh, bliss!

The shooting was over in Las Esquinas, and the tranque was wide open. The micro dropped me off in front of my gate and I fairly somersaulted through the porton to quiet, safety, and home. I could never have imagined being in such a situation, but oddly, it seems almost manageable. You just have to make it home.

My fingers are crossed that I will travel safely to Managua, to the airport, and parts north with no trouble. Nothing is definite in the current atmosphere.  Wish me luck, please.

Strange New World

After yesterday’s national work stoppage, my trip to Diriamba this morning was an odd mix of eerie calm and unsettling evidence that the town has been transformed into a fortress. The death three days ago of a 15-year-old boy there, and continuing reports of attacks on tranques and ordinary civilians by the camionetas – small white pickup trucks carrying armed paramilitary thugs who shoot to kill at no discernible provocation– has caused many people to simply remain at home. Roads that lead from the center of town into neighborhoods have been closed to vehicular traffic to discourage the camionetas. Somewhere, there are stretches of newly unpaved roads, as the paving stones have been ripped up and used to build the barriers. In consequence, the motito that brought us to Diriamba had to take lengthy and circuitous detours to get us safely to the mercado.

Photo from La Prensa

The usual crowds of shoppers and vendors have thinned out. Many stores are closed, and although local farmers are selling their produce, the usual bounty that comes from the wholesalers in Managua cannot be delivered. There was rice today at the supermarket, but little else. No milk, cheese, eggs, meats, pasta, beans, canned goods – nada. Beer aplenty, and scotch—say no more, say no more!

And what has become the new normal: lines of semi tractor-trailers, simply standing idle on the main thoroughfares. I noticed a number of propped up engine hoods, and wondered how many of the big rigs simply die in place, or run out of fuel while idling for hours on end. 

My plans to join my siblings in Canada for a week are in jeopardy. The early morning flight I hope to take in a week has been canceled for several days by American Airlines, citing security concerns. My secret theory is that there are too many unsold seats lately, and by suspending a regular flight for a few days, a sold-out plane will result. Anyhow, they say rescheduling will not cost more, if another flight can be arranged. Fingers crossed. Hell, just getting to the airport is questionable.

Travel Notes: Tranques for the Memories

When the tranques (barricades, TRANK-kays) first appeared, the big rigs pulled to the sides of the road to allow local traffic to pass, understanding that halting commercial transport of goods was the primary aim of the stoppage.  The little tuk tuks and bicicletas could pass, as well as motorcycles and taxis. Even the microbuses could manage to get through, going up one-way streets, on sidewalks, inching along just microns from the next vehicle.

No more. Today, the tranque returned to Las Esquinas, and the big semi tractor-trailers are stopped at all angles -- some actually parked perpendicular to the road -- to thwart every effort to pass through. In some cases, the rigs are parked so tightly to each other that even skinny pedestrians cannot pass. I do not blame them. Vegetables are rotting in their rigs, orders are likely being canceled. This is all very bad for business.

This morning, I caught a passing bicicleta to Las Esquinas, intending to take a bus to San Marcos to return some books to the Keiser University library. Somehow, by zigzagging through the standing trucks, we made it almost all the way, only to find that no buses could get through to San Marcos. I asked one of the tranquistas, a young guy with a bandanna masking his face, how far the stopped vehicles extended down the road to San Marcos . He thought perhaps a kilometer, and was quite sympathetic. So, I decided to walk as far as I could to see if, at some point, motitos were helping to get people into San Marcos. The tranque was composed of stacked paving blocks, and a large log, still smoking from being burnt. Other men helped me over the log with utmost courtesy, and I started down the road past the big rigs. Many drivers had slung hammocks beneath their trucks or between roadside trees, and were taking advantage of the opportunity to grab some zees. People were selling drinks and food. Eventually, it was clear that I would be halfway to San Marcos before the road opened up, if ever, so I turned back and found another bicicleta to take me home.

This photo of the tranque at Las Esquinas is from an article in the website Confidential.com.ni

Two hours later, the backup had reached well beyond my front gate. No traffic is headed north toward Managua. Hard to believe it's the PanAmerican Highway.

