A Spay Odyssey

"Are you sure you want to do this," asked the veterinarian in Spanish. "She could be worth a lot of money to you in puppies."

No, I was not feeling at all sure I wanted to spay Brynn. But not because I thought I might want to breed her. For all I know, she is the only Pembroke Welsh Corgi in all of Nicaragua, though I think I might have seen one in Managua. My hesitancy was more immediate. I looked around the modest vet office, at all the typical dusty dirt on the floor, on the counter, clinging to every surface. The medicine case was well-stocked with drugs and remedies for every sort of farm animal, dogs, cats, and birds. Marvin, the vet, also known as "Gato," for his dark blue (cat's) eyes, has the physique of an avid soccer player, with handfuls of long dark curly hair, and an infectious smile. He seems a tad hyperactive and talks so fast, I needed help from my friend Rey, who is Marvin's cousin, to translate.

My heart was in my throat as Gato filled a syringe and jabbed it into Brynn's hind leg, something to make her drowsy. Gato did not ask me if she had fasted (she had) or how much she weighs. He gave her a second shot to knock her out, and carried her limp body back into another room. All I could do was sit on the tattered sofa, admiring the many soccer trophies lined up against the wall, and talking to Rey and his wife Mildred for about a half hour. I was spaying Brynn in an excess of caution to try and forestall the cancer that claimed the life of my first corgi, Sugarbunny. I knew that most vets' facilities here are a far cry from the antiseptic, well-equipped and staffed clinics in the U.S., but I also believe that much of the sterility of those lavishly appointed suites is for the comfort and benefit of the pet owners. Surely it is possible to create a sterile field on a table for a surgery, and I crossed my fingers to make it so.

When Gato brought Brynn out to me, she was limp, tongue lolling, her belly orange from the disinfectant, with a neat incision in the center. Gato wrote out instructions for medicines and care, and charged me $40. We went home in a taxi. No sleeping in the dirt with the other dogs for the next few days for Brynn. She was not cooperative with her tummy swabs or pills, but her appetite soon returned, and now, six days later, she is more herself than ever.

Phew.

Life Cycle

I am of two minds regarding my status as a jubilada, a retired person. Part of me has long dreaded the idea of retirement because of the whole "advanced age" thing, this nearness to death, the final stage, the very winter of my life. Of course, there was a long time when I viewed an age in the mid-60s as downright decrepit. The other, much smarter part of me realizes that I may easily live quite vibrantly another 20 or 25 years, with luck, and isn't it marvelous to have so few responsibilities in this relatively youthful stage of the last third of my life?

This afternoon, I had a half-cantaloupe for lunch. I put aside the scooped-out remains while I was working at my laptop. Some flies gathered to feast on the leftover melon, and I briefly considered its removal to the waste can. Then, a brightly painted butterfly alit, its torn wings still brilliant with vivid shades of yellow, orange, black and white suggested that it was nearing the end of its lifespan. The butterfly extended its proboscis and tucked in to the cantaloupe flesh, flexing its wings now and then, leisurely enjoying the sweetness. It loitered thusly for a good ten minutes, and then flew off for awhile before returning to renew its addresses to the melon.

I wondered if the butterfly had an instinctive understanding that it was not long for this world. I wondered if it would linger as long as the melon rind were available, hoping to be nicely sated at the moment of death. Or was it just tired after meeting its obligation to mate and lay eggs for the next cycle of butterfly life, and just wanted to relax and drink? It sat on my table, returning to the melon again and again. Such a lovely creature. I crept away to get my camera, and when I returned, the butterfly had flown. An internet pic will have to suffice.

Is it too early for a glass of wine?

Compostible Bits

New Year's Eve Shiver
How did I neglect to relate this item earlier? On 31 December, I was awake at 4, as usual, and reading in bed until sunrise, when it (the bed) began gently shaking from side to side. An earthquake! I glanced at the clock: 4:56. And that was the time reported in La Prenza later that day; with a Richter reading of 5.7, the quake was centered just off the coast of Nicaragua from Huehuete (way-WAY-te), a town just a few miles south of La Boquita.

This Pennsylvania girl never felt an earthquake stateside, except in 2011, when the temblor that damaged the Washington Monument registered 5.8, and was centered south of D.C. We felt it only slightly in Johnstown. So my apparent glee when I feel two within a few weeks of each other is perhaps forgivable. The thrill is undeniable.

