My Great Good Friend!

My oldest friends in Nicaragua are Ivan Uriarte and his wife Erlinda. Ivan had earned his Ph.D. at the University of Pittsburgh, and when I made my first trip to Nica in 1987, I visited his home in Managua to deliver some books from a Pittsburgh friend. They generously provided me with a home base for my subsequent sports project over the next six years, and their friendship has given me a real anchor here since my arrival in 2015. Ivan has supplied me with many books, and I greatly enjoy discussing literature with him. He is wickedly funny, often flamboyant, and deliciously salty, flinging about four-letter epithets with incredible gusto. He is also a bit of a national treasure.

Yesterday, at the National Theater in Managua, I and Ivan's family and many of his friends and colleagues gathered to celebrate as he accepted the 2016 Premio International Rubén Darío, a distinguished award in poetry.

With friend Carlo.

Ivan and Erlinda, left.

A number of poets from other countries were present, including Rosina Valcárcel of Peru. A glamorous cultural representative from the Honduran embassy sat beside me. It was all very international and celebratory, and everyone had many wonderful things to say about Ivan and his long career as a poet and scholar. I felt very proud of my dear friend, and was very pleased to witness his triumph!

Meanwhile, back in Carazo, the rainy season has brought along a flood of insects. It is impossible to relax in the hammock with all the flies and mosquitoes. Happily, not all the bichitos are little bloodsuckers. This katydid-like visitor is about three inches in length, and has a super-loud sustained call at night. Gorgeous color! Locally, it is called "Esperanza," (hope) and is a good omen!

Bits and Bobs

My next door neighbor, Fatima, has a beautiful house and an enormous garden full of pineapples, cashews, plantains, bananas, papayas, mangoes, avocados -- you name it. She is rather well-to-do, and her husband has a California company which keeps him in the States half the time. A trio of large German Shepherds guard the place and are very fierce indeed, until a word from Fatima, and then they become positively adorable.

I have posited once or twice that I would feel safer with a pastor aleman at the ready, and to my surprise, Maria José turned up with a "mainly" German Shepherd puppy in tow, a skinny thing, with beautiful markings and a mutt face. She asked if I would want to buy her, and I said I would have to think about it. The pup stayed for the weekend, eating up everything in sight and driving Brynn and Susie crazy. I decided I would pass on the dog. It was not the cost - 500 cordobas, of about $17 -- but its dubious breeding. Would it be an impressive, bold guardian when it reached maturity, or just another small-headed long-legged Nica mutt?

Alas, my empleada's crestfallen look when I informed her of my decision told the tale. She had already paid for the dog, and could not return her to the original owner. Nor could she afford to keep her. I told her that I did not want the added commitment of a third dog, but that the puppy could remain here for the time being. I know what this really means. And yes, she now has a name - Juno -- in tribute to Gabriel's first dog who perished under the wheels of my dad's truck. I'll have a chat with MJ about ever again spending her own money on anything for me that she has not discussed with me beforehand.

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I have voiced my admiration for Maria José numerous times in these pages. She is truly such a capable, hard-working young woman, and her husband has proven himself to be a valuable asset as well -- fixing fans, mending the roof, building the chicken coop. They are both so industrious in their efforts to earn a few pesos here and there. They never complain of their poverty, and it is easy to forget how tough it really is to make ends meet. It also makes for awkward moments, as when Maria José cleans out the refrigerator and asks if she can have the slightly moldy tomatoes or the limp celery. Or when she goes through my waste can and pulls out the empty mustard jar and asks if she may have it. She makes chili vinegar with chilis, onions, and carrots and can sell a jar for 10 cordobas. I am learning not to throw away as thoughtlessly as a lifetime in the States taught me to do.

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I buy hueso rojo - red bones -- which are sawn up chunks of beef ribs, vertebrae, and so forth, with some meat still attached --to give to the dogs. It costs about 60 cents a pound, and I buy about 15 pounds every two weeks. The thing is-- hueso rojo is normally purchased to make beef broth for soup, for people, and I buy it for my dogs. The discomfort may be mine alone, and I'm not likely to deny my dogs their treat, but I confess I do feel it.