Looking north, toward Managua.

Looking south toward Diriamba

I have seen online posts that say gasoline is both scarce and costly. Some shelves in grocery stores are empty. The tranques are beginning to hurt ordinary Nicaraguans. Restaurants are closing. Tourism-based businesses are being shuttered. I've heard that banks are running out of money. Jobs are disappearing all over the country. When and where will it end?

Post scriptum, next day:
Maria José accompanied me as I tried again to get to San Marcos. We walked to Las Esquinas, where I bought some cold Cokes, which we passed out to some of the tranquistas. We continued on foot to Santa Clara, about two miles from my house. There, we were able to get on board a microbus which took us into San Marcos. Keiser U. was open, but only one entrance was available, another half-mile walk to the opposite end of the campus. My dogs were aching! We later went to the bank, so I could prepay July's rent, stopped at the grocery to buy Scotch (it had little else on offer) and we went to Casona, a nice restaurant, empty of customers, for lunch.

We grabbed a ride back to the line of trucks, about a half-mile out of Las Esquinas, and made it home on a bicicleta. With four new books and two bottles of whiskey, I'm set for the next week or so.

P.P.S. Monday, 11 June
Maria José informed me that there is no propane left in Diriamba or Las Esquinas, save for five filled tanks still available. Normally when I need propane, I exchange my empty tank for a filled one , but with half a tankful still, I decided to shell out $60 to purchase a filled tank, which should see me through September. Daily, I thank my lucky stars for Maria José.

A Dangerous New Word

The internal strife in Nicaragua continues. The army is still mainly on the sidelines as hundreds of thousands of ordinary citizens, unarmed and determinedly peaceful, march to demonstrate their complete disgust with the Ortega government. The huge Mothers’ Day (this week in Nicaragua) crowd was estimated at 700,000, or one tenth the country’s population!

Uncredited photo from Facebook group.

Daily, I peruse the opposition newspaper La Prensa online. Its coverage, along with posts by Nicaraguans on a Facebook group site (Expats in Nicaragua) is my primary source of information about the protests. 

I learned a new word on La Prensa’s front page recently: francotirador. It means sniper. Which, in turn, neatly defines the government’s response to the public demonstrations. Hired Sandinista youth and, some say, Cuban mercenaries, well-equipped with Russian sharpshooter Dragunov rifles, fire both rubber bullets and live ammunition into the crowds, killing indiscriminately. The death toll reached 100 this week, with more than a thousand injured.

Imagine the U.S. or Canadian government hiring snipers to “discourage” public demonstrations.

Please take a moment and watch this short clip from the Mothers’ Day demonstrations. Then play it again with closed eyes. Then, try to measure the courage and determination of a people trying desperately to rid their country of its voracious power wielders, for the second time in less than forty years.

https://www.facebook.com/AGNER.ALEMAN.3/videos/2001697979840802/?

Trolls and Tolls

This morning, as I prepared to go to San Marcos to return some library books, my empleada Maria José told me that the “T” junction at Las Esquinas (where the road to San Marcos connects to the Pan American Highway) had been commandeered by a group of mainly young men, stopping traffic and charging money to be able to continue on. I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly; there is a National Police station right there at the intersection, and I could not believe such an anarchistic hijacking of the freeway would be tolerated.

True enough, when I hired a bicicleta to take me to the bus stop in Las Esquinas, traffic was backed up in all three directions. The bicicleta wove in and around the idling trucks and vans and brought me to a waiting motito, where the driver explained that the buses were not running. So I hopped in and went on to San Marcos.

The big news of the day was the beginning of “dialogo” in Managua, between the Ortega government and representatives of various rebellious factions from the continuing protests and government violence. A clear majority want Ortega to go, but the Sandinista party and those who are its functionaries are perforce loyal to Ortega. Nobody seems to expect anything particular to emerge from the dialogo, but it is seen as a victory to have forced Ortega to the table.

