A Chicken Condo Takes Shape (Gallinas Only)

Just a few months ago, the wall to the left of the house (Pan American Highway on the other side) looked like this. A one-time chicken coop, now fallen to pieces, had sprouted a large squash plant that eventually took over the yard and the lime tree to the left, and produced all of one squash, which fell prey to insects before I got to it.

Here's what's left now:

And Phase One of the new chicken coop is now in place. Next week, if I can afford the good stuff, we'll go and buy the malla, the mesh fencing. Chicken wire is cheap and ungalvanized. The stuff I put around my veggie garden is mainly rust now, and full of holes, and doesn't keep a single dog from running through my zucchinis. 

Maria José's husband Jonathan is building this project, and will also separate out a space for my planned cabra, a nanny goat.  I've heard there are Rhode Island Reds for sale in a town near here called Niquinohomo (Nicky-nomo), and a friend has a connection at a nearby farm with goats. There will be no gallos (roosters) in this convent. They are brutish to the hens and enforce a pecking order that is painful to observe. 

The post to the left below leads back to the next tree for the chicken run and shade. Nesting box is along the wall. Water and feed dispensers will hang from the roof support.

I sort of liked the original falling down coop, but it wouldn't hold a single chicken, would it?

Winter is About to Arrive, but Here, They Call it Summer.

This two-season climate is in transition: the luxuriant verdure and near daily downpours are giving way to denuded deciduous trees and the hint of a dryer landscape. Yesterday, for perhaps the last time this year, the road beautification crew, with their machetes, weed-whackers and rakes, passed by in the early morning. The noise excited the dogs, and I happily brewed a thermos of coffee with milk and sugar (yuck...) and headed out to the road. The gang were grateful for the break, and, truthfully or not, all proclaimed my coffee superb!

Daily, the massive tecca leaves come crashing through the branches like two-by-fours!  I hear the first high crash, and subsequent knocks before they hit the ground, sounding for all the world like ogres on tiptoe. I spent an hour or two daily stuffing the leaves into large plastic garbage bags on Saturday, and Byron finished the job on Sunday and puts the sacks outside the wall for pickup on Tuesday.

Finally, as the canopy thins, I have a chance to see the birds who call so alluringly in the morning. I have whistled back and forth with birds I cannot see, and finally, I have the hope of catching sight of my correspondents. This morning, an oriole appeared. There is also a species of robin, dubbed rather accurately a "brown robin," but with the same hopping style, head cocked to hear a worm under the surface.

Election day is coming up on 6 November. I have been advised to lay in whatever I'll need for both it and the day after, as all will be closed down, locked up tight - stores, buses, etc. Does the whole country stop to count the votes?  Nobody here seems politically involved or empowered by the vote. They accept the fact that Ortega may well be president for life, and though they complain about the corruption, they feel resigned to its reality. I registered to be an absentee voter for the US elections on the 8th, but when I log on to download the ballot. my lousy internet refuses to drill down the extra layers. I have asked Somerset County for assistance, with no response.

The vista is lightening up as the leaves fall, but flowers still bloom and the mercury is still in the 80s!

Adventures in Health, An Aging Revolutionary and Stinging Caterpillars!

For months, I have delayed visiting an oncologist for a five-year (now almost six) checkup after having treatment for breast cancer. No reason, except that I had no referral or professional recommendation to give me confidence in someone's medical judgment. It turns out that my landlady is a radiologist for the National Police hospital in Managua, and she was kind enough to refer me to Yolanda, an oncologist specializing in gynecological (read "female") cancers. I had a good appointment with her, an exam, and she ordered the usual tests: blood, x-ray, sonogram, and mammogram.

Baptist Hospital is a modern facility, not part of the free national health system. I had the chest x-ray, sonogram, and bloodwork there. In Nicaragua, results do not go automatically to your physician; when the results are in, they give them to you to take to your doctor. A mammogram and an additional CT scan of a pulmonary nodule revealed by the xray were done at a clinic, all for cash, roughly $580 for everything. Imagine a Cat Scan for $300!

That scan is the worrisome part. The breast cancer status looks pretty good, all around. Today, I will go to the clinic to collect the scan results and take them straightaway to Yolanda. Fingers crossed.*


All this two-week period partially explains my lack of blog postage lately, To add to my salutary woes, I slipped in the compost pile and slammed my noggin against a stone wall. I remember very little after that. Fatima, my neighbor, heard me cry out, and she called Maria Jose to come right away, Fatima's husband drove us to the national health hospital in Jinotepe, where I was given an IV sedative and spent a few hours being observed. I remember none of what occurred there. Apparently, we took a taxi home, and I vaguely recall buying dinner for Maria's family, as she had had no time to prepare anything. I suspected a concussion, so I slept for four days.

