And She's Buying a Stairway to...

Two weeks ago, the now year-long construction project to widen the Panamerican Highway from two to four lanes made it to my literal doorstep. I awoke to the rumble roar of heavy equipment. When I went to open the door in the great sliding porton through which cars may enter or exit the property, I found it tied shut with heavy wire. Through the crack, I could see that the expanse between my wall and the existing highway had been excavated, leaving a deep earthen gap. I tried to squeeze my arm through the crack to alert the crew that there was a person imprisoned therein, to no avail. I was stuck inside for the weekend.

Happily, I had no plans to leave and had plenty of food. Alas, the electricity was turned off, so I had to carefully measure out my computer time, and with no pump for inside water, no showers or flushing. I briefly considered the possibility of a stroke or heart attack, but decided to read instead. Thus passed two days of clanking, bumpedy-bump grinding din from beyond the wall, and hours of excited barking within.

Monday morning, Maria José arrived at her usual time, and simply untied the door and let herself in. I do admire her anarchismo! Her brother cobbled together a little stairway of stones and earth to help me negotiate the drop to cross the gap to the road. It worked well when I left on Tuesday morning to go to San Marcos for tutoring duty. When I returned, the road crew were hard at work, having unceremoniously destroyed the stair. Two days later, I turned my ankle trying to get down from the wall, so Thursday's trip to San Marcos did not happen.

After endless hours of rolling back and forth, compacting the earth, the bulldozer disappeared for some days. MJ's husband Jonathan seemed to think the gash in front of my wall would be there at least two months. Months?  He rebuilt the little stair, adding a nifty handrail of scrap lumber. The next morning, the bulldozer returned, and while it left the stair intact, it neatly sideswiped the rail and snapped it off before my eyes. Anarchy works both ways.

Yesterday, Maria José and I went shopping in San Marcos, When we returned, the heavy equipment was back, with a big backhoe digging out the gap even deeper!  The steps, needless to say, were history, and when one of the crew helped us across with our parcels, he assured me that my path would be leveled before they left. And it was!

Looking north from my porton.

13 Dec.2018

Apparently, the backhoe is loading the dump truck at that end of the wall, and the earth is dumped at the other end. Why dig it up in the first place, I wonder.

And the backhoe looks like a dinosaur from inside the wall, hence the barking chorus!

The approaching holidays had me wishing to do somebody some good. I asked Maria José if she knew of someone who would be glad of a food donation. It took her no time to tell me about an old lady who cares for her adult mentally disabled son, with no income.  Our shopping trip yesterday began with the purchase of a plastic garbage can, which we filled with rice, beans, corn flour, oil and sugar, powdered milk, cleaning and hygiene supplies, and cookies. The lady will not know from whom the gift comes, but I hope it will give her some nights of good rest, comfort and joy.

Had Enough?

I state the obvious that these posts are arriving with less frequency. This I chalk up to two realities in my somewhat spare existence here in Carazo. The first boils down to the rather severe limitations of my day to day life. I spend almost all my time at home, seeing no one save for the people who come to work in the garden or do housework. Twice each week, I go into San Marcos to do my tutoring shifts at Keiser University, and enjoy the opportunity to speak English. And once or twice a week, I go into Diriamba or Jinotepe to pay bills, shop for perishables, pick up medications, and buy a newspaper. I almost never do anything new, which was the point of many past postings here. I do plan a future trip to the east coast, the Costa Atlantica, to Bluefields to visit my old friend Carla, and that could give me the grist for a couple of entries. And one of these years, I really should go south to San Juan del Sur, a beach town with a large ex-pat community. People say it is a fun town, though I could not be less interested in going. Someday, when and if anyone ever visits me again...

The second reality is my waning relationship with the real world. I retain my need for news and views of the Motherland, but the first half of the tRump presidency has tarnished my sense of America and Americans.  Whatever is true of the US now, it bears little resemblance to the land I called my home for 64 years. It isn't just the Orange One; it is the millions of people who put him in charge and throng to his partisan rallies, and who hate people like me. I keep hearing about the blue urban areas, with their well-educated, well-heeled progressive voters. And the rural red zones, with (presumably) poorly educated, financially less-secure voters. And the gloves are really off now. Trump stokes the angry fires of resentment, fear, suspicion, and hatred to excite his fans and deepen the divisions between them and everyone else.

I wish I could understand why it is so important to so many that the U.S. be the "greatest country,"the richest, the most powerful, the best of the best of the best. Clearly, the U.S. is far from the best at, well, pick a category. Taking care of veterans, old people, and the indigent; making healthcare available to all; responsible stewardship of natural resources; reducing corruption in government and the justice system; fair and just enforcement of intelligent laws. I could go on and on. I think I have Denmark envy. Or perhaps Finland. Those populations seem so much more content to have small defense budgets and high taxes. They feel optimistic.They like the way their taxes are used to provide healthcare, education, welfare institutions.

