Lots of words lately, what can I say, I'm a writer.  Well, here's a reprieve:  Masatepe in photo.

  Porch Sitting

Tree Climbing

  Farm Chillin

 Fresh Cocos

 Siesta Time 

 Hope for Water

 Take in a View

 Free Papaya

It’s true that living in Nicaragua requires some, uhm…adjustments.  But before discussing those, I think it’s appropriate to begin this post with gratitude by highlighting some very stark differences between our version of “local” living and the lives of most locals. 

We are renting a one bedroom, one bath apartment in Masatepe.  The kitchen/dining room has space for a quaint round table and four chairs.  Along one wall are cabinets, a sink, a bit of counter space and a cooktop stove with three burners that is connected by hose to a propane tank that sits underneath said counter.  The free standing frig has a small freezer (though no auto-defrost).  The floors throughout the entire 550 (or so) square feet are tiled.  There are two beds with mattresses and a small bedroom closet.  The toilet flushes, the indoor, tiled shower has a curtain, the front door closes, there are windows, which have screens.  It costs $150 per month.

Our neighbors (Lupe, her daughters Karen and Cristen, and her son Peter) are set up a bit differently.  Their front door is a four foot metal gate that is strung across a fence made of creeper vines that have grown thick among the supporting twine.  You enter into their “open air” living room which holds two chairs and a rectangular card table.  To the right is a very narrow covered hallway.  After ducking under the overhang of the roof, you have stepped into the all purpose room: one chair squeezed in front of a three-tier shelf which holds a nine-inch TV, a few books, the family bible, a walkman, some cassette tapes, a nick-knack or two, a candle…in short, nearly every one of their non-essential possessions.  On the other side of the shelf, abutting it actually, is a single plank of wood supported by cement blocks which holds the cooktop above it and protects the tank below it.  To the left is the door to the one 8 X 10 bedroom.  Both the walls and roof of this tiny portion of house are constructed with solid, corrugated metal sheets.  The “floor” throughout, is packed earth. 

Take the last few steps through the hall and you’ve reached the outdoor portion of their living space, which is centered around a type of sink that is muy popular here in Nicaragua.  It’s large and rectangular, elevated on four legs and made out of cement.  On the left, is a flat surface for setting/storing things.  In the middle is a shallow sink basin with a drain which has a ridged bottom to scrub clothes on (like a washboard).  On the right is a much smaller, deep basin with a water valve.  The idea here is to collect water in the reservoir and dip it out to wash clothes or dishes in the middle section where the grey water can drain.  We have one of these as well, in the communal “laundry” room, but we’ll discuss that later.

This area is well-shaded by trees, so though a clothesline is strung, our neighbors are more likely to hang their clothes to dry upon their fence (yes, atop the plants) for sunlight.  Their yard also holds some plastic chairs, an outdoor shower and the outhouse. 

You can see why I insist on pointing out our obvious advantages.  However, it is also true we have many things in common with our neighbors, and this is where Nicaragua life gets quite interesting, or hilarious, or downright frustrating depending on your mood.

Like running water.  Lupe’s sink and shower are supplied by city water service just as ours is.  Never mind that we have three sinks (one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, another for laundry), none of us get any water at all from well, officially it’s supposed to be from 1:00-3:00 PM and 8:00 PM – 4:00 AM.  Since it rains each night in torrential downpours, we can’t quite understand the logic behind this rationing and though we’ve asked, no one seems to have an answer much past, “it’s always been that way.”  And we are further confounded by the fact that the water usually shuts off more around 11:00 AM, on some unlucky days, as early as 10:00 AM, which of course is pushing it for Fred and I to have even had our breakfast and showers by then.  Not too mention the days it doesn't bother to come on at all!

One of our first purchases was a big bucket, which everyday as soon as water resumes we diligently refill so we are able to flush, wash dishes, or wash ourselves!  In our one week here, I’ve already had one 4:30 AM washing session.  I woke up for some reason and decided no better time than to get the previous night’s dishes washed since water had cut-off early the night before, just as we were eating dinner which we had rush-prepared in order to make the 8:00 shut down.  We’ve been stubbornly resisting changing our up late, sleep late tendencies, but Nicaragua might break us yet.  Most everyone rises at 5:00 AM (with the sun) and goes to bed at 8:00 (with the cooling rains).  We are beginning to see the logic.

Like electricity.  Lupe has a grand total of one, naked bulb and two outlets, all three connected by wiring that is taped along the walls.  Never mind that we have an overhead light in each room, including the closet and all the wires are inside the wall, all of us have to deal with getting shocked!  Anytime, for instance, I flip a switch and accidently touch the metal screw that secures the light switch cover, I am jolted with electricity.  If the floor is wet around the refrigerator and I touch the outer frame…zap!  Aren’t there proven medical benefits to small doses of shock?  Or am I headed toward a lobotomic state?

