Friday, March 19, 2010

The Good Stuff

After the last blog many of you wrote to question or commiserate, and I thank you for your responses. Having lived abroad before, we know that there are distinct phases, and that sooner or later, the “disenchantment” phase was bound to arrive. Somehow, being able to vent helped, as does knowing that in just over a month we’ll be back in Homer for a good long stretch. We’re not finished with Nicaragua, and in no way are we finished with Sprout; rather, we need to figure out a way to balance our time here, and a way to live productively when we are here. It may take some time, and perhaps even some time away, but we’ll figure it out, eventually.

In the meantime, having my mother down here for a week reminded us of the many things we love about the country, namely its natural beauty and many options for experiencing it. One of the best parts was the Toyota Hilux pickup we rented for the duration. We were especially gratified to note that the key ring contained a bottle opener, a must for any vehicle operated on Nicaraguan roads. It was a bit of a whirlwind, as we wanted to expose her to as much of SW Nicaragua as seven days would allow. We began up at the Laguna de Apoyo, at our friend Fred’s place, then headed down into Granada. Tourists flock there for its colonial charm, and we dutifully wandered about, taking in the sights while gently (and at times not so gently) refusing to buy hammocks and clay whistles. In the afternoon we hired a panga, a long narrow fiberglass boat with a canopy, to put-put us around The Isletas, a collection of 345 or so tiny islands on Lake Nicaragua, just off Granada. Over the years, rich people have built vacation homes on many of them, including the Pellas family (they own Flor de Caña, both breweries, and the Toyota franchise, along with masses of land); the Chamorro family (it was the Somoza-ordered assassination of one of its members, and outspoken journalist, that helped launch the ’79 Sandinista revolution, and his daughter went on to be the first post-Ortega, non-FSLN president. They are originally from Rivas where they have a huge, usually empty house in the middle of town); and assorted foreign bigshots, ambassadors, etc. from Canada, the US, and Europe. Before heading out, we stopped by El Monasterio San Fransisco, converted into a beautiful museum and public space, and exhibiting everything from modern art to dioramas of indigenous Nicaraguan pastimes.

Then we headed for Mombacho, one of the country’s larger volcanoes. We drove up about halfway, intending to drive all the way up—a 40% grade!—but then along came a big truck with benches in the back hauling other visitors so we stowed the truck, much to its relief, and clambered aboard. Once up there, we asked for a guide. A young man told us (in Spanish) it would be $5 for a Spanish-speaking tour, $10 for English. Mom preferred English, so he went off, presumably to find the bilingual guide. A few minutes later he returned and said (in English), “OK, I am your guide. Welcome to the Vulcan Mombacho. Please follow me.” He didn’t say much after that, other than to point out the occasional plant or heat vent, but toward the end, when I complimented him on his English, he became almost garrulous, chatting away about his work and how difficult the Australians and Brits were to understand… It was not a long walk, but the path was uneven and steep in places, so it took us about an hour and a half to do the circuit. Along the way we saw some cool orchids that grow on stalks, out of the ground (apparently not typical orchid behavior), an information board describing some sort of salamander that only lives on this volcano but only emerges after dark—seemingly it can re-grow not only its tail, but limbs and even its head; a useful skill for any creature; and towards the end, the guide enthusiastically indicated a smudge of greenish-gray fuzz up in a tree and said, “It’s a sloth!” We grinned and nodded and later admitted that neither of us had seen it.

