El Compañero

As I haven´t been writing much lately, here is something I from my journal from some time ago...

When I first heard about Benito I pictured him as a younger guy. A teenager maybe and a little green behind the ears. Mario talked about how Benito lives in Leon and has been installing some filters in that area. I don’t know why I immediately made him a kid in my mind. Maybe for the name, as Benito sounds diminutive with the ito at the end. But as soon as I met Benito I saw how wrong my assumptions really were.

I was sitting and talking with Benito yesterday. He had his left leg crossed over his right, man style, and I noticed his boots. They were the heavy leather ones with thick soles whose traction was like that off a catipiller or other bulldozing machinery. Far from being athletic or dress up, they were actually the only shoes I can image Benito ever wearing. He needs something to support that gait of his. Extra wide to give him the steady base so he doesn’t tip over when he pounds his feet forcefully into the ground with each step.

As we were talking, Benito he had his hand gripping his crossed boot, his arm was bent and I noticed his elbow/forearm area. It looked like the land of Nicaragua right there at the back of his forearm. The muscle part of his forearm was strong and evlevated and pronounced. Then just dropped off and kind of dipped down like one of those lagoons that sit right below the many volcanos here in Nicaragua. He not only was bred on this spot of earth but has so internalized it he expresses it unknowingly in his muscles.

Another thing I am used to Benito doing, especially as we talk about the early ‘80s, is his simulation of shooting a gun. He doesn’t just elevate one week arm from his side and make the international gun sign with his thumb and index finger. What he does looks as if he was actually lifting a forty pound gun. He brings those trunks of arms up head high, the right one fully outstretched while the left one is bent, elbow out and hand near the face obviously on the trigger. He then closes one eye and squints with the other, looking down the length of, not only the gun, but maybe even his history.

It wasn’t long after I met Benito that we got into a conversation about his time with the Sandinista army up in the mountains somewhere. I mean when someone tells you there were in the army and lived in the mountains for two years you naturally want to know more about it. So I began to question him and paint his story in my minds eye.

My peaceful upbringing was spent on the square patch of grass in our front yard, with a soccer ball at my feet, and friends to kick with. When Benito was twelve years old, and he assures me he was skinny at this point, he was climbing down into manhole covers and running below the streets of Leon, delivering covert letters to various Sandinista leaders. He says once some guards stopped him. They spread his fingers and put their noses to the weby part between each digit to check for any bomb making residue. They beat him and kicked him and put their guns to his back. He remembers thinking he was going to dye, but one guard finally convinced the other not to kill the kid, and they let him walk with a stiff boot in the back as he left.

When Benito gets his mouth moving it is hard to slow him down. And it’s not just war stories he tells. He has plenty facts to share and opinions to let fly. Yesterday we were talking politics, the American variety. Our conversation floated over Obama’s election and previous decades and presidents. I was slightly surprised when Benito began speaking about Regan and Carter. I think I was surprised because from my campo time in the DR I became used to less than apt conversations about current American polotics much less past presidents. I remember Benito saying with his tongue flying, “Oh, Regan fue un…” except I don’t remember the adjective he used. I do know that Benito believes Regan is fully responsible for the ten years of war that his country went through.

In contrast to Benito’s feelings on Regan are his opinions of Bill Clinton. His eyes become happy and that pointy lipped smile of his pops onto his face when he begins talking of Clinton. Benito has repeated to me, at least twice, what Clinton said upon arriving to Nicaragua after some major flooding and a landslide that buried almost an entire city. He says Clintons words were to the affect of, I have not come in war but in peace, to support Nicaragua in development not destruction. Whatever Clinton said or didn’t say is irrelevant.

I realized then, while talking with Benito, how important our President is to other countries. I mean that, often when I hear of our presidents visiting other countries, I think not twice about it, much less once. I now see, from Benito’s smile while thinking of Clintons visit, how much a visit from the United States president means to people living in that country.

Here are a few pictures of Benito and what we do now.

Here's a random one for you...

It’s Friday afternoon. Thanks to the security guard, I took a new cow trail home on my way out of work. Just another example of how dependent I become on local knowledge when I am in a new city or country. It was the older guy in rubber boots who showed me the first trail which chopped my walk from the road to the Nehemiah Center in half. I remember I was hesitant to trust him. He came on pretty outgoing at first which is often my clue that something isn’t exactly right. They either want money or have ulterior motives. But I remember this guy’s motives were pretty genuine. He was headed down the same trail to the last house and why not point the gringo in the right direction?

Anyway, that trail worked well for a while. Cut out the worst part of my walk; the narrow gentle curve in road that dump trucks use on their way in and out of picking up a new load of dirt. I sometimes wonder how there can be enough dirt for their endless processions. They must have one heck of a hole going on. Maybe they are the guys who, when younger, believed their parents when they said China was only a matter of digging deep enough. And it’s not just an issue of one dump truck every now and again.