Speaking of refrigerators, well, at least we have one, but as much as I poke fun of American’s obsession with bigger and better cold storage, I must admit it does get old having to purchase eggs every other day because there is no place to store a bulk supply.  I guess we are paying for our gringo habits since no one in Nicaragua bothers to refrigerate their eggs at all.  It’s quite illogical, actually, now that I think of it.  We buy them at “room” temperature (at least 85 degrees since it’s not like we are shopping in air conditioning) with no idea as too how long they’ve been sitting there and then bring them home and stick them in the frig.  Talk about habit!  I may have just eliminated one “adjustment.”  After all, I’ve got plenty of cabinet space since there’s really just not much to put in them!  The “big” super-market called Pali (Walmart owned!) stocks about as many items as a really fancy 7-11.

This brings us full circle to perfectly demonstrating “normal” Nicaragua life—filled with as many contradictions as pleasantries, as simple as it is challenging—since we normally just shop at the market. 

We tried to count.  In Masatepe’s open-air market, from the men and woman with the big baskets propped atop crates settled underneath large umbrellas for shade, there are around 40 different things you can buy.  20 of them are fruits.  This leaves a handful of vegetables and beans, rice, tortillas, cheese, oil and vinegar. 

On the way home, we check with the carnicera hoping she has some pork or beef and our last stop is the panadería to buy fresh bread and try to resist (often unsuccessfully) one of the sweet baked creations of the day.  

Advantage:  Daily doses of fresh fruit, warm bread, and healthy vegetables.  Many sunny walks.  Friendly interactions with market vendors.

Disadvantage:  Only having fruit, bread and vegetables to eat.  Many sunny walks.  Requisite human interaction. 

The “stadium” resembles an erector set project abandoned by the short attention span of a child.  Rickety boards criss-cross each other to connect to “support posts” that sway slightly in their grounded holes.  A section of the surrounding barbed wire fence has been rolled back to provide the “entrance” to the travelling rodeo that we are attending with a slew of kids.  Being exorbitantly generous, we laid out the $1 per head for Moises, Armondo, Alias, and Jose and even sprung for the $1.50 adult fee so their oldest sister Ericka could come along.  These are not all the ninos in our Nica family.  You might remember Pedro from Las Penitas.  As if having seven of his own kids isn’t enough, he’s now adopted two gringos. 

We will quickly discover why seating is precariously raised some 10 feet above the stadium’s dirt floor.  As we get settled—drag folding chairs into a shaded spot, check that all four chair legs are hitting wood (not a gaping crack or upraised nail), play musical chairs until the three youngest are satisfied with their view—thirty or so men and boys are not finding seats at all, but climbing down into the ring.  I’ll call this mass of men “bull hecklers” and you’ll soon see why.  In Nicaragua, rodeo is not just a spectator sport.  The bull hecklers are joined by male vendors who advertise their product with loud shouts and peruse for possible customers from the stadium floor.  When someone signals their desire to purchase planitos, helados (ice cream cups), or mani (peanuts), the vendador grabs a rung of the scaffolding (known as structural support in sound construction) hikes himself and his wares up to eye level, and balances on his flip-flops to conduct a transaction through the handrails (and not the A.D.A. approved kind).

Then, the first bull is slotted into the holding pen.  The whole mob (vendors and all) surge to the gate to, well, I don’t know what they crowd in to do.  To get a closer look at the bull? To cheer on the man who is about to hop on said bull?  To feel the danger of standing in front of a gate from which an enraged bull is about to surge?  All I know is that there is a lot of chatter and it takes a considerable amount of time before someone emerges from the mob as rider, easy to spot since he now stands atop the gate and wears a proper pair of riding boots.  Perhaps they are drawing straws.  After all, the Montanas (riders) in the Nicaraguan rodeo are not professionals, they are not even part of the travelling act, they are local guys who once a year try their hand at bull riding. 

The release of the bull is marked first by a brief increase in the volume of the mob’s collective voices before they all stop talking and start running!  As the gate swings open, grown men, growing boys, and vendors laden with shoulder-holstered goods scatter to the edges.  The torro comes kicking and bucking forth and as it approaches any particular side and any bull hecklers who’ve chosen that spot either dive or climb for cover.  The logic of the aforementioned design now becomes obvious.  Here, being “under the bleachers” is even more thrilling than an illicit make-out session.  It’s a life saving hurling of yourself, either under the makeshift fence or up it, to lay or hang in wait of the bull’s departure.  Meanwhile, the unthreatened hecklers are tentatively venturing from all sides to pester the bull by throwing verbal taunts and plastic bottles or waving any scraps of red they’ve managed to come by for the occasion: handkerchiefs, ball caps, t-shirt pieces.  When the torro turns, everyone scrambles.  Repeat.  Eventually the rider falls or tires and signals for the bull to be lassoed in.