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You may recall that just before Christmas, I replaced my gardener, who had gotten a job in Managua and had too little time available to do the heavy yard work. This, just after he and his wife had had their first baby. I felt rotten about discharging him, but I really needed a functioning gardener. Well, Byron and Brenda turned up unexpectedly for a visit the other night, with baby Evan Yair. It was so very nice to see them, and catch up. Which took about 30 seconds. Yair is five months old, Byron is still working in Managua, and, well, that's it. They are sweet, and so happy with their baby. I hope Byron can get a phone soon, so he can keep in touch. I'd like to buy some baby things for them. I remember Brenda coming by when she was pregnant, wearing a shirt that was popping its buttons -- clearly not maternity wear. I gave her a couple of my shirts, too big for her, but fine for pregnancy.

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My present gardener, Roger, cut some fence posts to support a fence to keep the dogs out of the veggie garden. These posts were parts of trees, and incredibly, almost immediately sprouted leaves and branches. I am so taken with their determination to survive being cut and de-twigged that I now water the posts to encourage their clear mission to remain growing trees!

Last year, Byron gave me an orchid, unblooming at the time. We attached it to a tree, and all through the dry season, I spritzed it nearly every day. I was afraid it would not survive, but it has surprised me with blooms this week. Welcome May!

The Showers of April

Nine months ago, when I first contacted the Center for Academic Excellence at
Keiser University's Latin American Campus in nearby San Marcos, I hoped that I could spend a few volunteer hours weekly being helpful to students in some fashion. There have been some days when I amused myself online in the absence of students needing help, and there have been other days spent proofing pages for the campus website. But truly, the best days are spent one on one with students, preparing for American history tests and/or refining term papers for English composition courses.

Anyone who has tried to master speaking a second language knows the pitfalls of also learning to write in that language. Speaking and writing are so very different. A casual conversation or even a proper speech in front of an audience is very forgiving of grammatical errors. One's personality is integral in live conversation, with facial expressions, gestures, pauses, and breaths taken for emphasis or by necessity. Written word is less forgiving, and less personal. Punctuation truly matters, as does grammatical usage to yield clarity, with no facial expressions or dramatic pauses to underscore meaning. In a second language, it may be necessary to toss out the rules for writing in the first, and adapt one's mindset to a wholly alien verbal logic.

My students exhibit such struggles to differentiate English usage and word order from Spanish. In the latter, a month is always preceded by an article, as in "Lloviznas del Abril traen flores del Mayo." Literally, "Showers of the April bring flowers of the May." Using "April" and "May" as adjectives does not come naturally. There are innumerable examples of linguistic roadblocks much more complex than this simple case, in every language. German word order, for example, was a revelation to me as it explained some of the "Pennsylvania Dutch" jokes I'd heard all my life ("Throw grandpa out the windows the keys!").

My point is, I am frankly in awe of these students who bravely forge ahead in their efforts to comprehend and utilize the sometimes incomprehensible rules and foibles of written English. My own feeble attempts to write in Spanish are always accompanied by apologies for their paucity of correct usage. As a retired North American with little need for approval, I can get away with it. These young students who hope to further their studies in the U.S. or do business with U.S. and global concerns must pass muster at every level. They are bold and persistent, floundering sometimes, but keeping at it with tenacity and good humor. Bravo, I say. You are amazing.

Love Story

Love is in the air, or rather, the lengthy sustained singing of cicadas here in the hills of southwestern Nicaragua. This species makes a sound like tinnitus, a nearly electric tone about two octaves above middle C, lasting 15-20 seconds, followed by a sort of chuckle or clucking sound. It starts at dusk, and continues until dark, about a half-hour later. Not much time to attract the ladies, but this evening, I actually caught a male cicada in the act of performing in one of the tecca trees in the garden. The photos are not ideal, but just look what I saw!

There he is, upper right.

A flash photo shows markings which suggest he is a Spotted Cicada.

A bit blurry -- I was about to leave, when a second arrived...

And lo, they made sweet, sweet love right then and there!

And now we know the birds and bees have nothing over cicadas!

Behind Walls, a Wonderland!

This past Saturday. at my friend Erlinda's invitation, I accompanied her to Quinta Gloria, just east of San Marcos, near my home. The "Gloria" of the B&B's name was a classmate of Erlinda's when they attended a residential girl's school at the site of present-day Keiser University, just up the road. The school had been in the name of the wife of the dictator Anastasio Somosa, and Erlinda's class will observe their 50th graduation anniversary next January. They hold monthly lunches to raise money for the reunion, and Gloria, who now lives in Managua, graciously opened her childhood home on this occasion.