The trucks continuously rumble by, shifting gears while really not picking up much speed. Each shift throwing a heavy hand of gray smoke out of their charred stacks. It’s the kind of thick grey smoke that sticks to you, puts an invisible chalky layer on your forehead for the rest of the day. I have come to enjoy, if somewhat strangely, this kind of dirty grey smoke. It’s one of those immediate triggers to times and places of past, that I hold close to my heart. It’s also one of those very tangible things that remind me I am not in America. One of the uncomforts that makes the day to day more visceral, like the sweat that drowns my back while walking to or from work. This is all kind of my bent attempt at some kind of solidarity. Especially now as solidarity is not part of my job description. Whether the people I am trying to live in solidarity with actually notice my effort is another story. I mostly get looks like, “why’s the weird gringo coming out of the cow pasture with a backpack and sweat rolling down his temples?”

Should a tick so full of doggy blood that it looks like a grey raison gross me out? I don’t know. It looks more curious to me then anything. Its body so distorted from the other features like the numerous legs and head that protrude from it. The little head, so pointy with its two horizontal jaws still chomping back and forth, searching for the next meal that it has no room for. Should numerous swollen ticks on our tiled patio floor be worse than one? They are spread out like some kid threw a handful of small clumps of dirt, except they are little sacks of blood from the dogs, Forthy and Lucy.

Bus Stuffing

The roosters have gotten it all wrong. It’s a little after 11 pm and I hear them going to town with their cock a little do. Maybe they are Chinese roosters and still haven’t grasped they are on the other side of the world now. Or maybe they’ve been sleeping all day, seeing as it is Saturday and rained straight through the afternoon and evening. That’s what I would have done had I not gone exploring.

I did catch a hole in the clouds this morning; big enough for me to go do check out Managua, public transportation style. It’s always interesting (read frightening) to test the waters of a different developing country’s transportation systems. I did have a few things going for me this morning. One, it was sunny for the most part and no matter how many twists and turns we made, I had a clear read on the shadows. Two, I had time, all day in fact, to get lost and straighten it out if need be. Thirdly, it’s really kind of hard to get lost when you speak Spanish. It’s like if you were in New York and spoke English…I mean you just stop and ask for directions.

So Managua’s transportation resembles Panama’s in that they both rely on the old yellow American school bus. They just differ in the extent to which they use said school bus. Panama’s drivers, probably do to heavy American influence over the years, are some what more respectful of personal space. They must read the capacity sign on the front of their buses. In Panama, if capacity says 60 they may stretch it to 70, and everybody’s still ok. But in Managua they take the capacity sign down to make space for one more person! Think of a school bus with 1,000 people in it. I’M NOT LYING! I dare say they give Dominicans a run for their pesos. I actually would like to see a bus stuffing competition between Dominicans and Nicas. Nicas might win, seeing as they make full use of not only the inside of the bus but the top of the roof as well.

I know it might sound like, “wow, I don’t think I would have enough room to even breath!?” And while that is a legitimate concern, it should not be the principal worry. You need to be worried about how you’re going to get off the thing. And you don’t have the Jaws of Life coming to cut you out. Oh and actually before that, you first need to figure out where you are going to get out. Have you ever tried to orientate yourself while standing up inside a yellow school bus? You can’t! Unless you’re a midget. You have about five feet from the side of the bus to study the road/sidewalk and figure out where you are. And don’t think your going to duck or bend over to steal a glimpse out the window. Remember there’s no space for that nonsense!

Anyway, I also felt more at ease figuring out the whole transportation system as I studied a Budget Rent-A-Car map relentlessly over the past week. Although no street names are used in real life, I did have a basic understanding of the layout of the town. So I knew that when I arrived to Bello Horizonte after about an hour winding through the Managua streets I was much too far east, almost to the airport. My goal had been to make it to the central shopping area where I could exchange my somehow overly complicated cell phone for one that was actually sensible. Although I knew I had been going east for far too long I let myself wander. For one thing, I had a seat and could actually see out the window. I took advantage of the view and the opportunity to see a bit of Managua.

Nicaraguan History 101

If you are like me and really didn’t learn much about Nicaraguan history in High School/College – did they even teach it? here’s your ten minute history review. And if you are in the movie making business, here’s your Oscar winning script; a script spanning four continents and featuring numerous tyrants and rebellions; not one, not two, but five (if I’m counting right). Add in violence and war, although unfortunately no big love scenes, even though I’m sure there had to be some loving going on somewhere in country. So anyway, here’s your run down. And if you want to go straight to the source for all the greasy details read this book…Blood of Brothers by Stephen Kinzer. You will be amazed.