The whole process is as undeniably cruel as it is fascinating.  I’m not sure if I continue to watch because I can’t quite believe there are regular people running around in an enclosed space with a huge bull yielding huge horns which has been purposely enraged by the cinching of its huge balls OR if it’s that an archaic grouping of un-evolved cells lodged deep in my brain stem has been activated and is waiting, no rooting for one of these regular people to be impaled on a huge horn of a huge bull whose huge balls have been cinched.  But watch I did, my enlightened self is embarrassed to admit, 12 of these episodes, though by the ninth or tenth one the novelty (or the revulsion) had worn off. 

As it has taken this whole post to share with you two hours of last weekend’s visit to Pedro’s hometown of Masatepe, you might understand why we returned and chose this city as home for at least the next month.  We can think of anyplace better to be an UnTourist!

I should have learned by now not to let the weeks pile up, but I guess procrastination lurks at every latitude. 

Our month in San Juan Del Sur is up.  We've come to think of it like training wheels: getting up and running with our language skills while developing a feel for the country.  Our first thought was to move on, but as we pondered where to go we realized we were perhaps falling into a travelers "norm."  Common questions among travelers are "What other countries have you visited?" and "Where next?"  Now, there are different approaches to everything, and certainly seeing the best of what a variety of countries has is an amazing adventure.  But we came to Central America to experience a new lifestyle and culture and live an easy/laidback life in a great climate.  Which doesn't match packing up and getting on to a new place.  We know some bus routes, can count in Cordobas and have learned some of the language particular to Nicas and besides, there is much more to do to explore this country fully!  So, we've decided to stay in Nicaragua and make the transition from our "starter" town.  Our first stop is to explore some other beach towns, hoping to find a place by the sea whose local economy is not dependant on tourism. 

Now, for the highlight reel, the best of San Juan Del Sur:

1.  Aprendimos mucho espanol.  (Fred can now go to the market alone, bargain for his beans, onions, potatoes and eggs (frijoles, cebollas, papas and huevos) and understand the price when the vendedora gives him the total in cordobas.)

2.  Learning desmoche, a Nica variation of rummy, and winning, when our local teachers insisted on putting money on the game.

3.  Spending several days at Playa Maderas, and having a beautiful, endless beach to ourselves.

4.  Fred winning a holdem tournament (Held monthly at a fancy bar on the beach, 25 players) which when combined with Celina's winnings at a house game paid our month's rent!

5.  Grilling whole fish (though really, it was the process: buying pargo rojo (red snapper) from the pescador, descaling it, oiling and salting it, getting the wood (la lena) lit on the grill, then eating it without choking on a bone.)   

6.  Getting drunk together one lazy, sunny afternoon for no reason at all.

7.  Our tans.

8.  Searching for and finding this little old lady to take in our shorts since we lost another inch after all our climbs up the hill to our casa.

9.  The carnicero: a super friendly, short, fat butcher who never failed to make us laugh and took to calling us amigos after our first three visits in one week.
   

And, of course, a visit from Ken!  Fred's long time friend finally got his passport and his butt to Nicaragua!  The later hours of his last evening in country were spent by the three of us lounging around our outdoor picnic table, unnecessary cocktails in hand, and laughing ourselves to tears recounting the experiences of his visit.  Nicaragua greeted him with rain, lots of it, pouring onto Ken's wisely packed raincoat as we ducked between tents in the oh so crowded market of Jinotepe.  This was intended to be his first cultural experience, leisurely walking through and seeing how business is done in an open air market place.  Instead, it was a drenched sprint, filled with water intensified smells, ankle deep street currents, and blurred glances of piles of fruit, mounds of cheese, sacks of beans, strings of packaged snacks, rows of shoes, ropes of used american clothing, racks of spices, hooks of meat, baskets of vegetables, trays of sweets, tangles of watches, stacks of wood, canisters of oil, bins of toys, displays of bread, and card tables lined with odd assortments of beauty products.

He later laughed that perhaps the rain was a good thing, a balm to soothe his culture shock, though it didn't last for long.  We soon splashed into the bus station and rain was not enough to smother the calls and yells of the bus attendants, shouts that Ken took to mean immanent danger.  See, in Nicaragua, there are no "automated/backlit/electronic" signs that correspond to neatly labeled parking rows and numbered bus routes.  If you think greyhound stations are chaotic, try Jinotepe's autobus terminal.  Instead of signs, there are guys who meander around hollering in a unique, repetitive cadence the destination of the bus they operate.  Of course, not knowing that the city we were headed to was called Rivas, or being able to understand that the guy was indeed saying Rivas, or being prepared for an onslaught of yelling and pointing men, Ken assumed the calls somehow signified "look there's a gringo, get him!"  In our evening of reminiscing, this memory of having such fear, only to realize that in actuality it was just guys trying to HELP him find his bus, brought belly cramps.

Listen for yourself...click here:  rivas.wav (565.90 kb)

We relived a glorious beach day, a Nica karaoke bar, late night pizza, catching rides out the back of jeeps, bargaining for souvenirs, hiking the surrounding hillsides, carousing and bar hopping, and a general great time in a new place with an old friend.