By now, you are wishing I would just go back to travelogue posts, or none at all, for that matter. Perhaps this blog has run its course. I seem to have found a very small niche for myself that is not especially interesting or productive, a perch from which to watch the U.S. implode. It all makes me feel incredibly sad, and very forlorn.

Listen to Me!

A friend writes that he suspects that the noise of electronic media has rendered even old-fashioned conversation suspect.

"Face to face with another person looking at them straight in the eye and talking just doesn’t seem to work because, in my estimation, the other person is just too distracted to have their voice hearing senses turned on and tuned in to another human voice  - I think it is because they fear missing some other information that may be coming, at any second, his way."

Think about it. A population so attuned (addicted) to the siren call of a text message beep or an email blip that they are incapable of truly listening to what a person standing right there is saying. 

This is distressingly sad, to me. Like my friend, I have thus far avoided the "smart phone" obsession, if not by design, by my sheer ignorance of how to use one. I can barely manage a flip phone, a necessity here in Nicaragua in the absence of landlines. I rarely carry it with me, as I almost never use it. I think I can count the texts I've sent on one hand!

This is a very poor country, to be sure, yet half the people seem to have cellphones -- are they even still called that? Here, as everywhere, the sidewalks are full of people hunched over their phones, scrolling away, ignoring the potholes in their paths. Or on the bus, earbuds in place, grooving to tunes while checking email or horoscopes. Thank goodness only half the people are living in digital reality. It is still possible to pass the time of day with disconnected individuals who wonder if it will rain or worry about rising bread prices.

Mind you, my demonstrated preference is for written communication. I like to think out what I want to say and find the best words to clearly communicate my thoughts. And I so appreciate a well turned phrase or piquant metaphor when I am reading another's thoughts on a page. But there are times when a person needs and deserves our unreserved attention. When one soul aches for intimate connection with another and only 100% concentration will suffice. If we lose the capacity to be one on one for as long as needed, we may well have lost the best aspect of being human.

We might think about reserving space for deliberate face-to-face communication, careful listening and hearing each other, in our busy schedules, so we do not lose this precious ability. Of course, I am not busy in the least. And heaven knows, I never hear the text beep. All I need is an actual person to listen to. Or perhaps my dogs.

Elementary?

And now for something completely different...

Reading books is my primary daily activity. I will happily read anything I find to be well written and interesting, and since the library at Keiser University has been closed all summer, I have invested in a Kindle. My bank account tends to limit my purchases to books costing less than $2.99, free if I am lucky. I read voraciously, so it is not unusual for me to churn through three or four good-sized texts per week. To my disappointment, I find the vast majority of Amazon's low-cost volumes to be popular action or romance gack, or spin-off genres like an enormous latter day supply of Jane Austen-inspired blather. Wading through the Kindle library is a troublesome bore, especially as my weak internet service takes forEVER to load each page! Yet, there are gems lurking there.

I was happy to see a 16-volume collection of English mystery works on offer for about a dollar a book, the first of which turned out to be a selection of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of Sherlock Holmes, which I have just enjoyed over the past few days. It is hard to imagine a more perfectly realized, affectionately rendered, singularly memorable character than Holmes, with all his eccentricities, attitudes, failings and triumphs. Likewise, his faithful chronicler and frequent investigative cohort Dr. Watson establishes himself as the reader's trusted friend and confidant. He is ever ready to drop everything in service to his friend Sherlock, and respectfully records the various individuals and case studies they encounter with graceful language and only occasional lapses into melodramatic extravagance. Arthur Conan Doyle was not above the purple prose his readers loved, but Dr. Watson manages to surmount the temptation for the most part.

Something I have noticed about reading authors from more than a century ago is the characterization of people over the age of 50 as, well, elderly. At 67, I am only recently retired, and enjoying mature living, shall we say? But I hardly feel aged or particularly antediluvian. Dr. Watson's favorite descriptor seems to be "grizzled," or graying, as hair, if you will. It puts me in mind of a Rooster Cogburn-ish sort of rough, aging cowhand, but Watson even describes a "once-lovely woman of about 40" as grizzled. Well! He invariably describes most male characters as "handsome," though they may also have thick long beards (grizzled, usually) and bushy eyebrows. How does one find handsomeness under all that fur?

The episode in which Holmes meets his end (Or does he?) plummeting over a waterfall in a climactic struggle with his nemesis Moriarty allows Dr. Watson to express his tender affection and admiration for his extraordinary friend in some of Doyle's most lyrical writing. The author's creation of a longtime, occasionally fractious, but consummately loyal and trusting friendship between two quite different men as a conceit through which to spin his tales of mystery is a joy to read.