We all know how the story starts (as far as takeovers go) for most of South America and even North America at that. The Spanish come with their guns and colds and wipe out the Indians and make all who are left speak Spanish and eat Mexican food – ok, just in Mexico. So that basically was the fate of Nicaragua until 1821 when all the Central American countries united for a United States of Central America. This fell apart a few years later and Nicaragua became the ruler of its own independent country. Well until America stepped in, particularly the adventurer William Walker, who took manifest destiny to heart, seeing internal conflict as an opportunity for him to grab up his own small country. With a ragtag bunch of other Americans he came down to Nicaragua, forced his way to power, and in 1856 held corrupted elections where he magically came out on top.

Obviously, the home town folks didn’t like the idea of this gringo ruling their country so they kicked him out, but not before Walker could burn to the ground everything he had built. So for forty years after, power was shared between a handful of wealthy Nicaraguans, until our next star of this tale appears. Jose Zelaya was his name and he was a reformer, a change maker, an Obama or even a McCain if you believe it to be, and he brought the goods. Zelaya did great things for Nica, among them funding for education and infrastructure, grating rights to all citizens including women, and outlawing slavery. But unfortunately he was a little to Nationalistic for American mining and timber interests, and even began talks with the Germans, Japanese, and British for a competing trans-isthmian Canal.

Well American president Taft had something to say about all of this even going so far as calling Zelaya a “medieval despot”. Through the Knox Note in 1909 the US demanded Zelaya’s resignation calling for a government “capable of responding to demands…”etc, etc. Zelaya got the point, packed his bags, and left for exile. US marines came in and did the next logical thing, installed a new government that knew, if you will, who their daddy was. As before, the locals didn’t like this American intervention so much either, and one of them, Zeledon decided to organize and fight back knowing good and well he was signing his own death warrant. He died, and his rebellion was quieted, but his spirit and ideas were carried on in the national and international superstar of Augusto Cesar Sandino.

Sandino was born a poor Nicaraguan and went to work for United Fruit and a US petroleum company in Mexico. Like the nerdy kid in school, he and his country were generally picked on by Mexicans and other Central Americans, for living under and allowing the rule of the North American Big Daddy. Sandino took this to heart and being inspired by the rebellion started by Zeledon began to fight back, to “recover its national sovereignty, stolen from us by the Yankee Empire.” After much fight back and afforded luck by the oncoming Great Depression the US retreated in 1932. So Sandino won and in turn brokered a peace deal with the American puppet and president Sacasa. But before the marines left, they installed Anastacio Somoza as jefe of the National Guard.

Somoza, not unlike most of the rest of us, wanted power and wealth and decided to do something about it - and I guess it’s easier when you have the National Guard under your command. Anyway, after Sandino and President Sacasa had a festival sort of ball one evening, the NG stops Sandino on ride home, kidnaps him, takes him to an airport runway and shoots him. This puts Somoza in good position to nudge out Sacasa, which he does, then calls for elections, which he wins in 1936. Somehow only 169 people found the courage to vote against him.

“He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s ours,” were Roosevelt’s comments upon Somoza’s lavish reception in Washington soon after all the smoke settled. Upon completing his 5 year term, and given Nicaragua’s constitution bans re election, Somoza hand picked a friend, Arguello, and held corrupt elections to get him elected. Once elected Arguello throws his hands up, or washes them clean, and says he has no commitments with anyone. Of course Somoza doesn’t like to hear this, so he calls up his army lead a coup and reinstates himself as dictator.

Well to shorten things, three Somozas ruled Nicaragua with much US support, until 1979. To be sure, they were all dictators – doing much of what dictators normally do: amassing much wealth and power by “controlling railroad and steamship lines, factories, fishing fleets, gold mines, lumber companies, and Nicaraguas largest brewery.” They also traded in drugs, gambling, and prostitution for fun. They censored the press while torturing and killing dissidents appropriately.

After the country had enough of this, which I can imagine they did, they became more sympathetic to a growing nationalistic movement, with Marxist leanings, called the Sandinistas. These Sandinistas fought their way into power and were set on “destroying a system that had created so much injustice.” They redistributed farm lands, launched literacy campaigns, and even kicked out my favorite organization the Peace Corps for a mistrust of motives. Although after so much past American influence, I don’t know if I can fault their misconceived beliefs.

So this book, Blood of Brothers, spends over 200 pages on the years ’79 to ’90. But the basics of all of it is this: the US didn’t like the Sandinistas, so the CIA funded and trained (clandestinely at first) an anti-revolutionary movement (contras) and pretty much an all out civil war. Add to this a devastating earthquake in ’72 and you have the basis for a country that went from being one of the most developed in all of Central America at the turn of the 20^th century to being the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere at this current time.

