You Say Cilantro, I say Culantro

Very different plants: the former is leggy, with triple erose leaves, slow to sprout, and self-seeding for the next season, at least in my Pennsylvania herb garden; the latter grows wild in Nicaragua, close to the ground, with round-tipped spear leaves, edged with spiky points. It is also cultivated at a larger size, and sold in the super. Here is an internet photo of cilantro:

And these are culantro plants in my yard.

Cilantro and culantro have the same flavor, fragrant and distinctive. Some people hate it, and say it tastes like soap. I learned to love it in Peruvian cuisine, and it is widely used here in Nica. It provides a central flavor of ceviche, that tangy mix of lime juice, onion, chilies, ginger and raw fish. It adds aromatic savor to tomato and chicken soups, pico de gallo, and is fabulous with jalapeño in hummus.

Riding back from Managua yesterday, the winding route into the hills on the Pan-American Highway nearly brought my usual nightmare to life. Cars and trucks, as well as the buses and vans in which I ride, pass slower vehicles with alarming unconcern for the blind turn ahead. The “almost accident” involved a military vehicle passing my bus, and an oncoming driver who slammed on his brakes and did a one-eighty into the curb of the opposite lane. I believe there was considerable damage to the rear end of the car, and the driver, though shaken, was uninjured. The military vehicle sat in its passing posture for about fifteen minutes, while traffic in both directions maneuvered around it. We pulled off the road; our van driver and half the passengers walked back to see what was what, and then when we finally resumed our trip, the conversation centered on the hellacious disregard of drivers who pass so dangerously. Our driver was stonefaced, and guilty as sin.

When the porter passed through the van collecting fares, the older lady beside me with a big plastic covered box on her lap paid him in change. Lots of change. Apparently, she is a vendor of slices of cake, individually wrapped, and she added a slice to her handful of cordoba coins. People chuckled at this little propino (tip) for the porter, but there was method in her largesse. Several passengers then asked to buy her cakes, and she did pretty good business on her way home.

Usually, I am the only gringa on the bus. Many of the porters in the Jinotepe-Managua-bound runs know me by now, if only for that reason. It’s funny, how some riders will smile at me and say “Hi,” or “How are you?” because they correctly assume my native language. But that’s all the English they have. It’s like when North Americans who speak no Spanish say “Adios!” to a Latino. My gring-osity hurts when I am dickering with a cabbie; when I’m with Noel, the fares are half what I am charged, and sometimes fruit vendors charge me higher prices as well. I am far too classy to complain, unless it is blatant profiteering. When I ask the fare to my house from Diriamba, a van porter may say 30 cordobas, which is the full fare to Managua, and he gets a smirk from me.  10 or 15 is what I normally pay. 

Please Help Me, I'm Moving...

Proud renter that I am of two -- count 'em - two houses, at the moment, I am daily exhausted by the sense of belonging nowhere. My present address in La Boquita is packed into boxes previously used in my initial escape from US reality. They were flattened and stored, lo, these past nine months. and again contain most of my earthly possessions. Plus two beds, a desk, an armoire, a few tables and two rocking chairs. Salvador, the cuidador here, has promised that his friend with a truck will be here on the 23rd to move boxes and muebles (furniture) to the new house. My sixty-fifth birthday, incidentally, is moving day.

My next address is a mess at the moment. Piles of gravel, stacks of galvanized pipes and rolls of chain link fencing adorn the porch and interior living room. These materials are the components of the 60-meter fence I need to contain the dogs. A crew of four are working to secure the vertical supports in cement, and will weld the chain link fence to the pipes in between the verticals. It will be a fence to contain Godzillla. I tried to explain pound-in metal bars and woven fencing that I had in my old yard, which cost about $60 and lasted at least 12 years. But here, they use steel pipes, cement, and chain link, which has cost me over $1,000. So far.

My sentimental soul is clinging to each successive ocean sunset as moving day approaches. Here is tonight's display:

I sit with the dogs in the Grecian temple called the gazebo and we all watch the sun go down. Little Susie is growing like a weed, and has an engaging personality. She and Brynn play together well, and I'm eager to see how they like the new place.

