Can You Spare a Cordoba?*

The summer has given way to autumn without a cessation in the utter sloth that has been my guiding principle for nearly four months. There remain many topics to be addressed in these pages after more than two years in my adopted country. Yet, my days seem to drift by in such beguiling tranquility that I feel no compelling reason to go out, save for the usual food shopping and my twice-weekly visits to the Academic Support Center at Keiser U. nearby. My steady diet of (mainly) English literature has had George Eliot, Thomas Hardy, Graham Greene, and Richard Aldington on the recent menu.

*****

I am moved today to write a line or two about begging. I do not see a lot of it on my forays into Diriamba and Jinotepe, or even Managua. No more, surely, than one encounters on an average street in any North American city,  This is a country with incredible poverty, though, where even able-bodied people can find it impossible to obtain jobs that pay more than subsistence wages. Most of the individuals I see with an upturned palm are blind or missing limbs, or elderly and infirm. There are zero jobs for them; how else may they keep body and soul together?

During my first year here, I made several visits to the Department of Immigration in Managua. It's a big space, with numerous numbered windows to serve people wanting exit visas, emigres like me who want residential status, and visitors who want temporary visas. There are sometimes long lines, and there are a couple of people who work the lines of standees, looking for donations. One is a very old tiny toothless lady, to whom I regularly gave something. My lawyer, who usually accompanied me to Inmigración, conjectured that she might be comfortably well-off, as numerous persons cross her palm with folding money. I doubt it, but I don't mind the thought that she may do pretty well, in fact.

There are a couple of legless men in Diriamba who sit in particular doorways, with cups in hand. They do not beg, per se, there is no murmured verbiage or longing looks. Their obvious disabilities speak for them, and they do all right, I think. In this land of people who must juggle expenses and regularly do without, I have been impressed with the number who give what they can to these disabled neighbors. Spend a minute or two on the opposite corner, and you'll see nearly every passerby drop a coin or two.

There's an elderly woman who regularly stations herself at the door of the supermarket in Diriamba. She has no cup, and does not actually ask for money, but it is clear that she is needy. I always give her something, quickly, unnoticeably. She is my sister, I think. I'm the lucky one. There but for my pension and Social Security go I. And this kind of basic need is not grounds for social shunning. It happens to all kinds of people, and if there is no safety net, reasonable people must try to offer support.

I have traveled abroad and been warned about responding to beggars on the steps of some big church or at a famous attraction where tourists congregate. Throngs of beggars are unnerving and scary, really, and I can understand why we're advised not to encourage them. But somehow, when I see the quiet, rather reserved behavior of unfortunate individuals for whom there is no alternative but to accept assistance, I want to be on the side of being helpful. I actually budget for it.

In Nicaragua, I have learned that over-paying (i.e. giving a bicicleta driver 20 cordobas rather than the 10 he asked) is both smug and insulting. But I also understand that even little donations, offered with respect and simple human caring, can be the difference between sleeping well or hungry.

* At present, the cordoba is worth about three cents.

My Current Crush

The immortal Samuel Johnson has enjoyed perhaps the most robust afterlife of any other human being in history, thanks to the labors of his great friend and biographer James Boswell. I daresay most educated people know some of Johnson's oft-quoted witticisms, perhaps without knowing whom to credit. 

"Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel." 

"I never desire to converse with a man who has written more than he has read."

Or one of my favorites:

"The true measure of a man is how he treats someone 

who can do him absolutely no good."

We are indebted to Mr. Boswell not only for carefully recording so much of Johnson's wit and wisdom, but also for preserving the character and substance of the great man himself, his essence. And one need only peruse a few pages of Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language to grasp the vastness of his prodigious reading history.

My present absorption with Sam Johnson is that after nearly more than five decades of somewhat cobwebby awareness of Boswell's masterwork, I am actually reading the thing that has been called the great-granddaddy of all biographies, certainly the standard-setter for the genre for the past 225 years.  I do not know why it has taken me so long. I actually bought my copy some years ago, and I expect the small print and the gravity of its pedigree, in both subject and author, were intimidating.

It needn't have put me off. The book is a complete delight, interlacing the events of Johnson's storied career as an essayist, literary critic, lexicographer, and raconteur with verbatim accounts of conversations with the great man. The narrative is so delicious and compelling that I feel almost like an intimate of Johnson, along with Boswell and other members of the literary club that generated so much of the book's wit. It is a rare delight, to be carried along in the company of great minds, as I was also when reading Goethe's Italian Journey.

