Oct. 8, 2007

It occurs to me that some of you reading this were not yet born when our new vehicle rolled off the assembly line back in 1978. Not exactly a spring chicken (and there will be more about chickens later), but a Land Cruiser jeep, and therefore not subject to the usual criteria by which we measure the life of an automobile. It is a diesel, which is a blessing in this land where gas prices routinely top $4.50 a gallon, and it is white, which helps deflect some of the intense midday sun. An inspection prior to purchase by a reputable mechanic (in no way affiliated with the owners, who live in Managua, and under the impression the jeep was for Edwin) informed us that it is in excellent condition, requiring perhaps $500 in mechanical repairs and assorted electrical and body improvements. Throw in a new set of tires, and we will be ready to explore the furthest, most inaccessible reaches of Nicaragua, unencumbered by tedious concerns of getting stuck in sand or mud, or appearing too conspicuous on the streets of Managua. We are thinking of calling it "Sandino", after the hero of the first anti-American revolution back in the 20's, whose name became the basis for the more recent Sandinista movement. (Although after Ortega's recent speech, in which he chose to use the dais to rail against US imperialism rather than to rally financial and volunteer support for the thousands of victims of hurricane Felix, Sandinistas are not ranking very high here at the moment…)

As for chickens, I had a very close encounter with one the other night, in a sort of Fellini-meets-Lynchian scene at Edwin's bar. Pat and I had been visiting friends outside of Rivas and stayed later than we'd expected. Too tired to start cooking, and hoping to beat the imminent arrival of the rains, we peddled maniacally back to Buenos Aires, arriving at Edwin's just as the skies opened and another deluge began. It being Thursday, the place was pretty quiet; just Chino, a neighbor, who'd been drinking since 3:00 (it was around 8:30), and two very drunk cousins, slender young men who could've easily passed for twins. Chino, who's around 20, spends much of his time and his paycheck (he's an electrical-mechanic-in-training)at Edwin's, and when he's had a few, likes to go on about the importance of friendship. We are fond of him—he has a certain incorrigible puppiness about him—but he is a bit of a conniver as well, illustrated by the time Pat chainsawed up some wood for one of Edwin's cousins, gratis, after which Chino (whose real name, curiously, is Yasser, but is called Chino because his eyes are a bit squinty. The whole concept of "P.C." hasn't really caught on here yet) went to the guy and said he had to pay around $3 for the gas Pat used, and promptly pocketed the money. Fortunately Reyna somehow found out about it, made him return the money, and assured the cousin Pat had nothing to do with any of it. On this particular night, however, he wanted to show us his devotion and so when one of the inebriated twins staggered over and began boasting about this beautiful little hen he had at home, an actual chicken, Chino offered to buy it for us. The price of a young chicken is, coincidently, equivalent to the cost of a liter of beer, so William, the braggart, was more than happy to make the deal, and wobbled off to fetch the chicken. (Pat, who after being told the topic of conversation, had lost interest, asked as he left, "Where's he off to then?" "I believe he's gone to get the chicken." which made him laugh until he realized I was serious.) About ten minutes later, William returned with a smallish chicken under his arm, her legs tied securely together, and resumed extolling her charms. He then thrust her at me, squawking loudly and flapping her wings, clearly discontented with the way her evening was going. I settled her on my lap and began stroking her feathers, and surprisingly, she calmed down. Meanwhile Chepe, William's only slightly less drunken cousin (and not the same Chepe from the fishing excursion last winter), had played a Guns and Roses song on the jukebox, which is always at top volume, and was reeling around happily, making the "cool surfer" gesture with his hands (variously thumb, index, and pinky extended, or just thumb and pinky) in everyone's face. This behavior seemed to upset the chicken (whom Reyna suggested we name Chepita, but whom we later dubbed "Lulu"), and she began squawking agressively. The song eventually ended, Lulu was becalmed, and conversation resumed, centering on William's claim that she only needed a rooster to produce generations of gorgeous, salable chickens. I said, If she's to be my chicken, she will never 'know' a rooster. She will remain chaste, virginal, and pure. Reyna told me it was already too late; my chicken was no virgin, and laughed at my horrified expression and murmurs of rape. William plucked her from my lap and began cooing to her, nuzzling and kissing her with a disturbing intimacy, though Lulu herself seemed decidedly unimpressed. Chino grabbed her and stuffed her back onto my lap, declaring the deal made, and the chicken mine. I turned to Reyna and asked if she wanted a chicken. She said sure, she would need a few for Milagro's birthday party in December. I asked the chicken if she wanted to live for a couple more months, and then give her life for a three year old. She pecked at a freckle on my knee and went to sleep. I promised to visit her regularly, and then handed her over to Reyna, who plopped her in the hammock while she attended to other business. Chino, by now at one with his cerveza, gave me his blessing.

