NicaDayz - Miserable bastards

Message: 1
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 1999 20:22:17 -0300
From: jberman@ibw.com.ni (Josue Berman)
Subject: Miserable Bastards!

Dear NicaHeadz,

Well, it's gettin' time to throw some clothes in my pack, put the passport in my money belt, and make sure my guitar case is nice and padded for a little trip south. I'm getting excited to travel, both this week to Costa Rica, and next spring as well when my service ends (possibly as far north as Alaska, all overland) - I feel like I've already got one foot out of La Trinidad. My Close of Service kit arrived from Washington this week, so it's starting to smell official.
But I'm not there yet. And every day, I find myself in the middle of scenes - individual vignettes that at first seem normal to me because of how long I've been here, but when I take a step back, I realize just how strange and dramatic
it all still is! When I first got to Nicaragua, I reveled in the richness of every day - the colors, smells, sounds, and me all wrapped up in it. Well, I may forget it sometimes, but I'm still here. And you're all still out there! Por favor - if you're still reading the NicaDayz pretty regularly but haven't written me in a while, how bout a shoutout? Let me know how your end-of-the-year is going, where you are, where you been. . .it may take me awhile to get back to you, as I'll be away from my computer for a few weeks, but I'd like know you're there. So where was I? Oh yeah, scenes, vignettes, colors, sounds, smells.
. . .

I sat in Eudelia's big, open, dark kitchen, eating breakfast at about half past six this morning. My fridge was busted and I didn't feel like walking down the block to buy milk and eggs so I just went across the street. I sat in the big smoke-blackened kitchen of Eudelia's restaurant, trying to ignore the flies. She had stopped sweeping yesterday's mess across the floor to cook up my beans and eggs, so the flies were whooping it up on old cabbage, onion scraps, and cheese wrappers. Eudelia's huge body stood in front of the stove, working the black iron pans like they were extensions
of her arms. Her tired feet painfully supported her while she cooked and complained to me about not sleeping well last night. I sat at a crusty wooden table with her 8-year-old daughter and drank my coffee. The girl drank coffee too and smiled at me while her mother complained. 'What are you going to do for New Year's?' I asked Eudelia. She turned around from the stove and was suddenly happy. 'We're going to have a party and I'm going to cook two stuffed chickens!'

It was hard to call don Pio's place a 'bar.' He sold beer and cheap rum, and men gathered there to drink it. I guess those are the minimum requirements, though. There were no windows, just dirty red brick and three closed wooden doors. One door was open, and some light came in through cracked roof tiles too. It was pretty dark though. The ground was packed dirt and the dark walls were nearly bare. There was an old photo framed in the plastic packaging from a walkman, and there were a couple of shiny gold 'Feliz Navidad' and '2000!' decorations, but they were all clustered in one dark corner and you barely noticed them. About eight men sat in mis-matched wooden and plastic chairs, more or less in a circle. It was Sunday afternoon and they were dressed for the occasion. Cowboy boots, dark pants, plaid shirts. Some wore cowboy hats as well; probably the ones with horses tied up outside. Others were bareheaded, but their hair was carefully styled with motor oil or something. They were mostly older men in their 40s
and 50s. All had lines on their faces, neatly-trimmed black moustaches and everyone was fairly sauced. They were calm, happy drunks though, and when I broke out my guitar and banjo, a warm anticipation hovered around them and
somebody poured me a tall shot. 'Mexican music!' demanded the oldest of the men with a big, beige, rounded felt cowboy hat. 'Play us a ranchera!'

The fireworks had been exploding all day, loud sudden bombas to 'call God's attention to our alegria,' as one woman had explained them to me. There was lots of shouting too, and drunkenness. The chichera music was new though,
and as the band approached my barrio from blocks away, we heard it from the soft, afternoon darkness of my bedroom where we were making love. Chichera music is happy and loud and scrappy and they play it from up in the
patched-together wooden stands of the bullrings. It is driving and steady music, but loud and chaotic also. There's a bass drum, a snare, cymbals, a sousaphone, and loud, clashing brass - drunken dixieland with lots of dust.
The music banged its way through my walls, through the mosquito net with its mellow folds and mesh shadows. We matched our rhythm to the big bass drum and as the band approached and passed my house, we laughed together,
faces close, sweat mixing.

Peace out everyone and have a fun, festive time.
As my late, great Grandpa Dick used to say,

"HAPPY NEW YEAR YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS!"

Lotsa love,

Josue