The descriptions and observations of Johnson by Boswell recreate a lively personage; I note that in film and BBC productions, Johnson has been played by Robbie Coltrane (Hagrid in Harry Potter films) and Peter Ustinov. I would cast Timothy Spall, another of the great, unpretty British character actors who fill the screen with the force of personality. And I have been further delighted to learn that Sam Johnson and I have much in common! We both have only one usable eye, are prone to melancholy (depression, in today's parlance), dress appallingly, cannot suffer fools, and read widely, guided only by the moment's appetite. Indeed, Johnson said that if one reads by design or plan, for the purpose of gaining specific knowledge, as we do in college, for example, we read with only 50% of our minds, as the other 50% is busy keeping us to the task at hand.  Clearly, Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson is a book to engage 100% of one's attention. Why did I wait so long?

Sacuanjoche Update

My query regarding the mysterious appendages my little sacuanjoche treeling was sporting last month has been satisfied at last. No, the twigs were not evidence of a branching out of the original single stem, although that, in fact, has happened, as several new junctures have occurred just below the twigs in question. The pictorial below attests:

A brand new sacuanjoche, the national flower of Nicaragua!

More Bits and Bobs

A Case of The Blahs
Soon, classes at Keiser University Latin American Campus will resume, and my twice-weekly tutoring schedule with them. The past two months since my vacation have seemed hermitic (Is there such a word? Hermitically sealed?). I have spent most of my time alone, in the company of my little Greek chorus, the three doggies who follow me inside and out, constantly craving attention and treats. Of course, Maria José and her brother Roger have come to do their work in the house and garden, and I make my usual rounds to pay bills and buy groceries, but I have felt zero inclination to see anyone or do anything in particular. Likewise, my energy level has been quite low. On humid mornings, I feel incapable of walking even a quarter-mile. Napping is my favorite activity, and I wonder if I shall ever feel like doing anything ever again.

I'm chalking it up to rainy season malaise. When the humidity drops, I'll perk up.

Walking in Nicaragua
When I was a little girl, my eyes were not straight. I have always used only one eye, as the other sees a different angle, and using both would result in a double image. Surgeries and eye patches helped straighten out my appearance to some degree, but because my classmates at Our Mother of Sorrows school in Johnstown were so cruel (especially the son of my eye doctor!), I always walked home looking down at my feet, so as not to invite comment.

I got over it; further surgery in adulthood helped. Lately, though, I have reverted to that earlier form. Here in Nicaragua, I dare not step unmindfully, or I risk ending up prone and bruised. Most sidewalks, when there are sidewalks, are narrower than we have in the States, and have lozenge-shaped access holes for water pipes below. Some of the holes still have cement lids, but many do not, and some have crumbled to twice their original size. It's a perilous path indeed.

Not only that, but everywhere, there are lingering stubs of metal sign posts that have been mostly removed, save for two or three inches of steel sticking up in the middle of the road or sidewalk. Twice, after descending from a bus in Jinotepe, I tripped and tore open my knee in the exact same place because of a metal obstacle embedded in the concrete. When I finally saw what had tripped me up, I simply could not believe it had been left in place. But I have since seen many such examples.

Owners of stores and houses often pave the sidewalk in front of their buildings with distinctive tiles and mosaics, some very slippery when wet. Woe to anyone who goes striding down the walkway unaware that the hausfrau has just emptied a bucket onto her front stoop!

The colors and flowers and displays of fruits and vegetables do tempt the eye, but far better to stop and look around, and then continue on, eyes downward.

Salvation in Reading
Anent my above observation that I have become a hermit, I must add that the two to four books I read every two weeks afford me a rich and varied life of the mind. For the past year, I have been working my way through the English and American Literature shelves of Keiser University's library. My tastes run to 18th and 19th-c. English lit, but I also enjoy Homer, Dante, Euripedes, and Virgil. Also more contemporary efforts, from Elena Ferrante to Abraham Verghese (just finished "Cutting for Stone" - wonderful!).

When my mother was in her last years, I discovered the novels of Anthony Trollope, who chronicled Victorian England in his many tales of middle-class and better-off people of trades, professions and the aristocracy. His comic yarns of pompous clerics and scalawag barristers, and romances with long-suffering devoted daughters and feckless lotharios are charming, absorbing, amusing, and often heartbreaking. My mother relished Trollope's novels, devouring them as fast as I could order them. She was in the grip of dementia, with impaired short-term memory, but as long as she was reading, she was free of the limits of age and ill health. She may not have recalled the characters and plots for long, but while she was in the moment, reading and enjoying Trollope's lively tales, she was 100% herself, wholly engaged.

Growth Factors

The explosion of life that accompanies the rainy season continues to astonish my temperate-zone psyche. True, my so-called veggie garden is now a mass of weeds and vines, and Roger has had to cut back the "lawn" to a virtual sea of mud (which is rebounding rapidly), but also notable are a couple of species that were added to my landscape about eight months ago. These both involved planting a fresh cutting -- no roots-- into a hole in the ground, and nurturing with near daily watering throughout the dry months. The sacuanjoche, or plumeria tree, which is the national flower of Nicaragua, was a foot-long stem with five leaves, all of which fell off and were replaced by five more. Here's what it looks like now having added about five inches of additional height, and many more leaves in the past two months:

And in its center, several new spikes, which may be flower buds or growth twigs for adding new branches to the original stem. Will update as needed down the road.