So our story of tyranny and rebellion ends in 1988 with a peace deal brokered by Costa Rica’s President and Nobel Laureate Oscar Arias. This established the democratically elected government that still functions today in Nicaragua.

I have never been to a country so recently torn by civil war and I'm interested to see for myself what Nicaragua looks like and feels like today. I can not really image.

Here's your wiki...http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicaragua

I guess I'm a sucker for familiarity. Or maybe its balance. Whatever it is, I'm sending out from where I set in. Three last nights at la casa de carmen to match the first three nights I spent at this comfy courtyared and hammocked of a hostel on arrival in country. If I had some weird form of amnesia I might fool myself into believing my tarzan life never really existed. I mean what do I have to show for it? No parasites according to three straight days of pooping in a cup. No malaria, dengue, or really any other jungle fever you can faintly remember the name of, but heard its really bad. And they're bad, I promise you. Never got it, but I promise you don't want it. I also seem to have narrowly escaped the Chicken Pox outbreak over the past month in my community and the neighboring one. Anyone that hadn't had the ohh so attractive welts covering their body before a month ago has had them now.

So unfortunately, my immune system doesn't like to hear me share cool sickness stories with my friends. That's all right. I still have the head full of bees stinging story. Our best crocodile hunter impression story. The tree ripened banana eating in the rain while hiding under cacao leaves in the jungle story. General living with indians in the jungle stories, including monkey alarm clocks and spear fishing. I have Amaranto's epic quest to find a wife in the Darien and bring her back home no matter her age or the amount of time he has known her...that story as well. Along with Amaranto's epic quest goes his ability to out fish anyone anytime, bringing home 20 fish or more whenever he wants, giving him the right to go to the Darien and find whichever wife suits him...as long as they aren't alergic to fish. I have other stories as well...they are just buried deep and maybe (but hopefully not) be called up only by certain trigger words. So excuse me if I have random flash backs and burst into laughter while sitting quietly listening to you talk to me. It's just that this is going to be on my mind for a while.

Some thoughts stored and forgotten

Something I found stored away from about 4 months ago. An interesting peek at things back then (especially for me). Seems like this was written after a probably frustrating day as I sense my cynical side coming through. So maybe this is a small picture of Peace Corps on one of those days. But I also must say my thoughts have changed and evolved since. Maybe I could do a response to this sometime. Anyway, here you go...


Some good things happening. Computers are now in Spanish and the unknown “file” is now a more understandable “archive”. The keyboard also jumped around on people, with the @ sign now being hidden behind the alt and 2 key. I guess now I will be keyboard translating instead of file menu translating. But that’s all right; at least now the accent doesn’t take an alt plus a three digit number to get to. If they could only place their fingers on asdf jkl; the world could be so much easier for them. Or me? Actually they probably could care less, they just ask me the same question a hundred times over when they get stuck.

Zuleika is slowly progressing with her mouse range. Although still wanting to drive her finger through the mouse button on a double click. Madeline got the right click down today. I think.

I do wonder sometimes as I walk under Aristides et al. on my way to the computer room. As I fill myself with worry and hurry and sometimes even double step it there to download a Service Pack 2 or install the entire office suite. The pounding of his makeshift wooden hammer log and homemade al against the cocobolo turtle he is working on summon me back to earth. My minds eye sees the turtle held between his feet, as he sits bent over and 6 inches off the floor on his simple wooden stool. I’ve seen the image so many times already. Really every time I take a peak over his way. He works, dark red wood chips cover his clothes and surround him like rose petals around a bride. More veins then I ever knew a person to have cover his forearms and hands as they maneuver tightly around his rough masterpiece.

I wonder as I look back and see Huma on the floor, eight feet off the ground, and leaning to her left, legs bent to her right as she plays with her three year old granddaughter. She always says something to me in Wounaan, still so foreign to my ear. I wonder as I see the three sisters, three wives of three brothers, weaving up there, shy and only now starting to smile at me first. I wonder. Who is going to use this Microsoft suite I am rushing to install? Huma, Aristides, etc. don’t even show face in the computer converted side of their bathroom. Actually, Aristides did once, the first class. I feel it was more like a show of support and a welcoming gesture then any interest whatsoever in the subject matter. I mean really, he’s going to be carving Cocobolo every day for the rest of his life. And he doesn’t mind that or even should you.

So I wonder, how many people is all this currently impacting? Well unless a huge flood of tourists come as a result of the new web page, which I’m pretty sure won’t happen, the current impact of all this is very small. But then the potential is big. It’s big for the younger residents of San Antonio, I tell myself.

This makes me smile

Yeah Victor!! And thanks betsy!

Check this out...