Words cannot express my appreciation for the brothers Uriarte and how well they have seen to my many and varied needs over the past few weeks. Stefan designed the tile plan for my kitchen and the garden fence, and handled the water tank purchase and installation. Parzi took me shopping for necessities for the new place, besides treating me to a truly wonderful ceviche dinner of black clams that was heavenly!!! I really love these young guys, and if I could lose forty years, I'd jump both sets of excellent bones!

Reading James Joyce -- Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man -- I have never found my own frustration with the way Catholicism was jammed down my throat articulated in such a gut-wrenching account of shame and hypocrisy. I wish someone had told me to read this book before Ulysses -- now I will have to re-read the masterpiece and, presumably, will derive more satisfaction the second time around. I have also been reading Virginia Woolf. I love her reviews of books and authors -- such wit and depth of knowledge. I hope to receive enough Amazon cash for my upcoming birthday to order her five volumes of diaries. (Which are not on Kindle, hint hint.)

I am of two minds -- ambivalent (thank you, Sawyer) --about the next two weeks. I have loved living by the sea. I cannot begin to imagine how much I will miss the thrum of the waves and the muted rumbles of the breaking waves. I have lived by the angle of the sun, and have greedily slurped up every sunset for the past nine months. My new home holds the promise of cooler climes, a vigorous salad garden, convenient transport to Managua and Kaiser University (more on that soon) and my own place, mine, mine, mine. Mike and Beth have been friends, housemates, and guides in this new life. But now, I do want to make it MY life. Amen.

Everybody Dance!

When I next return to the Palacio de Cultura, I must reacquaint myself with this realization of an ancient game or dance, also found in Mexican culture, that was added to the Palacio's central court in the 1990s. Presumably, it celebrates hunting or hunting skills, as these fellows seem to have the necessary accoutremént for stalking and killing. Also tattoos!

This early ceramic platter features a being -- a deity, perhaps? -- wearing an enormous headpiece. The large stone figures below feature big hats as well, and date to early centuries, Common Era. 

The figures without hats are Ivan and Noel, the aforementioned crack legal team.

There are several galleries displaying a well-curated assemblage of mainly 20th-century art, and a selection of contemporary Nicaraguan artists.  I loved the section devoted to Armando Morales (1927-2011), one of the country's most important painters, with great success in Paris and New York City and elsewhere around the globe, who was also a Guggenheim Fellow, among many honors. His small painting, "The Last Supper of Sandino," is a haunting tribute to the revered leader who led the 1927-1933 rebellion against U.S military occupation of Nicaragua, and who was assassinated in 1934 by the forces of Anastasio Somosa, who imposed four decades of tyranny and dictatorship until the Sandinista Revolution of 1979. In spirit, as well as setting, I think this painting accords Sandino the martyr/saviour's place in Nicaraguan history that Christ, as depicted by da Vinci, holds for the Christian world. Sandino was only 38 when he was killed. Unlike da Vinci's painting, the table is viewed at an angle, placing Sandino into a less symmetrical point of dominance, to the viewer's left. Political symbolism?  (Forgive the reflections of gallery ghosts in the glass.)

Another painting I especially liked was by Alfonso Ximenes, a contemporary Nicaraguan artist. I regret I did not note the title of this rather homely village scene, but I love the unsaturated faded colors he used to depict a sweet grouping of typical rural houses. You can sense the affection he has for his subject; the line of laundry breaks my heart. Noel told me that the structure in front to the right is a latrine!

One of the last galleries is devoted to a theatrical tradition that reminds me of the Commedia dell' Arte of 16th-century Italy. It is a satire/drama and dance spectacular known as El Güegüense which is performed annually during the feast of San Sebastian in Diriamba, right here in Carazo! This I intend to see, but it won't be until January. Here are a couple of  images from the Palacio:

     "Güegüense speaks for the people"  (Ruben Darío)

Afterwards, we were hungry and thirsty, and bounced through the streets of Managua to a famed Ceviche hangout called Goussen (pronounced "Hussein"), where some cold cervesa and fresh ceviche worked wonders to help me forget my visa complications.