After a respite in Rivas, we headed for Ometepe Island. Although we had tried to prepare my mother for the state of the roads on the southern half of the island, I don’t think it was until the third or fourth time her head nearly made contact with the roof of the truck that she believed us. We tried to make her feel better by going on about how much worse the trip was in the jeep, but I don’t think it helped. (We, however, were relishing every moment we hit a rut and emerged with our kidneys still attached.) On the way to Merida, where we would spend two nights at our friend Cindi’s, we stopped at a little roadside kiosk in El Peru, known far and wide for its excellent local honey. “Sorry, no honey.” said the woman behind the counter. “Oh, when will you have honey again?” “We won’t. No more honey.” This was a bit of a shock, mainly because the place was situated on the corner of the land of the beekeeper Kyra, Pat and I met two years ago, who had so impressed Kyra with his knowledge of beekeeping. Remember, faithful readers? A man in his 30’s who told us his father had been a beekeeper up in the north country when he was hired by Somoza to come to the island and manage his extensive hive production. After the revolution, the Sandinistas transferred the land title to him, and they have produced honey ever since. So I had to ask, “What happened to the man next door, the honey guy?” “He was my husband,” she said, “but he died six months ago.” “What? How? He was so young!” She nodded, looking miserable. “Yeah, he was. He was struck by lightening while pruning a tree.” With two young children and no local family, she’s selling up and returning to her people in the north. Very sad. She sent Pat down the road to a neighbor who sold him half a plastic liter bottle filled with thick, golden honey…but it wasn’t the same.

Our second day we were headed back to the northern end of the island when Pat looked out the window and said, “Jesus Christ, the volcano’s erupted!” Sure enough, there was a great plume of smoke and ash gushing into the clear blue, while a strong easterly wind carried it across the island and towards the mainland. Unable to determine how serious it was, we continued into Moyogalpa, the main town at Concepcíon’s base. At first it appeared no one else had noticed, but little by little people started to look up, and soon many people were out in the street, craning their necks to see. There had been some earlier, minor spitting, and the Army had gone over to pound Evacuation Route signs along the one major road, and even executed a few drills in which they flung old women over their shoulders and trotted with them to safety, so people were not entirely unprepared. We bought some provisions, tried to cover the truck’s intake valve with panty hose but due to its ludicrous design were unable to access it, and hightailed it back to the other end of the island. By the next day, the only sign anything had happened was a thick blanket of ash spilling down the western slopes of the volcano and lightly coating everything within a couple miles. We got back on the ferry feeling we’d been lucky. Well, lucky not to have been turned into latter-day Pompeii victims. When it came to the previous night’s dinner, our luck ran out. A local restaurant told us they were out of fillets of fish, but had whole fish. We puzzled over this for a minute, until Pat volunteered to fillet the fish for them. Oh no, they could do it for us. “Fillet” in Spanish apparently translating as “slice fish in half, leave bones intact”. Bear in mind we’re talking about a fish the size of my hand…

On the way back to Managua, the day before my mother left, a cop waved us over. We assumed it was a standard document check, but no, it was a standard fleece the gringo set up. He told us we’d crossed the yellow line (we had not), and that we were speeding (we were not, and in any case, he had no way of knowing as all he had in the way of official equipment was a pen.) We made a half-hearted attempt to talk to him, but he actually cut us off and told us—most unusually—we could settle it here rather than through the bank. (Generally they wait for you to make that suggestion.) $15 later we were on our way, Pat and I steaming, my mom wondering what the hell just happened. (We were again pulled over yesterday outside Rivas, again in a flashy white pickup, driven by a visiting friend. This time, the cop had to work hard to find a transgression, first telling us the insurance document wasn’t right (it was), then accusing us of not having the regulation traffic triangle (it was behind the back seat),and finally telling us that Pat, in the back seat, not wearing his seatbelt was a violation. I said, Nicaraguan law says only the driver and passenger need to wear belts. He said everyone had to and it would be a $20 fine (keep in mind, cops are paid $5-7/day). While Dennis was ready to settle it, I was pissed (not showing it of course) and said, Well, last year when we were stopped and I didn’t have my belt on the ticket was $5. “Really? $5? OK, $5 then.” And he held out his hand. Grrr.)

Back in Buenos Aires, it was time once again for the annual Hipica, or fancy horse parade. I’ve written about it before, but it never fails to entertain. The Toña girls had new, even skimpier outfits as they jiggled about in the back to the giant beer truck, and there were little kids on little horses trotting around between the big boys. The neighbors set up a restaurant/bar on their end of the porch and hired a DJ and sound system, deafening us from 10am till 8pm. Other than a few drunks trying to rip each others’ heads off towards then end of the event, a good time was had by all. It’s not hard to remember why we love this place…