Sunday was yet another Saint's Day, beginning as always with "bombas" (firecrackers)at six am. I think I wrote about these manifestations of evil in the first blog, and now, months later, I cannot in good faith say I have grown any fonder of the heart-stopping blasts. The particular saint being touted this time was St. Francis, or San Francisco to the locals. For reasons not yet entirely clear, his day is celebrated, at least here in Buenos Aires, by a parade of Diablos y Caballos, or Devils and Horses. There were by my count something like 30 Diablos and exactly one rather pallid Caballo, a fairly blatant representation of our neighbors' tendencies. The Diablos wore bright orange, red, and yellow costumes and had scary masks, most of which were carved locally, but at least one guy had on a sort of clown suit, multi-colored wig, and one of those Scary Movie type masks. I think the real Diablos were laughing at him because he kind of skipped along the parade route separate from the pack. There was also the ring leader, or main devil, who carried a trident and herded both Diablos and townspeople through the crowded streets. Children ran around shouting and from time to time some of the Diablos would chase them, sending them shrieking ahead. In the midst of all the chaos came four men carrying a statue of St. Francis on a litter. Francis appeared a bit mystified by all those Diablos, but I like to think the sight of the Caballo calmed him, compensating a bit for the absence of any other fauna. The parade passed by the house around nine am, and was gone in less than five minutes, leaving behind a few shreds of yellow and red paper, and the pungent aroma of recent bomba activity.

October is the final month of the rainy season, and also the wettest. Aside from saturating the fields and filling the reservoirs, a less heralded benefit is the profusion of fireflies that litter the sky nightly. We have biked the three miles home from Rivas several times after dark recently, in spite of Reyna's repeated warnings that the ladrones (thieves) are just biding their time, in order to experience the magic of peddling through these living meteorite showers. The tiny sparklers are smaller than their US counterparts, but what they lack in size, they more than compensate for in glow-time. We usually have a few in the bedroom as well, flitting about outside the mosquito net, keeping us entertained until sleep comes. I don't know how long into the dry season they will last, but suspect that any attempt to bottle them against future shortages would not be an effective solution. Best to just enjoy them now, much like the Japanese drop everything for a week in the spring to sit under the cherry blossoms, eat fried octopus, drink obscene quantities of beer, and sing depressing songs about lost love and the trials of being a rice farmer. Oh, the fireflies have their own musical accompaniment as well, in the form of some bizarre species of frog whose croak sounds like the noises emitted from a video arcade. Entire fields resonate with this electronic pinging, reverberating across the roads and filling the air with cheerful techno-zings. (I should find a way to record it and send it into NPR for that bit they do with people's sounds…)

The sounds of technology are not limited to the fields, however. A number of enterprising locals have opened places where kids can come in and play Nintendo, or Play Station, or Wii, or whatever the latest craze is. Rooms measuring no more than three or four hundred square feet manage to pack in up to ten TV's, with three or four kids grouped around each, waggling their wee joysticks to make soccer goals or complete a Nascar course or whack the head off some evil creature. We have been trying our luck renting DVD's again, and have been reasonably successful at one place that doubles as one of these arcades. We tend to choose our films very quickly, if only to escape the heat and the deafening noise ten different games all at full volume can produce. Nevertheless, it's entertaining to watch it all, for three or four minutes. (Update: as of yesterday, they no longer rent movies, only sell them. We are now the proud owners of a $1 bootleg version of "Beatrix Potter".)

Finally, we thoroughly cleaned out the house. Amazing, in just three and a half months of standing vacant, it had been colonized by every indigenous creature, including these nasty giant black centipedes, up to six inches long, and packing a nasty sting; scorpions, not the deadly black variety found to the north, but a sort of grayish translucent type, whose sting resembles that of a particularly virulent bee, followed by hours of numbness at the point of contact (both of these the kids and I killed without remorse--Buddhist tendencies be damned); and the prize, a tarantula easily measuring the span of my hand, but who was so gentle and beautiful, I ignored the kids' pleas for execution and trapped it in a box, carried it to the neighbor's fence, and liberated it. This made Pat very happy, and no doubt proved satisfactory to the spider as well. We'll need to repaint at some point, to mask the damage doen by all the wasps' nests, but at least the place is clean and ready for us to get back to work, more or less unmolested by our six and eight-legged neighbors.