Terns' Cirque du Soleil
On 2 January, I noticed a new bird behavior about 100 yards or so off shore from the house. A group of mainly-white terns (Common Terns, I believe) were wheeling and swooping above the water, and then diving headlong beneath the surface. Doubtless, a school of bait fish was passing. It was a nonpareil spectacle of aerial maneuvering, and suggests that this migratory species is now here for the northern winter. I look forward to more splendid diving displays!


The Nipples on the Bus
Most U.S. natives must admit that there is a national discomfort, if not outright distaste (right, Mr. Trump?) for the idea of public breastfeeding. To be sure, there is energetic support by the medical community as well as La Leche advocacy for the practice of maternal nursing, but aside from the occasional "mothers and babies" curtained-off areas in shopping malls or office buildings, the country seems unwilling to consider that hungry babies are everywhere, and woe to the mother who cannot locate a bathroom stall in which to sit and nurse without causing a shocked uproar on a park bench under a tree.

Here in civilized Central America, mothers and nursing babies ride the bus every day, and if a baby should fuss or cry, it is a great relief to all the other riders to have the youngster attach to a breast for a calming snack. Nobody looks around to see, no obvious towel or blanket camouflage is draped over the mother's shoulder—just a quiet infant nursing while mommy talks to her seatmate. Sometimes, I have seen a mother with babe-in-arms board a crowded bus, and no one offers a seat, so she perforce must balance baby and bolsa (bag), while trying to extract a needed nipple and remain upright all the while. Even so, with no chance for discretion, nobody looks, no men stare open-mouthed at the spectacle of a lactating breast, nobody cares! How very civilized indeed.

Bread to Share
I bought three small loaves of local bread just after I arrived last summer. I found it tasteless, bland, and inedible. I ate little bread thereafter until I decided to start making my own. This is not something I ever did more than two or three times in my life in the States, so I am no natural baker, but my efforts are improving, and I do enjoy my bread when it is fresh and aromatic. With no preservatives, the bread must live in the freezer or fall prey to mold within three or four days. I end up throwing out a good portion of each loaf, as it stales so quickly. Happily, our grackles like to feed on the bread, and now, the lizard who lives in the roof over my porch is a regular consumer! He emerges from a hole next to an electrical socket and climbs down the porch column and scarfs up a few bites before he jumps to the tree and makes his daily rounds. He also enjoys watermelon and grapes, which I sometimes provide.

 Un gorrobo (lizard.)

                                                     And back for a nap.

My First Half-Year

The New Year heralds the start of my seventh month in Nicaragua. Fitting that I should end 2015 scurrying around Managua sorting my visa renewal. After six months here as a tourist, I can only renew for an additional month at a time. Most folks prefer to exit the country and return as a brand-new tourist, with an automatic 90 days visa. Some simply drive south and cross over into Costa Rica for a couple of days, and then re-enter Nicaragua at the border. It make economic sense in one way: to renew the tourist visa for 90 days costs about $60; to enter the country costs $10, for three months. I paid $20 for an additional 30 days.

Happily, I was able to accomplish a critical element of the residence visa Thursday at the Oficina de Inmigracion. Instead of waiting for a representative of the office to visit me in La Boquita for an interview, a young woman did the interview on the spot after I got my passport stamped. My blood-sucking lawyer Noel (just kidding about the blood-sucking part) was with me to translate anything I could not understand.

The big question, I thought, was about why I wanted to reside in Nicaragua. I launched into my story of having visited the country in 1988 with Athletes United for Peace, and being inspired to try and provide sport equipment for the youth of San Isidro. The woman was taking notes, and abruptly looked up and asked, "So, you really like our country?" "Yes, of course, " I answered, and that was that. No history required. I would think that something more substantial would be in order. It's like when Donald Trump dismisses his questionable treatment of women by saying, "Hey, I love women. They're great." Or, why do you want to attend this university? Oh, because I really like it. Huh? When did insultingly simplistic answers become acceptable?

Well, I hope it moved me closer to my resident visa. I have a distinct feeling that I am nearing a better understanding of what the shape of my life here will be within the next six months or so. I am not much for new year's resolutions, but I do think it is time to begin looking for an opportunity to apply my limited talents or skills to something's or someone's benefit, even if it is only a day or two each week. I miss feeling useful.