Pheasant

Behind the walls that surround the property, there is much to delight and beguile a visitor, beginning with a number of large avian enclosures which house hundreds of quail (Gloria served quail eggs as an appetizer), oriental pheasants, exotic chickens, and pigeons. Peacocks strut to and fro all around the grounds, amid decorative plantings of ferns, tropical trees, flowers, and vines. Fountains burble, pheasants call, pigeons coo, quail shriek (who knew?) and the peacocks cry.

Pigeon house

Teeny weenie...

Behind the plumes is a hard-working tail, keeping up the act!

Many whimsical touches: fish, owl, brahma bull overlooking the patio, horse head...

Sitting nook

And always a Virgin...

Inside the house (sorry, no pictures) are heavy carved wooden furniture, paintings, a beautiful collection of old rocking horses, and plenty of interesting curios in every corner. Quinta Gloria is magical, a wonderland behind its stone walls.

Chasing Sleep and Recalling a Son's Visit

So far, my insomnia nightmare has shown at least one hopeful sign – a combination of two drugs seems to have produced three nights of restless sleep. I say ”restless” because I am feeling little benefit as yet. My brain is foggy, my body feels tired and achy, and my sense of general unsteadiness is unnerving and, well, tiresome. This is no way to live.

It took me more than ten minutes to write that first paragraph.

I wanted to share a few pictures that resulted from my son’s recent visit, and they have finally arrived in my email. Gabriel’s a busy teacher, or, at least, I buy that excuse. One in particular had me stymied for a second, and then I realized it was a view of Managua’s fairly new cathedral, which I had seen from a distance and wondered about what looked like breasts popping up from its roof.

See what I mean? The cathedral features ugly colors in its interior, and is rather stark and unappealing in general. It’s like something out of the old Soviet Union, devoid of romance and beauty.

One evening at home, the dogs were chasing a bug on the floor, and I went to remove the offender, only to find it was a tiny (baby?) lizard, about 1.5 inches. Gabe got this shot of the little guy against the wall. I escorted the lizard outside to safety.

We went to Catarina to shop, and had lunch overlooking the Laguna Apoyo, a crater lake. This photo faces south, to Granada and huge Lake Nicaragua beyond.

At Volcan Masaya. Look closely to see lava in the crater...

This morning, Maria José’s husband Jonathan came with her to try and repair one of my electric fans. While he was here, he cut down a coconut to give me a glass of coco water. He broke open the coconut to feed to my chickens, and Susie grabbed a sizeable chunk and went to town extracting the meat. Who knew dogs would love this? Brynn finished it off when Susie had had her fill.

There. This only took me about two hours. Hurry sundown.

De Profundis

Excepting you, who has the fortitude and loyalty to be reading this drivel, the nonexistent readership can kiss my gringa ass. I haven't been writing this blog for its reader(s?) so much as for myself. It is a method of processing life, largely confined to events and circumstances. I see now that I have neglected a chunk of my story that has bedeviled my inner peace for over half a century. I regard my depression less as mental illness than as a glitch in brain chemistry. After all, I have succeeded at least 90% of the time in having a fairly interesting and challenging life, raising a reasonably wonderful son, and have succeeded sometimes in ferreting out opportunities to have a good effect on the lives around me.

So, to answer my rhetorical query of the last post, I suppose the "point" is living.

Living lately has been in a trough of misaligned brain chemistry. It is like a parade of utterly sleepless nights, watching the digits change on my bedside clock, tossing about and screaming "I NEED SLEEP!" Daytime hours drag on, punctuated by absurd crying jags, hoping for death - the ultimate cure - and teetering about in slow motion, feeding my chickens, washing clothes, paying bills. Weeping. Feeling an absolute fraud.

Everything I wanted for my post-US life is here. I love my little house and its large garden, I love my routine and my hours at the university, I ride the bus system like a pro and daily discover new things to enjoy about my adopted country. True, I have few real friends, but that has ever been my story. Many friendly acquaintances, my adored dogs, my gang of gallinas in the chicken coop. All is well, except that I cannot seem to climb out of this morass on my own.

I hit bottom the other night and contacted my lawyer. He must have been appalled by my desperate, rather chaotic tearful plea for help in finding a psychiatrist to help me find a medical solution to this agony. It embarrasses me to have been so pathetically out of control, but it did the job. I have met with this new doctor and tests have been ordered. I am still stuck in the trough, but I think I can see someone extending a lifeline far above me. And when my sister called me last night, I could practically feel her love for me buoying me up. Oh, let this dreary, heavy burden fall away. I am so very tired.