I stopped at the grocery after the library, and then found another motito back to Las Esquinas, where we were blocked by an even larger gang of mainly young men, who had laid big stones and pieces of wood across the road. The motito driver tried to get someone to let us through, without success. Someone set off some firecrackers, which elicited whoops and people running from further away. It was clear that the least disturbance could raise the excitement to uncomfortable levels. I paid him and got out to try and find a bicicleta. Then, suddenly, the blockade opened and some traffic was allowed to proceed, and the motito came by and picked me up again.

I asked the motito driver why the police were just standing around, watching the extortion for passage. “They are afraid,” he said. “The new gasoline tariff of 15% is why the men are getting the money.” I later read in La Prensa that these tranques --blockades-- were held at other major arteries in the country, protesting rising food costs, in addition to gasoline and propane.

From La Prensa

There were perhaps 50-60 men in the intersection. All along the highway to my front gate, onlookers were standing, watching. Half a kilometer to my house, another group of men had obstructed the highway with wood and palms.  The sound of trucks idling lasted for two days. No doubt, the usual food and drink sellers were doing brisk business.

This is a tense time. So many people whose poverty and powerlessness have become intolerable can be momentarily intoxicated by these moments of brute power and anarchy. Not exactly a harbinger of stable daily life, as the thunderous blast of firecrackers continues.

It's a Smaller World After All

My inquiries regarding line-of-sight internet came to nothing. It would have been possible, but the cost to install a 110-foot antenna would have been more than $1,600. My brief fantasy of working online for 10-12 hours per week for a Chinese linguistics concern as a native English speaker and having unlimited excellent reception of internet television screeched to an abrupt halt. Now, I have only BBC World news channel, which stretches about four hours of news programming into 24 through endless repetition. Is one channel in English enough to warrant paying for cable access every month? And my problems with shaky internet service remain. I had not realized how limiting it is to have no television AND very little streaming capability.

Suddenly, it has rained nightly for four days, or daily for four nights, if you prefer. Suddenly, dozens of roly-poly fat beetles appear out of the darkness, attracted by my reading lamp. The dogs chase them until they give up, exhausted, helpless on their backs, waggling their little legs until I sweep them up and dump them outside.

Keiser University has concluded its spring semester, which means I'll have no students to tutor until September. Suddenly, my small world has become microscopic. I definitely will be buying some more chickens.

İViva la Revolución!

As international news outlets have picked up the story of recent unrest and violent demonstrations here in Nicaragua, numerous friends stateside have contacted me out of concern. I have immediately reassured them that my home is out of the path of any local activity, and really, most of the violence has centered on large demonstrations in Managua, Leon and Tipitapa.

When word spread that the government was precipitately raising the mandatory contribution of employed persons to social security, while decreasing the level of pensions paid out to retirees, a number of demonstrations occurred last week. The "Ortegistas" or Sandinista supporters were apparently dispatched to quell these incidents, beating the demonstrators, killing two. Daniel Ortega quickly moved to shut down several local television channels, but too late. The news of the harsh response spread like wildfire, and much larger, more aggressive demonstrations ensued. More killings took place, including a journalist covering the violence and a policeman.

Photos lifted from La Prensa

Pension obligations are a huge problem everywhere. I was not sure that it was not, in fact, necessary to find additional funds to meet growing obligations to keep pensions solvent. It is a potent testament to the extreme distrust in the Ortega government held by the citizenry that this single incident should blow up so quickly. Nobody believes the extra money will not go to line Ortega's pockets. El Presidente cynically altered the constitution to remove restrictions on the number of terms he could serve, and then named his wife Rosario Murillo his vice-president. Between the two, the couple has eight children, three together. Murillo's daughter, Zoilamérica Narváez, now 50, accused her stepfather of rape and sexual abuse some time ago and is shunned by the family. But the other children appear to be doing very nicely. One son owns a large fleet of grocery markets-- Palí and La Unión--  which are franchises of Walmart; during the violence, these stores were looted to the bare walls throughout Managua and beyond. Another Ortega son owns a number of gasoline stations, though I did not hear about any vandalism involving those. Some years ago, Rosario Murillo decided to decorate the city with dozens of metallic "arboles de vida" (trees of life) -- grotesque, garish, utterly laughable multicolored fixtures that are lit up at night at enormous expense of public funds. Some of these were burned or pulled down by the angry demonstrators.