Grasshoppers have arrived in La Boquita. In a country where the climate barely differentiates seasonal changes, I believe the various life cycles of flora and fauna may provide an alternative. If January/February are grasshopper season, perhaps August-October might be pelican season. My favorite birds have been absent since then. Perhaps they have moved elsewhere for better fishing?
And my luscious sandia - watermelon - is still plentiful, but I have been advised that one day, they will be hard to find, and then, gone utterly until they return for the next growing season.

New Year's Day brought a carload of young friends from Managua, with late lunch at the Casino Hotel in Casares. It was fun to see the restaurant busy for a change, and the sopa de mariscos (fish soup) was heavenly good!

Feliz año nuevo, friends! Let's hope for good things to come for all of us!

Xmas Post-mortem

More than one post-mortem here, actually. I'll start with the apparent solving of the recent murder here in La Boquita. Some good police work yielded evidence that produced a confession, and the pieces began to fit together. It turns out that the victim had been surreptitiously sedated. Once the drug was identified, a survey of pharmacies yielded the identification of the purchaser of the drug with which a glass of wine was laced. As suspected by those who had known of the victim's relationship with the young woman, it was indeed she who confessed to the plan to drug and rob him with the help of some young male accomplices. The drug did not last long enough to complete the robbery, and the victim awoke to discover the plot, and lost his life as a consequence.

Christmas in Latin America sounds a lot like the Fourth of July in the U.S. In the latter case, the old "bombs bursting in air" allusion to warfare would seem to explain the American penchant for firecrackers, sparklers, and Roman candles on and around Independence Day. But how to explain the deafening reports of explosions and amateur pyrotechnics that pepper the nights leading up to and culminating on La Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) in Mexico, Nicaragua, or Peru (to name a few countries of which I have personal knowledge)? Was the Star of Bethlehem imagined to have been a nuclear attack? Were the shepherds keeping watch by night with gun powder lanterns? Were Joseph and Mary, in fact, terrorists? I checked a few web sites in search of an explanation for this practice, and found only acknowledgment that fireworks and other explosives are indeed a Latin Christmas tradition.

I recall a Christmas Eve in Lima, Peru with my son's grandparents. Gabe was about six years old, and we clambered up onto the roof of the house, like thousands of other Lima residents, and lit cherry bombs and firecrackers -- cuetes, they are called. (The next day's Christmas earthquake easily surpassed the cuetes in memorability!) They have cuetes in Managua, too. I spent Christmas Eve with Erlinda and Ivan, and we enjoyed a stream of visitors, mainly family, who stopped by throughout the evening, for drinks and conversation punctuated by explosions and whistling bombs. Strictly speaking, the evening should have culminated with a midnight meal, followed by presents, but we were all famished by ten, and I was the first to cave in to exhaustion at not quite midnight. The rat-a-tats and boom booms continued without me. For all I know, I was dreaming I was in Anytown, USA, running for my life from some pathetic mass-killer wannabe trying to make a dent in history without actually having to accomplish anything worthwhile.

I admit I was bluer than blue with all the holiday hoopla, and I am grateful to Erlinda for saving my sanity with her kind invitation. Now I just have to make it through New Year's Eve. Ah, yes, sleeping pills will handle that nicely. Here, at least, one can be pretty sure that the sound of firecrackers and cherry bombs in no way involves firearms. Is there a town left in the US where this is still true?

Stirring the Compost

After beginning and ending the month of November with most welcome visitors from Texas and Mexico, respectively, and all the attendant activity implicit in providing a good time, I find myself idling. The date on my computer says December, yet here we enjoy perpetual summer, and my only taste of December chill is the Pittsburgh forecast I hear as I listen to WESA, the NPR provider I continue to hear (and support) via the internet.

Christmas, Shritzmas
I went cyber-shopping for holiday gifts for my son and my other Stateside family members here on my porch the other day. I have a few more things to buy locally, and although the Diriamba stores and businesses are crammed with Christmas decorations to admire and purchase, it is simply too abrupt a juxtaposition of summer heat and greenery and Santa's warm furs and sleighs, fer chrissake, to feel even a molecule of christmas spirit! Oh well, it is a holiday for me so little connected to its religious origins, and so deeply tied to my late parents, that it has meant little more than an opportunity to shower my son with gifts. And, he being elsewhere, even that pleasure has lost some of its luster.