The other planting involved several cuttings of a variety of bird of paradise flower, which, again, we just stuck into the ground and watered frequently. The cuttings barely survived the dry season, but as soon as the rains saturated the earth, they began to flourish, growing large, glossy leaves, and then producing these:

Just after I returned from the States a month ago, I acquired a pure German shepherd puppy named Mitzi. She's an East German variety of shepherd that has darker fur, including a nice black stripe down her back, and a black face, with black markings on her feet and tail. She is growing at a good clip, too, and is fitting in well with Brynn and Susie. Here she is just after arriving, and then earlier today:

Mitzi looks forlorn, but she is actually very lively and sweet. She is bold and assertive, as hoped for, and will doubtless prove an effective deterrent to intruders.

A Visitation

My six brown hens are champion egg producers. Daily, four to six eggs appear in the common nest, far too many for me alone, so Maria José takes a dozen or so each week for her family. A few months ago, her husband Jonathan presented me with a black pullet I may have mentioned a few posts ago. When I put her into the coop, the other birds immediately signaled their displeasure by pecking her mercilessly. I quickly removed the newbie, dubbed Juana, to a separate part of the coop where she has grown into a very nice black hen, with gold feathers beneath the black which, despite her big feet, lend her a touch of glamour.

Lately, I have worried that her solitude and limited quarters have offered her little beyond shelter and food. Not much of a life, really. But I'm afraid she'll not survive long if she joins the beldams on the other side of the cyclone fence.

Two days ago, I noticed a visitor sitting atop the chicken coop. A white dove—Una Paloma Blanca!— had joined the ranks of the various grackles and sparrows who daily raid the coop chicken feed. Doves normally return to their home turf, so I was surprised to find the bird the next morning, inside Juana's quarters! He (I have decided the dove is a "he") did not freak out when I put in new feed and water for Juana, and he tucked in for a good meal shortly thereafter.

I have named the dove "Casper," (the friendly Holy Ghost) and he is still with us, blithely perched in the coop, seeming not to mind the dogs or me. I wonder if Juana likes having a live-in suitor.

The gang's all here!

Might be love...

Post Scriptum - 2 September 2017

Casper stayed with us nearly six weeks, until a pair of grackles harried him into fleeing for the trees. He lingered for another two days last week, and eventually was seen no more. Perhaps he'll visit again when he has a yen for chicken feed.

La Gringa Loca

Having reached an age when I no longer care very much what people think of me in a positive or negative way, I do sometimes wonder how I am regarded by my Nicaraguan neighbors. I am the only Norteamericana around, to my knowledge. Certainly I am the only gringa on the bus most times. But this morning, something happened that may have cemented my reputation forever.

I rose early. determined to put in a brisk walk before the day's heat set in. Brynn is my regular walking companion, and we started out in fine fettle, greeting folks at the nearby bus stop, when suddenly the leash came undone and Brynn took off on the highway. Well, I just snapped. Visions of her being run down have always plagued me, living here on the famed PanAmerican Highway as we do. And now, I ran, yelling her name and trying to slow traffic, gesticulating wildly. She gaily zipped along, me running behind, gasping for air, calling her name, and, I admit, sobbing in terror of her imminent death.

A family of four ran up from the bus stop, and the one young man took off after Brynn into a bean field. She ran faster, into a woods beyond. A car stopped, and the driver, another young guy, got out and joined the chase. Then, a motorcyclist stopped and after a minute, crossed the bean field, too, and disappeared into the woods. The rest of the family marched through the field, save for a daughter, Carla, who waited with me. Eventually, I heard faraway yelps of fear and panic from Brynn, plainly unhappy to be caught, and in a few minutes, the whole group emerged from the trees and crossed back over the bean field.

I was pathetically glad to have my dog back, safe and sound. I begged the man who carried her—and suffered a small bite on his arm for his trouble—to let me give him something for his efforts, but he wasn't having it. All these people who had joined the fray to save my dog, who is ridiculously important to me, simply smiled and left at the happy conclusion of this sudden drama.

Am I now the gringa loca, who is crazy about her dog? Who bursts into tears when her dog runs away? People hereabouts love their pets, but cannot lavish treats and care on them, as I and other Norteamericanos do. I wonder if the exigencies of poverty render devotion to a pet, such as I have for Brynn, absurd, or at least unseemly. Today, in any case, I saw much evidence of basic and immediate empathy for a fellow human, and her runaway pet. And I am most humbly grateful,