"I am the way, the truth and the tree of life...?"

When I first came to Nicaragua some 30 years ago, the country was suffering under the severe restrictions imposed by the U.S. embargo. Foreign investment was absent, and the population was demoralized after a decade of trying to rebuild after the 1979 revolution. Ortega had already lost the people's confidence, and soon thereafter, was voted out of office. It was a country of about three million people, a largish city, if you will. Now, the country has more than doubled its population, Managua is rife with new construction, major roads are good, foreign investment is everywhere. There are more good jobs, though far from enough to ameliorate the grinding poverty that affects so many. And the revolution brought much that is laudable: decent public education, better public health, a sense of national pride. But most of the students who demonstrated last week were not born until after the revolution. They have seen corruption on both sides of the political spectrum, and they clearly do not trust the intentions of Ortega's government.

"I am here for a free Nicaragua!"

When Daniel backed down and agreed to withdraw the proposed changes to social security, it brought out even more demonstrators, smiling this time to have achieved the desired outcome, despite some 13 deaths and more than a thousand injured. A day of triumph indeed.

I am uneasy, though. It is difficult to believe that Ortega will not manage to find the money he sought, for good or ill. I saw an unnamed Nica "social scientist" interviewed on the BBC World channel who posited the notion that Daniel's reign is in decline, his days are numbered. After all, he is a wealthy man. At 72, he could surely take the money and retire to a Cuban beach in comfort. I hope he will not subject this beautiful, tragic country to another revolution, though its citizens have surely shown themselves to be up to the task,

To Do... Or Not To Do

This past Sunday’s New York Times offered up an irresistible notion that echoes something much on my mind lately. What, now that I am retired, having left the country of my birth, growth and working life, having left my grown child and family and friends for solitude and ease, what, really, is my life all about?

Baby Boomers Reach the End of Their To-Do List

My dad, when diagnosed with prostate cancer at age 70, opted for no treatment, as the disease would likely progress very slowly, and, after all, “I’ve had a good life,” he declared. At 70. My age, in three years. Why, on the eve of my 67th birthday, do I feel I’ve barely lived? Why do I wonder how it is that I now live book to book, bedtime to bedtime, meal to meal? Why do I feel so incredibly unproductive, so disinterested in anything resembling a social life, so slothful, so... worthless?

I’ll tell you why. Two of my closest friends, my contemporaries, also “retired,” are finding themselves in perhaps the most intensely productive periods of their lives. Instead of fleeing gratefully to the comforting warmth of a “life of the mind,” as I have, they have separately charged wholeheartedly into maelstroms of activity, deadlines, obstacles, and accomplishment.

Tey in the middle, with me and our late great pal Sally Kalson, 30 years ago, 

when we were the Fabulous Raisinettes.

Tey Stiteler divides her time (and citizenship) between the U.S. and Mexico, where she lives in the Yucatan in Valladolid. She’s an accomplished journalist who spent much of her late career directing public relations for Pittsburgh’s most prestigious art museum. She fell in love with Mexico’s lovely embroidered garments, and took up needlework of her own in her adopted country. When she visited me in Nicaragua, she was much taken with the multi-pocketed, ruffle-bedecked aprons worn by all the women in the Mercado, and we spent quite some time looking to buy them. Lately, she has decided to marry her love of Mexican clothing and her museum experience by opening a museum dedicated to the ethnic clothing of Mexico. Not only has she traveled the country seeking out various traditional dress, but she located and leased a perfect space for the museum, supervised its rehabilitation, and outfitted a small house as a tourist rental to provide funding to maintain the facility!  She bought mannequins and pedestals, and is currently cataloging her collection, with plans to open the Museo de Ropa Etnica de Mexico (MUREM) later this month.

Museum entrance

Mannequins sans ropa etnica

Galleries

Tey and her gang of miracle workers

Tey is a wonder. True, she is more than two years my junior, so it really goes without saying that she would have more energy than I do, but face it--she is a marvel, an absolute freak of productivity.