Beautiful Church
The day before she left, friend Tey went with me to explore the big church in Diriamba, whose basilica is widely considered to be the most beautiful in the country. Pope John Paul II visited there, and the church is the home of the big Festival of San Sebastian, held over eight days each January. Here are some of Tey's photos:

Flying Machines?
Here, by the sea, I have never had so unobstructed a view of the big blue sky, and yet I never ever see a contrail of a jet passing overhead!  There simply is no coastal air corridor in this region; sometimes,in Pennsylvania, I could count eight or nine white stripes at a time of jet trails headed for Pittsburgh or Chicago or other points west. Here, I see only the rare passing of a pair of military helicopters, patrolling the coastline, I suppose. The dogs go berserk, and the noise is considerable, but it lasts only seconds, like an earthquake.

A Sense of Unsafety
The aforementioned violent murder of our Canadian neighbor ten days ago and the more recent robbery of another nearby house has put us all on edge. Our cuidador has lectured me on locking my doors punctiliously, even if I take an afternoon nap. My laptop and phone are never to be left sitting on the back porch if I am not using them, and no keys are to be left in doors.  All good advice, despite the tall wrought-iron fencing that surrounds the compound. Living in a country where so many live in wretched poverty, it is sensible to assume that some robbery, if not most, is occasioned by familial need. Desperation is a powerful force. I hope these security measures become second nature soon, as the mere act of doing them is disconcerting to my peace of mind.

Sorry
Lastly, an apology: My camera's lithium battery finally died for good, and getting a new one from the States may take some time. It has been ordered, and now I must rely on hook and crook to get it. So, unless I manage to take an acceptable shot with my phone, photos may be scarce for the nonce.

Mayhem and Murder

The modest temblor chronicled in the last post seems likely to be related to even more dramatic geologic activity that has ensued in the vicinity of Lake Managua. Majestic Vulcan Momotombo sits on the northern shore of the lake, opposite the city of Managua, and provided my friend and me long lovely vistas en route north to Leon last week. It smoked in the morning, but as we passed on our return trip, it was quiet. Then, two days ago, a blast of gas and ash erupted from the flank of the cone. Within 24 hours, pyroclastic outflow and spouting lava were visible in the night sky, and the residents of nearby La Paz were being evacuated. Corresponding seismic activity was also being recorded throughout the volcanic episode, which, as I write, continues.

La Prensa ran this upper foto on day one, and later that night, the second view.

Momotombo has not had such a significant eruption in well over a century; it remains to be seen if the event will end quickly and if the volcano will be noticeably changed.

The lives of foreign residents of the Carazo coast—extranjeros—were jolted as well this past Monday morning. Word spread quickly about the apparent murder of one of our number, a Canadian national well-known to the expat community as a successful businessman who spent time each year in his waterfront villa, just a long city block from our house. He had arrived for an extended visit just about three weeks ago. He dropped by to chat with my landlady, who introduced us. I did not get a chance to know him. He was my age, single, with a daughter in Canada. He had what seems to have been a sort of relationship with a young Nicaraguan woman 40 years his junior.

She was with him Sunday night at his house. The cuidador, or security guard, was away, and several young men entered the property and tied up the owner and killed him via blows to the head with a large pipe, possibly a fire extinguisher, according to rumor. The woman was also tied up, according to the newspaper accounts. The man's SUV was missing, presumed stolen. There was a power outage that night—I know, because I could not sleep without the electric fan. It meant that the property's security cameras were not functioning. The vehicle was found the next day, miles away, abandoned.

Today, the newspaper reported that the young woman and four young men have been arrested. This would bear out the suspicions of many of the expats who posit that the man was hoping to pursue a more satisfactory relationship with someone who suited him better. If the young woman suspected she was soon to be dropped, well, it seems not a great leap to imagine what might ensue. Her mother defended her in the papers. The incident sends a chill into Nicaragua's efforts to attract extranjeros to invest in living here. We all expect a speedy resolution, in the interest of demonstrating the country's zero tolerance of this crime. Let us hope justice is also served within those time constraints.