Another Fishing Tale

I was in the middle of one of my tranquilo early morning and pre-breakfast guitar sessions when my host mom butted in. Well, not exactly “butted in” as I was not in the privacy of my own room with the door closed...if I did in fact have a room, or even a door. It was more like I was off in guitar land; the far off place where only Jack Johnson rhythms can take you.

Anyway, without any provocation at all Luciada held out a small shinny white strip of freshly cut fish belly. “Aquí esta tu carnada Mateo,” she said not so fluently, handing me the small ribbon of flesh. It caught me off guard for a second. I had not spoken, much less thought, about fishing for some time now, and here is Lucianda handing me precious bait. I usually have a hard time picking up on subtle hints. But this was not one of them. It was more than obvious what she wanted me to do with that bait.

“Here’s your lure, now go out and catch some fish if you want breakfast,” I saw her saying with that outstretched piece of fish flesh. And even with my empty stomach, I sat there and considered the proposition for a second or two. I was really enjoying my music up until this point; kind of like being woken from one of those heavy sleeps where you don’t want to get out of bed or even roll over. But I got up, reluctantly, and a little angry at the interruption, and grabbed that slimy smelly strip of fish belly with one hand and put my guitar away with the other; making certain not to get my guitar dirty.

I hadn’t been fishing for a few weeks and this was actually on purpose. I was tired of cast after cast with nothing on the reel in. Although the small piece of real meat was far superior to the usual narrow piece of frayed white cloth from the bottom of my t-shirts, I was still doubtful. And I in fact went over two hours without the slightest indication that fish actually still lived in water. Right around 10 I gave in to the empty feeling in my belly and put my pride aside to call it quits after one more cast.

Not really even paying much attention to the somehow still shiny piece of meat, I felt something trying to pull the rod from my hands. I gave a look, to make sure it was indeed a real live fish and not some mean combination of seaweed and current. As soon as I saw some commotion down there at the end of my line I started pulling and reeling about as subtly as my host mom told me to go fishing. And about 5 seconds later it was over, my line floated up to the surface with no hook on the end.

“Damn it!” I probably said out loud. Had I still had my hook, this excitement would have given me at least another hour of hopeful fishing. I even looked down to my body for more bait, but dressed in only a green pair of shorts and some dark colored boxers, I had no other options. Nothing to tempt this guy, even if he would consider swallowing another hook. So I slung my rod and reel back in the canoe and was forced home. If only to rub my luck in my face, I passed by at arms length a ginormous fish sitting next to a fallen log. I cussed that guy a few times too I think.

Once home, I threw my pole up into the house, and prepared myself to explain what just happened. Having somehow managed to get it all out, my host mom reminded me, “ahh, Mateo, tu iba a comer mmuuuucho pescado hoy,” (Mateo, you were going to eat a LOT of fish today) as if I was the one wanting fish to begin with. She proceeded to hand me my consolation breakfast of white rice and a meager piece of fried chicken. I ate it, a little disgruntled at her for making me go in the first place.

This is what I could have been eating.......

A Meal Fit for a Cacique

It’s all fair game here with the Indians. There is close to nothing que no se come. I woke up this morning and on my way down the ladder to pee I see a turtle on its back, swimming through mid-air. I was thinking of flipping him over and playing with him for a bit. But then I thought that would be wrong; to get him all excited, then make soup out of him. I don’t know if it is my history with turtles (you know the whole world of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that all boys in my generation grew up in) but it was really hard for me to think of eating this real life Michelangelo. I realized that without the ooze to make him mutant he’s really helpless, especially there on his back. He might beat the rabbit in the kid's fable, but I think the author knew somehow to not include Indians in that story. Not that they would have spared the rabbit either.

Telvinia had a ñeque cooking over the fire just the other day. Trying to figure out just what a ñeque was in English, and without any other ideas at all, Leo and I agreed on an over grown hamster. My childhood friend with the hamster metropolis in his bedroom wouldn’t have been happy with Telvinia, or Almodio. The next day I asked Telvinia how the ñeque was and she said Almodio ate it all himself.

Then there’s the armadillo. I really only thought they make good food for buzzards, but that’s not true. Armadillos are just as edible as overgrown hamsters, that is of course, before they become road kill. I was given a piece some time ago. And by piece I mean not like a chunk of meat, but rather a piece of shell the inside of which I was obliged to scrap my dinner off of.

Shall I continue with this gourmet menu fit for a Cacique? So far its been pretty cheep for our Cacique, the ingredients being all caught in or around the community. I pity the soul of the four legged creature who walks himself into the middle of this death trap of a community. But the gourmet meal doesn’t stop with only what’s caught. When there’s money it can even be bought. Like the rabo de puerco, pata de puerco, or hígalo de pollo. All of which I am surprised to learn are more costly than their more normal eatable parts. I was even told today that the rabo de puerco is imported from China or Japan. I can see it now, one of those ginormous ships trudging through the canal full of pig’s tail. Their most important, if not only mission: to bring millions of pig’s tails to Panama.