I do not know if this collection is comprehensive or if there are other Holmesian adventures to enjoy, but I must observe that only once in the whole of some 20 hours or so did Sherlock say "Elementary!"

Unreal News

This evening, I watched Channel 2, an Ortega-owned television channel, to see its version of the current situation in the country. After a story about some millions of dollars of aid from Taiwan for four national projects came an analysis of the state of affairs regarding Nicaraguan production of basic grains – rice, corn, beans and sugar. Smiling experts attested to bumper crops at good prices, with lots of footage showing mounds of corn, beans, etc. and many smiling workers. This was followed by a story about tobacco production, with footage of dozens of workers rolling cigars, smiling and rolling.

After a short break, a story about a new campaign by INTUR – the government tourism ministry – to promote, of all things, upcoming religious festivals. The irony being that the Ortega government has roundly criticized the country’s bishops and clergy for supporting the popular uprising. Another story featured lurid video of wounded and murdered victims of “terrorismo,” the latest descriptor of the uprising, put forth by Ortega in some recent U.S. cable news interviews.

Things have definitely quieted down, but I wonder how many citizens will turn out for the religious festivals this September. Tough to tell, as so many people feel proud of their towns’ festivals, and are devoted to their various denominations. Certainly, there will be few tourists. 80% of the country’s hotels have closed. Don’t nobody want to come to Nica now.

In the meantime, work continues on the project to expand the PanAmerican Highway from two to four lanes. A crew passed by the other day, cutting down trees that obstruct the planned expansion. The little tree just outside my porton is now no more. I guess I will step through the gate directly onto the righthand lane heading north when it is all finished.

For Now, Calm

Following the drama described in my last post, circumstances here in Carazo have returned largely to normal, as before the mid-April uprising and the ensuing tranques and defenses against the dreaded caminetas. The streets are again open to traffic and commerce, albeit a heavily-armed police presence, especially around banks, is now in evidence. The shops are full of people, street vendors are hard at it, and save for some blackened patches on the road surface from car fires, there is little testimony to the privation and terror of the preceding weeks.

The buses and microbuses are back to their original routes, although the fares have risen. It now costs 40 cordobas to Managua from Diriamba, a 33% increase; 15 from Las Esquinas to Jinotepe, up 50% from 10. The passengers seem not to be interested in discussing the absence of the tranques or the general return to apparent normalcy. What, I wonder, was the point of the struggles, the deaths, the sheer loss of jobs and income from the now devastated tourist economy?

There have been subsequent demonstrations elsewhere. Ortega is now blaming the paramilitaries for the violence toward the populace. He’s been studying Trump’s playbook. But nobody doubts that Ortega’s regime and the Sandinista party are bankrolling the camionetas and the snipers. The people’s representatives at the “Dialogo” table, set up by the bishops to negotiate a peaceful resolution with Ortega back in May, are suddenly being charged with terroristic crimes by a justice system tainted by and beholden to the Ortega regime. Brave individuals who stepped forward to articulate the people’s discontent, to assert their demands for an end to corruption and official thievery, are now sitting in jail awaiting trial for treason. It seems there is no tactic too ignoble to employ in Ortega’s shameless efforts to stamp out opposition to his tyranny.

And here in Carazo, there is little evidence that ignoble tactics are not effective. Todo está  tranquilo.

Pagada

Travel to Toronto was less than convenient. My flight was canceled, a later flight left much later, and the 22-hour trip resulted in a somewhat blurry first few days. Somehow, the fish in Lake Ontario got over their not unreasonable fear of my famed piscatorial talents, and the local wineries survived the Beatty invasion, and a very good time was too soon relegated to the past tense. My return to Nicaragua was uneventful, thankfully.

During my absence, the violence continued. Within five days of my return, the government-paid paramilitaries and National Police forces descended on the Carazo district with deadly intent. The popular tranques in Diriamba and Jinotepe were besieged and dismantled, with more than 20 deaths, mainly of young men defending their towns. A dozen people, including journalists, sought sanctuary in the Basilica of Saint Sebastian in Diriamba.  A Catholic cardinal and the bishops of Managua and other dioceses traveled to Diriamba to liberate them, but a mob of masked Orteguistas and paramilitaries, armed with guns and machetes, attacked them viciously. The monsignor and priest of St. Sebastian were beaten. Journalists were attacked and their equipment destroyed.

Mrs. Daniel Ortega, also called vice president Rosario Murillo, described the incident as thoroughly "Christian." She is, unsurprisingly, the most hated woman in Nicaragua.

Pope John Paul II visited that Basilica. Christmas, 2016, my sister Mary Mary and I attended a beautiful midnight Mass there. I asked Maria José if there were Ortega supporters in Diriamba. She shrugged and said, "Pagada." Paid.  The local Sandinista party apparatchiks pay people to oppose the popular uprising. And beat elderly monsignors.

This is a very dirty civil war.