Sergio Ramirez

This past Tuesday, I attended a little chat presentation at Keiser U. with noted Nicaraguan author, FSLN political activist and first post-revolutionary Vice-president Sergio Ramirez. He was born a few miles from the university, in Masatepe. He told a few well-worn stories and took questions about contemporary literature - I could not understand every word, so I missed some things. I met him briefly nearly 30 years ago when I was on my first visit here.

We have been overwhelmed with caterpillars!

Stinging Caterpillars


and





Geometridae, who hang out on my screen door.


* P.S. It turns out that a brief relationship with tuberculosis and a year of treatment are responsible for the nodule that has appeared in my left lung. My 30-year smoking history that ended 15 years ago is invisible in my clear healthy lungs. I am invincible!

Thoughts Without Pictures

Immigration has been on my mind lately, in great part because of the seemingly endless stream of people exiting Syria and other war zones I see nightly on the BBC. People who had normal, aspirational lives, who had professions and homes and hope. People like us, like Americans who have actual expectations of long lists of things and stuff and must-haves that far exceed the short list of basic necessities that those disenfranchised Syrians can only dream about right now. Shelter, food, and a reasonable certainty that death is not an immediate threat are the modest hopes of thousands, millions, really, of former citizens of a modern world. They thought about the local and global economies, scientific advances, higher education, even affordable vacations.  Now, if they are lucky, they sit in the intolerable limbo of refugee camps, trying to preserve their own human dignity while scrabbling ruthlessly for enough rice to feed their children for another day.It is almost incomprehensible.

On the other hand, I am no immigrant. I am an "expat," living on my small American pension, in an underdeveloped country. That small pension is far in excess of the average income of my neighbors. My five-room house for one is absurdly grand in contrast to the single -room earthen-floored casita that houses my housekeeper and her husband and two children. (Yes, my small pension allows me a housekeeper, and gardener.)

One thing I do not have is a car. There are times I miss having a means for transporting groceries and building materials, dogs to vets. However, the inter-municipal bus and van system here is very satisfactory, and all are willing to collect me in front of my front gate, and drop me there as well. I spend almost nothing on transportation. And those little "motitos" -- the 3-wheeled mini-cabs-- are only slightly more expensive than the bus. Great for vet visits, groceries, etc.

Some things in Nicaragua have changed dramatically since I first visited here nearly 30 years ago. The U.S. embargo ensured that just about everything I was accustomed to having at home was unavailable here. Lots of sub-quality Russian stuff was imported, like rough toilet paper and elephantine . toothbrushes. Now nearly everything is available, and plenty comes from the U.S. Even Wal-Mart is here, dammit. The rich minority and the U.S. expats and a few other diplomatic types can buy imported brie cheese, frozen sides of salmon, tahini for hummus, and decent imported wines. Chanel perfume is on offer at the Metro Centro mall in central Managua! However, few can afford non-necessities like microwave ovens or clothes washing machines. Small refrigerators are semi-affordable, but a sizeable chunk of the population do without refrigeration and gas cookers. Firewood is in high demand, delivered by horse carts piled high with dead branches. The contrasts are stark indeed.

A recent personal discovery is that I miss wooden floors. (You cannot get more fundamental than that...) Every floor here is of stone or ceramic tile, unless there is no floor at all on the hard earth. Sometimes, I am tempted to relieve my hot feet on the cool tile by going barefoot, but my ankles and knees and hip joints start complaining -- loudly. Why? There is no "give" in tile, like there is in wood planks. No response to my step, no bounce or creak. Very hard on the joints, tile is, now that I am officially elderly. Foam rubber flipflops are de rigueur.

As of last night, I am halfway through the "History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." The barbarians have all become Christians and the 6th century is about to begin. Three books to go...

Wanted: A Fountain of Youth

Something I have discovered in my dotage is the absurdity that my appearance could match what is inside this aging corpus. I shun mirrors. Who is that older lady reflected in the glass door of the bank? (The door guard at the bank always directs me to the line reserved for pregnant, disabled and elderly people!) Is is that obvious? Isn't 65 the new 40? I'm nobody's granny, I still feel sexy - well, sometimes -- even though it is becoming obvious that nobody else thinks I am.

My new gig at Keiser University started a couple of weeks ago, and I simply love strolling the campus, smiling at the students, and feeling young and purposeful. Below is the entrance to the campus I use. The campus has rather tight security, which is doubtless comforting to parents of dormitory students.