Like I said, some of this I have eaten and some I have easily said no to. But the one food I have yet to eat, but which I have heard so much about, is alligator tail. “Sabroso,” Almodio tells me as I see him immediately start to salivate at the thought. The hold back isn’t catching them. Bacilio does so with no problem, regularly, whenever we go night fishing. He also throws them in the bottom of the boat for his amusement. A thin metal boat with space for a mere 6 people at most is great amusement for Bacilio when there is a live alligator freaking out on the floor. I’ve never seen a guy's fishing trip sound so much like a scary movie with the girlfriend. I laugh now at the thought of us flying up on to the seats or edges of that boat. Especially Almodio, who speaks about 10 words a minute and who I rarely see get excited.

Here's a little something for ya

They sit, two brothers, side by side on the built in bench of their furniture free home. "Aleluya man, Aleluya" blares thinly from the small squared and solar powered tape player to their side. Hands bounce from thigh to thigh, mimicking the bongo beats hidden in the accordian thick "tipica".

They've moved; grouped now in three, to the edge of the house, overlooking the morning's rays. Bacilio can better see from here to work the gel into his close latino haircut. He holds the crudely shaped piece of mirror with his feet, his back curled in less than correct posture. They're working together, Amaranto standing comb in hand, over Humberto. Not to compare them to monkeys, but they look out for each others hair needs much like I see monkeys do in National Geographic magazines or on the Discovery Channel.

Breakfast today was cooked by Felipe, with a heavy masculine touch. The white rice and lental mixture sits steaming, waiting for me to cover it in hot sauce. Nothing starts the day quite like a cold shower, unignorable tipica that doesn't fit into any of my previous musical schemas, and a breakfast better suited for my dinnner appetite.

It's 9:30. The morning's breakfast and businesses have been taken (and left). Work was started but stopped short. Much like those familiar apagones in Santo Domingo, the power stopped and there was nothing anyone could do about it; at least at that very moment. Moving the solar pannels was discussed again, but that's down the road. A few overhanging platano leaves were cut and I was hoping the small blackout would get the pannels cleaned today, but looks like a no go on that. Felipe went looking for 5 more palm leaves to finish a missing corner of the roof and Almodio went back to carving his piece of Tagua. It's amazing how people can seemingly dissappear when you don't know what they are saying. I'm sure it was discussed, but suddenly I'm the only one left in the house. Not that I mind the tranquility. The birds are the loudest ones now. I wonder how many species of them I am hearing? Once again, if I only knew their tongue...

Yeah, that's the female one, more or less...

"Si, esta es la hembra. Mas o menos."

Arisitides likes to say mas o menos. Even in less than "more or less" situations. Like when I asked him today about the two parakeets pigging out on the pile of rice left for them on the floor. And I believed him that the broken footed one was the female, for no reason other than, of anyone, he should know. I mean, he carves them out of Cocobolo. But then he said mas o menos, and got me all confused. He also told me that Pipeline Road also comes out at a highway, mas o menos. Mas o menos does me know good when I'm trying to plan a weekend hike along Pipeline and would like to know if I will be able to find a trafficked road to get home by. I should have known and stopped at the more or less female parakeet.

Aristides also works 40 hours a week, often putting in overtime. I know he’s working even when I can’t see him working. I’ve become accustomed to the solid clunk of his make-shift hammer log pounding the butt of his various sized carving tools. And then when I do see him, like this morning during the confusing bird gender conversation, he’s covered in deep red cocobolo chips. His legs are most always bent at the knees, almost in a cross leg Indian position, if only they were crossed. He usually stops with the bottoms of his feet together. His simple seat raises him a good 6-8 inches off the floor. But now that I come to think of it, that’s probably intentional. He likes to grab his artwork with his feet to stabilize it, giving him two free hands to chip away with.

He is also a lover of geography. We often get into conversations discussing locations of various far off (and other seemingly far off) countries. And that’s when his fondness for the mas o menos phrase comes to my benefit. I often leave Africa close, mas o menos, to Taiwan in my appraisal their geographic locations, when necessary.

Ok, it's been less than sunny and my battery doesn't like that. Time to stop.

Here's a picture for you. And it happens to be of Aristides uncle, Nando.

