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...

Merry Freaking Christmas

Ghosts of Christmas Past bring memories of my large family lining up at the top of the stairs while our dad went down ahead to plug in the tree lights and exclaim "Oh, my!" and "Wonderful!" at the tremendous bounty of Santa's visit.  We would troop down the staircase in a riot of greed, tearing into the presents with abandon, and in ten minutes, the annual orgy would conclude in mixed sighs of satisfaction and "Is that all?"

Here in Carazo, my sister Mary Mary again shared her Christmas vacation with me, and we have enjoyed visits to Granada and Leon, and each other's company, with many cervesas and laughs together.

This morning, Mary Mary rose early and let out the dogs. She made coffee, as I slept on, until I heard her  say quietly, "Trish, wake up. I'm so sorry, but Mitzi went after your last chicken, and it's still alive and needs to be put out of its misery. With your machete, maybe? And Merry Christmas." My young German Shepherd has a sort of sweet tooth for live chicken, as previously noted. My sister was upset. She had heard the clucking commotion, and had seen the apparently lifeless bird on the porch, only to approach the poor thing and see it suddenly stand up, a large chunk of feathered breast dangling ominously.

"Okay, I'll do it," I said. I put on my shoes and went out to kill my last egg layer, a beautiful, sweet chicken I had dubbed "Soledad," after her five sisters met their own bloody end at the jaws of Mitzi.

In the dim light of dawn, I took the machete and aimed it toward the scrawny neck of the trembling bird and took a whack. "Oh, God!" Oh, no!" The chicken flapped and scrabbled about until Mary Mary took a shovel and pinned it to the concrete porch floor. I took a few more whacks until I was sure the head was clearly separated from the mutilated body, and my sister held down the flopping hen until it stilled. The deed done, Mary Mary brought buckets of water to rinse away the evidence of our Christmas morning execution.

Soledad had flown the coop, as they say. The coop door was still latched, and no one is to blame, except maybe Santa, who somehow missed my chimney-less roof. Today, we head to Managua for Christmas dinner with my poet friend Ivan and his family. We'll stay the night, and then tomorrow, MM heads back to Pennsylvania to bring in the new year.

I guess I really do need more chickens like a hole in the head. Rock on, 2018.

And Then There Were, Well, Hardly Any

Shortly after posting my last blog entry, I took a nap one day during the afternoon . When I awoke, I headed outside to refill the various water bowls for dogs and chickens, as is my usual wont. At first, I did not notice the unnatural quiet. No bird calls, no squawking from the egg nest, no barking... I stopped and stared at the lawn, over which were strewn bits of brown fluffy bits I recognized after a few moments as chicken feathers. I looked toward the hen house and saw, to my horror, that the door was open. It was empty, except for the closed off portion where the little black hen and her sole remaining peep were housed, along with the two pullets left from the original eight. My beloved layers were nowhere in sight, save for small clumps of feathers here and there.

On closer inspection, those clumps turned out to be whole wings, tatters of feathered skin, feet... chicken parts everywhere. I looked at Mitzi, whose bloodstained jowls told the story. Brynn, the corgi, had napped with me, and Susie had never bothered loose chickens before. My heart broke for my dismembered hens. I was doubtless to blame for carelessly leaving the coop improperly latched, but I was also furious with Mitzi, whose grim efficiency in dispatching the chickens raised no obvious hue and cry to disturb my sleep.

I walked over the yard, numbly collecting leftover chicken parts, and chanced upon a lone survivor cowering in some shrubbery. She seemed almost grateful to be picked up and stroked as I walked her back to the chicken coop. Mitzi's pricked ears and eager stance signaled her willingness to finish the job, and I wondered if I could ever feel the same affection for her again. The brute had destroyed my lovely chickens, no matter that I had bought her to be just that, a brute to ensure my security.

Later, I reflected that the people who had bred Mitzi are in the chicken business, and they regularly feed their dogs the raw carcasses left after butchering the chickens for sale to restaurants. Of course  Mitzi saw my hens as meals, and when they strolled through the open door, she just picked them off.

Lonesome Soledad

This morning, one of the two remaining pullets was dead. I saw no signs of violence. I must be becoming inured to this constant death. My lone layer, now called Soledad, keeps laying and scratching and clucking as if all is well, and who knows if the scrawny pullet or the little hen and peep will survive. I have forgiven Mitzi for being herself. She really is growing into a beautiful Shepherd.

Mitzi , at seven months, is now the largest of the trio, shown here sitting politely for treats in the kitchen.

Some people who rescue abused animals stopped by today to ask if I minded boarding an unfortunate horse in the land surrounding my fenced garden. I said it was not my property, but if the landlord did not mind, I did not either. They showed me a picture of a skinny, pathetic white horse, and I expect they'll be bring him by any time now. I hope he doesn't keel over, too.