♣♣♣♣♣♣♣

Tom Matrullo, my dear friend from my freshman year of college, lately rediscovered in the new millennium, has enjoyed a lifetime of the mind, dedicating his considerable intellect to classical literature and philosophy, along with more contemporary turns of thought. He is several months my senior, and really ought to be investigating assisted living before too long, right?

When I visited Tom some years ago, he took me on a tour of some of Florida’s Gulf Coast’s natural botanical and zoological treasures. One space, known as the Celery Fields, in Sarasota, is a wetlands paradise of grassy expanses, marshes, water, and tranquility. Indigenous and migratory birds are found here is good numbers, and it is a mecca for birders and peace-seekers alike. 

Bird Photos: Chuck R. Behrmann

As Sarasota contemplates its future development, it, like many warm-climate towns, must surely look upon undeveloped acreage like the Celery Fields as ripe for transformation into needed housing and commercial properties. Incredibly, the brain trust in Sarasota’s municipal government actually looked at a piece of land abutting the Celery Fields and decided it would be an ideal location for a garbage treatment plant.

My friend Tom needed only a few of his brain cells to see the probable consequences of this woeful notion. It took exactly no time for Tom to apply his technological expertise, persuasive linguistics, and righteous disgust to creating a unified community effort to halt the treatment plant project, and further agitate to secure a safe future for the Celery Fields, both as a bird sanctuary and a valued community asset. This worthy work has taken many months of meetings, demonstrations, legal wrangling, public education, media relations, and hugely frustrating delays and deaf ears. But it’s working. The treatment plant is dead, and the community is mobilized toward having its say in any future use of undeveloped lands, including the Celery Fields. 

Moreover, it seems to me that Tom has hit his stride, later in life than most, perhaps, but what a lovely stride it is. Who knew he was a natural leader, he who always had his nose in a book and cultivated a primarily observational relationship with, well, people. Good on you, Tom. What a terrific legacy for your children’s children.

The NYT editorial that prompted this post has helped me to weasel my way out of abject shame for the decidedly non-involved nature of my present life. Perhaps I am experiencing what Ms. Hampl describes as “a late-arriving awareness of consciousness existing for its own sake.” Yeah, consciousness existing for its own sake. That’s what it must be.

Ah, the Privation!

A question posed on an expats’ group FB page recently got me thinking. “What things available in the States do you miss most here in Nicaragua?”

Well, I have not found smoked oysters, even in La Colonia, the supermarket chain that carries most good imported foods. I miss fresh salmon, too. The frozen fillets at Pricemart and Walmart just do not cut it, and at about $30 a pop, no thanks. The latest flea and tick collars are not yet available here—Seresta, I’m talking—and I have not been to a movie theater in three years. But really, it is difficult to make a list of things that are unavailable here. I found tahini for hummus, turmeric for curries, couscous and polenta. Oh, add horseradish to the list of things I’m still seeking.

I suppose the main thing I am missing right now is decent cable television. I did not have a TV until after my first year, and when I moved to my present house, I had a Claro dish installed. It featured only two of the U.S. networks – NBC and ABC, as well as BBC World news channel, but I was reasonably satisfied with these sources. Just this week, the brain trust in charge of Claro decided to eliminate the networks, so all we have now in the way of English language viewing is BBC. Grrr. I want my Jeopardy!

A few miles north of Las Esquinas lies El Crucero, a mountaintop community bristling with communications towers serving Managua and a wide circumference of population centers throughout southwest Nicaragua. Oddly, El Crucero has few trees. The bald hill tops are in the path of the fumes from the Masaya volcano, and it is supposed that the sulphur and other noxious chemicals render the land less than hospitable. In any event, I heard that an internet provider has acquired a tower to serve "line of sight" customers with receivers on antennae. He’s coming out to see my location this weekend and work up an estimate.

Good internet service might solve my TV-viewing problem. USATVnow.com provides major cable channels to military personnel and expats outside US borders, and if it works as well as I’m told, I can address both my media issues with my own antenna. My present internet service gives me only 10 GB per month, when it is strong enough, which is infrequent. It certainly cannot deliver USATVnow. Stay tuned.