Ropes that swing and monkeys in trees

It’s a swinging kind of Sunday. I mean like rope swinging. Mateo and Bladimir were jumping and hurling themselves around, all 6 inches off the ground, with the help of a random rope tied to one of the supporting beams below their house. Then with all the excitement of a six year old they sprinted full out, mouths straining, for the banana tree. I had no clue as to the excitement a banana tree could hold but to my amazement it can be used for swinging as well. The dead leaves turn into a thick fibrous vine that now that I think of it would be excellent for swinging. To carry out our weeks supply of green bananas, my mom also interlaces it through the racismo and then loops it around her forehead. Kind of like a natural banana backpack. So, if it can support 50 pounds of banana weight I’m sure it’ll do just fine with 50 pounds of swinging muchacho weight.

As I was watching them play I remembered how packed full of fun Sunday afternoons can be for a six year old. It’s constant adventure; from the rope swing, to the banana swing, to the bamboo pole. And this is all with no mention of a ball. Now they are on the ball which seemingly has an infinite number of play possibilities.

After watching for a while, I climbed down from my house to look for a little excitement of my own. I found Nivardo calmly looking out to the canopy of trees that border our community. “Un mono,” he tells me pointing. And a monkey it was indeed. The first I had seen this close to our community. After joking with Custodio about the blow dart gun para comerlo, I spent the next 15 minutes immersed in a world of wonder all my own. This is the monkey whose yawn sounds like thunder, and I only wonder how big he has to open his mouth to get all that sound out. They must wake from one hell of a hard sleep because they really only yawn in the morning. So rather then roosters (there’s only one here) I have howling monkeys in trees to wake me up at 5 in the morning. That is besides one of those “bird sounds” cds someone puts in just around that time.

dispatches from a mosquitero

So what's it been like?

Well today I helped my host mom look for bananas and platanos. (that’s not all I did, but just the first thing that came to mind). My mom is hard core I must say. She by far out carries me in the platano carrying contest. She's more like a mule with 3 racismos de guino slung over her back and shoulders. I was walking behind her today on our way out (by the way, the way out is practically silent compared to the way in) and thought how if she fell she quite possibly would be crushed by the number of guienos she had on her back. I was carrying about 50 pounds myself and she had way more than me. And had a machete.

Oh and also I don't know if there is anything better (well there probably is, but at the moment it was pretty awesome) than hiding under banana leaves, while rain drips down from the canopy above, and enjoying a nice fat naturally ripened banana. I actually probably had over 20 bananas today; between the green ones that make up the substance my 3 daily meals and the 5 ripe ones I ate waiting there for the rain to slow. I mean you have to get them before the monkeys do. And monkeys really do eat bananas; it's not just a Curious George thing.

I also went diving for oysters today. We ended up with an overflowing 5 gallon bucket full of them. And I proudly contributed about 5 of those. The three other guys filled it the rest of the way. I think next time I'll be able to give those oysters a better run for their money. (They actually are not just sitting there with their mouths open, that's taunting their doing.) This is the second time I have been out looking in (and depending on) the lake for my food. I kind of feel almost stone age ish about it, especially now with my Indian arm band tattoo. And the fact that us 4 males brought the bucketful of game/food back for the female to put in the other half of the work also made it that much more cave dweller ish.

Anyway, as such I thought I was getting oysters tonight for dinner. Instead I was handed boiled green bananas and fried mini-hot dogs. I questioned (not exactly objecting, just questioning) and learned that although cooked and prepared the oysters are for tomorrow. That's all fine and dandy, although right now I am 90% certain that I will get them for breakfast; with the always reliable guieno verde. And that's not fine or dandy.

Just the other night

Well I guess there is dinner tonight.

After climbing up into the house and not seeing anyone around, I decided to make an early night of it anyway. I swept the floor off, shook out my pad, sheets and pillow, tied up and tucked in my mosquitero, and squeezed in my ear plugs so 5am won’t sound so early tomorrow when everyone leaves for school. But after about 45 minutes of me lying awake wondering if my toes are too exposed to a night ambush by the mosquitoes or even those other 8 legged and far more scary night owls, I not only heard but felt everyone come home. Kind of how I imagine a snake would feel the ground vibrating as I passed near-by. I guess it is the result of the floor being seven feet off the ground and not every board being firmly nailed to the supporting beams underneath. Actually it can feel like a small but constant earthquake in the morning while everyone is busy leaving for school. Add to that, numerous bright beams of light sporadically poring through the empty spaces between the bamboo that make my room “a room,” and you have a terribly frightening set for a PTSD flashback. Anyway, I guess I will crawl my way out of this small sanctuary I have here and eat something for dinner and probably slap myself silly, and maybe kill a mosquito, in the process.

Here's a picture for ya. Looking from my house to the neighbors.