I've been helping to put together a little writers' community blog to which students, faculty, and people in the local region are welcome to submit. (More coming on that soon!) I've gotten my tutorial toes wet with the first post by a Keiser student. I can relate to the difficulties of writing in a second language - my written Spanish is laughably literal. I hope I can be truly helpful, in a fair exchange for the positive dimension this arrangement has already given my life here. The campus is very tranquil and well landscaped, the staff and faculty have all been friendly and welcoming. I wish you could hear this burbling fountain! So calming...

And just before my home office, a little container garden:

Uh,oh... there's my reflection in the glass door of the Academic Support center...>>>

Isn't this a lovely campus?

Best of all, from my perspective as a neophyte Spanish speaker, Keiser is an English-language campus, with occasional signage to remind its denizens:

Now, about a date for the spring formal...

A Loss, a Lunch, and a Libro or Two

Disaster struck recently, or so it seemed at the time.  I tried to pay for some groceries with my debit card and was asked, as usual for my cedula, my official residence card. It was not to be found, and I felt my heart in my throat as I fumbled for my passport to identify myself. Frantically, I retraced the previous few days to recall the incidents in which I was asked to produce my cedula. Paying the cable bill, seeing the oncologist, paying my rent at the bank. I spent the next two days revisiting all these places to see if I had dropped or forgotten the cedula. No luck. This little card that took me almost nine months to achieve, and that gave me legitimacy as a permanent resident in Nicaragua, had vanished. I was gutted, really, and could not sleep. What to do?

I called Noel, my famous lawyer, who investigated my options; it turned out that it is relatively simple to replace a lost cedula. So yesterday, I bused into Managua and met Noel at the bus terminal at UCA, the University of Central America. We spent the morning at Inmigración running hither and thither, in one line and then another, sitting sometimes. Eventually, I paid the 750 cordobas ($26) and was invited to return on the 30th to have my photo taken and receive my new cedula.

 Noel and I headed out for lunch at a rather novel restaurant called Fuente de Vida (Fountain of Life) which sports a colorful Disney mural (no trademark infringement lawsuits here). Noel was frisked as we entered, my purse was opened -- a first since coming here. The prices were cheap and did not include taxes, for some reason. The cevíche was good and the resident pigeons were very sociable, especially if crackers were crumbled for them.

The sign beneath the pigeons actually says "Cocteles - Fuente de Vida" -- they could use some graphic advice from Mr. Lopez, pictured beneath with his delightful mural!

As we were leaving, we were told that a chap outside the entrance painting a black wall was the artist who had produced the Disney mural. David Lopez is his name and his Facebook page attests to his wonderful talent.

Next, we taxied to Hispamer, one of the nicest stores in Managua. It is a bookstore, cum tech shop, cum cafe. Those bright colored pencils are a clever way to disguise the security fence around the store. I found a couple of books to send to Gabriel at his new teaching post, where he has many Hispanic children in his music class.

Orchids, Unexpected and (Just a Few) Unwelcome Visitors

Byron, my gardener, brought me another orchid the other night. I had offered to pay for his pregnant wife's sonagram -- she's six months along -- and they stopped by unexpectedly. Nobody calls to say they're coming to visit here! It does not offend my sense of common courtesy, to be honest, but it is a bit of a walk to my front gate, in utter darkness after 6:30, and I do not know that many people. Hearing the boom, boom on the metal door is disconcerting, when no one is expected.

The other morning, when Byron was working in the garden, he came to the door and said my friend was here to see me. "My friend" turned out to be a man who had seen me on the bus, and saw where I lived, and decided to visit. I asked him his name, and explained that I preferred to be alone, and good-bye, have a nice day. Oh, right, I was in my nightgown! I read the riot act to Byron about ever letting anyone inside the gate, especially if they do not know my name!  He was very sorry, but I am not sure he understands why I value my privacy so highly.

In any event, the first orchid he brought seems to be doing all right in its perch on a tree trunk to which we had wired it. Byron said we should remove the plastic bag we had taped to the tree to contain the roots and some soil. This July photo should refresh your memory.

We undid the tape at the top and peeled it down, to reveal two gigantic cockroaches! They were nearly four inches in length, and not particularly fast. Before I could run in to grab my camera, Byron had removed his shoe and smashed them. Apparently, they had been feeding on the tree bark, as this photo shows:

The orchid is doing well, having developed some pods you can see just to the right of the tree. The new orchid is wired to a tree in a shadier spot nearby, and promises to have some pretty white blooms one day.

Maria Jose has given me several cuttings of a variety of what we call the Bird of Paradise flower -- I cannot recall the term she used -- but here's an image from Pixabay:

It's pouring rain at the moment -- the BBC is airing some analysis of the US presidential campaign. It is VERY depressing. Ah, me.