Update:

 It turned out that although Las Esquinas has lost its water service for two weeks, mine was unaffected. This, of course, may change without notice, but for the nonce, I am flush, so to speak.

™EPIC WIPES to the Rescue!

Easter Sunday, 1 April.

Roger, the gardener, showed up unexpectedly today. Maria José had ordered him to let me know some important news. Due to some preliminary construction in preparation for a mammoth project to widen the PanAmerican Highway to four lanes, water mains that pass beneath the road are being upgraded and replaced. For some weeks, traffic has been rerouted around various sites between my place and Jinotepe, but aside from flagman delays, it has not affected my routine. Until now. According to Roger, this district will have no water service for TWO WEEKS.

It has been mentioned in these pages that water service is normally limited to one in three or four days; ergo, I have an 1100 liter water tank with an electric pump to insure a regular supply to the house. This system works well, except when there is a power outage, which is infrequent. But I do not expect a tankful to last more than a few days of normal demand for showers, laundry, cooking and cleaning.

When Roger arrived, today was a water day, thank goodness, and we set about preparing for the coming drought. He filled the big oil drum we use to collect rainwater for the garden, and I filled the outside laundry cistern as a supply for cleaning purposes. I also ran a load through the washing machine, which will sit idle thereafter, as it uses much more water than hand-laundering.  I also took a shower, and vaguely considered washing the dogs. I decided I could live with doggy smells for two weeks. I checked the supply of gallon drinking water containers -- four -- and filled the lobster pot with dog drinking water. I also have several gallons of frozen water I keep in the chest freezer to improve efficiency.

Roger says a water truck will pass by, who knows when, to fill containers. I hope Maria José's grapevine will prove reliable. And happily, I have a supply of ™Epic Wipes, a new product developed by a friend of my sister Mary Mary! As the name suggests, they are gigunda wet wipes, suitable for freshening a whole human body. I believe my students at Keiser will appreciate them, even if they merely fail to realize I have not showered recently...

The longest I have been without water to date has been four days. Stay tuned.

Hello, Again

Cue the end of a three-month hiatus:

And three, two, one...

Welcome back to my occasionally idyllic life in sunny Nicaragua. It is marginally painful to admit that I seem to have run out of new things to share in these pages. Day to day, tranquility tends to be dull, I daresay. Not to mention two resolutions for the new year that are ,amazingly, still in force as I write: to save serious money for a planned trip to Spain with my son next year; and to lose some serious poundage to ensure that I will be energetic and healthy enough for same. These two goals conspire to eliminate most occasions for socializing, dining out, investing in my surroundings with various garden or livestock projects, and any number of elements that filled this blog heretofore.

A sprinkler on a hot day is a welcome spot for grackles!

Still, there are topics of interest. For example, just as North America enters its spring season (not that anyone would notice, with four nor'easters!), we here in Nicaragua observe the start of verano, summer, the hottest period in the calendar year. Arguably, there are two seasons here, dry and rainy. But people here also acknowledge a winter season - invierno - which occurs around August through December, as far as I can tell, characterized by cool nights and mornings, and lots of rain. It is never actually cold. Otoño is the word for autumn, but I'm damned if I know when it is. July, perhaps?

At the moment, in high dry season, the lawn is becoming crunchy, and the deciduous trees have shed their leaves. The rain should return in May, with new greenery and cooler temperatures. Blooming banks of bougainvillea occur year round, and just this week, trees in the central park of San Marcos burst into riotous flower. Well, two days ago it was riotous. After a windy spell, most of the blossoms ended up on the ground this morning.

My beautiful shepherd Mitzi proved able to escape the garden fence, and reluctantly, I bought a 6-meter chain. It was wretched, seeing her tethered to the porch, but I simply could not risk having her end up as road kill on the PanAmerican Highway. I looked for a solution, and found it in the home of a recently retired couple from California, great walkers both, who wanted a sturdy companion. It's still early days, but I hope she has taken to her new home. I miss her galumphing presence, and the house seems so much bigger without her.

And I miss my chickens. Despite my Christmas morning adventure, I am thinking of buying a new flock of laying hens. Will think on it a little longer...