La Casa de Carmen

I thought this place was too good to be true. The similarities of Panama City and the States are incredible. Public transportation is scarcely more prominent than in Portland, as it seems most people here have their own cars. There are no guaguas running from their dirty black exhaust and little if any exhaust cloud to envelope me as I cross the street. The list could continue: drinkable tap water, eatable lettuce, 100 % all the time electricity, hot showers (not that I would ever consider them in this climate), and the plumbing to handle flushed toilet paper.

The hostel I have been staying at for these first few days in Panama City is of the Lonely Planet variety. Full of college aged English speaking backpackers and retired travelers. It even has a resident parrot that wakes me up in the morning and obediently sits on its roost all day long in the middle of the courtyard outback.

As I returned today, I thought to ask the hostel guy in the front where I could do my laundry, expecting to have to hike to some place across town. But he nonchalantly replied “no, aquí mismo. Y tu puedes secar también.” What!? Are you kidding me? You have a washer AND a dryer? Wow, I amazed once again at this country.

Not wanting to wear my last pair of underwear for a week straight as I figure out the laundry situation in my site, I got right to my laundry. The setting selection, soap in, clothes in, door down routine came so naturally to me (I did just come from the states). Finished with that callus causing laundry scrubbing, I grabbed a beer, book, and pack of crackers to enjoy as I kicked back and waited.

About thirty minutes later, my internal clock told me it was about time to throw my clothes in the dryer. So I went over and threw open the lid only to find, not my cloths spun dry and beautifully sticking to the sides of the washing machine, but the whole machine still full of water, stopped half-way through the wash cycle.

“It stopped, eso” I commented to the hostel guy who was involved with something next to me.

“Yeah, I know.”

Ok….and…

An intense waterfall of feelings and oh so tangible memories overtook me. I was seeing, hearing, smelling, and standing in a completely different time and place as soon as he said the words…

“Se fue la luz.”

Utterly speechless. Never thought THIS would happen HERE. This is Panama City, Panama, US of A.

“Oh, ok that’s fine.” I replied nicely, trying to comfort the embarrassed tone of his voice.

As I walked back to my room I passed two Australian backpackers, the kind that would frequent these types of Lonely Planet establishments, one of which smelled like pot. I noticed he was quickly and desperately hammering the light switch up and down.

“Electricity’s out.” I told him comfortably.

“Ah, man! That sucks! What the hell!?”

Smiling to myself on the inside for being such a Peace Corps Volunteer about it, I continued to my room to grab my head lamp.

But it suddenly dawned on me. I am leaving to my site for the first time early tomorrow morning. And half my clothes are stuck half way through their wash cycle. And even of I did take them out and finish the job myself they would never dry overnight in this humidity.

“Ah, man! This sucks!” I think to myself. “Well, I’m going to have to do something…”

A book and some thoughts

I've been scourging the internet and local library for as much information as possible on my new home. There is some on Panama, more on the canal, but less and much less on Gamboa or Ella Puru/San Antonio (my neighboring communities). And I didn't think this was possible but Wikipedia comes up with an astonishing nada for queries on the Embera and Wounaan languages (native languages of the tribes of Ella Puru and San Antonio). Google does scarcely better. I think for the first time ever I have been disappointed with that magical little Google search button.

I did pick up a great book at the library by David McCullough entitled A Path Between the Seas; all about the history of the Panama canal. And since I will be living not only in The Canal country but within the 10 mile watershed area around it I figured this book would be all the more pertinent. History never did much for me but I have to say this book has the stuff of an incredible movie. I already have a title too...A Man A Plan A Canal Panama. And to further represent the palindromeness of the title, I think the movie should be made so you could watch it from the end to the beginning just the same.

So, in reading this book I noticed this description of life in the Panamian jungle circa 1880ish. "...They chewed on Havana cigars as they squinted into the brass eyepieces of surveying instruments. They slapped at the interminable mosquitoes; they picked scorpions the size of a hand from their boots in the morning. They shot alligators, some twenty feet in length, and brought back the stripped pelts of jaguars. And they were extremely good at their work."

I didn't even realize jaguars existed. I guess I knew they had existed at one point but just figured they had all been killed off. I was accustomed to only seeing them from a safe distance on the hoods of expensive automobiles.

Then there’s this one. "...The men worked in constant fear of poisonous snakes (coral, bushmaster, fer-de-lance, all three among the world's most deadly reptiles) and of the big cats (puma and jaguar). Days and nights were made a living hell by bichos, the local designation for ticks, chiggers, spiders, ants, mosquitoes, flies, or any other crawling, buzzing, stinging form of insect life for which no one had a name."

Not only jaguars but Pumas! Wow! Awesome! The bichos, well not so much.

...and we're back

New country, new post, and of course I had to give it a new look. Feels almost like a new haircut. Reviving the good old blog and hoping for a creative spark to start posting again. The Panamanian jungle, two weeks and counting...