NicaDayz - Everydayness

Date: Thu, 9 Sep 1999 10:00:21 -0300
From: jberman@xxx.xxx.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx)
Subject: Everydayness
Mis Amigos,

Well, I could write about my weekend in Managua, but I don't want to get into the habit of only telling you about my rocking Saturday nights (see NicaDayz Digests 30 and 31 for a real good time). And even if my Saturdays continue to be wildly unpredictable and exciting, it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the days of the week. Still, I must make mention that last Sabado I had a totally classic Hospedaje Santos guitar/rum/blues/hammock session with a very international crew of new friends, followed by dancing and an inspiring rato with the Salsa King of Sweden who looked like Patrick Swayzee and had just fallen in love with a Latina dance Goddess, or so he called her in his Scandinavian English as he gushed and giggled all over the tostones con queso in Club Amatl. . .and the night went on from there, but no - I won't do it. Nor will I make any mention of gastro-intestinal distress, as Grandma Helen was sure my readers do not want to hear about it (write a letter to the editor if you'd like to agree or disagree).

So no parties, and no diarrhea. I wasn't sure where that left me.

Things have been good lately. I'm feeling better than I have been on a few different fronts, and riding along with the upswing is a renewed shift of creative energy toward my guitar. So if you don't hear from me for awhile it's because I'm sitting in a straight-backed dark-stained wooden chair, hunched over my Takamine in the bluegreenblue light of my dark dining room. Can you hear me playing? There's rain on the zing roof in the background - a good hollow, tinny, acoustic-sounding, fuzzy grey rain. The guitar is probably fast-dripping something touchingly bluesy, but ringy in an open D tuning, possibly with some new latin licks fluttering around here and there and the constant blue grass snap of a flatpick or mabye I'm not using a pick and the sound is subdued by the deep muted plucking of calloused fingers, harder all the time.

But then I remembered something Sarah wrote in her last group update, sent out to her people from the hot dust of yonder western volcanoes. It had to do with how normal the wierdness of our lives down here has become. When wierd turns normal and the norm is stranger than life, or at least stranger and more unpredictable than the rest of your life has always been up until 20-something months ago, well then. . .it's pretty wierd. Yeah. Here's how Sarita the Pita-Eatah put it:

>Its been a while since the last time I wrote; its hard sometimes to choose
>the correct situation in my vida loca to tell....to fantastically mail into
>the reality of your lives. The longer I am here, the less fantastical my
>life seems, yet with one step back (my weekly vacations to Managua) I am >beginning to see it again. It seems that everyday is so jammed packed of >unbelievablly strange, touching and infuriating experiences, I have become >completely apathetic towards life with the hopes that this will assist me
>surviving the jaunting rollercoster ride of life here in Nicaragua.

Yeah. What she said. It totally true - there is a kind of apathy that has set in and I believe it will only lift once we start going through our Completion of Service process, four months from now. In the meantime, it's just keepin' on keepin' on.

But what now, I thought. Do I end the message here and quit and go play guitar? That description back there made my fingers itch. Or maybe I'll eat that last piece of Dove milk chocolate in the fridge. Am I in the mood for something sweet? When should dinner time be? Mmm. . .dark milk chocolate melting in my mouth, yeah I'm in the mood, but then the mix tape stops and over the new silence and the lightly falling rain I hear my name from behind the closed front door, from out in the muddy street: "Josue! Come here!" I'm coming! I answer and I open the door and it's my neighbor with her newborn in one arm and a plastic bucket in the other hand and she says, "I bring you something, grab one," and the bucket is offered up to me and I pick out a steaming sweet corn tamale, wrapped in a soggy-looking greenyellow husk and she says "Careful they're hot," and I joke around with her, make a vulgar comment about the rain and she laughs and I say thank you for the gift and goodbye and I return to the house, closing the door and putting in a new tape - Coltrane, I decide, it's been a few weeks and then he's blowing away and I've got my tamale on a plate sitting on the table between my chest and the computer and the typing hands and here I am again.

Most of the time, life is pretty simple here.

Yesterday I worked hard, today I didn't. It's all good. Yesterday I woke up early, hiked 10 kilometers down the river to a small community, taught three classes, met with a group of parents about trying to get funds to build a community park and playground, ate the food they gave me (beans, cuajada y tortilla), started walking back to La Trinidad but got a ride on a tomato truck, bouncing around on top of the wooden frame and canvas, got home, had coffee at Darwin's, then took my guitar to sing with Los Pipitos, the group of disabled kids that meets at the school down the street. Today, I woke up, ate french toast, checked my e-mail, read in the hammock (Outside magazine), wrote more e-mail, cooked macaroni and cheese for lunch, walked to the park to buy fruit, payed my water bill, sent a telegram to Randy in El Hato, came back home, showered, napped, went up to the Ministry of Education office for a meeting that never happened, cruised by James' place to see if he was still feeling sick, he was feeling better so we played guitar, shirtless for an hour, drinking from our plastic Nalgene water bottles, went home, played more guitar, got Arazely to come over and wash my clothes, kept playing guitar and chatting with her while she scrubbed (I know, I know but hey, I'm providing employment for my neighbors and besides, I tried washing my own clothes for two months and I couldn't get them nearly as clean as these seasoned Nica women), took another shower after she left, and sat back down at the computer, and once again, here I am.

I keep coming back here. To this moment.

Right now with the computer and the Coltrane and bluegreenblue light, much darker now, and Cobi-Dos curled up sleeping on the table next to my hairy right arm. And next to my hairy left arm, a golden foil package with a white sticker on it with simple black writing, simple beautiful black writing:

SMOKED SOCKEYE SALMON
COPPER RIVER PORTION

INGREDIENTS: Smoked Copper River Salmon, Salt, Sugar, and Natural Alderwood Flavor

REFRIGERATE AFTER OPENING

SeaBear
605 30th Street
Anacortes, WA
98221 1-800-645-3474

Net Wt: 6 oz. Price $8.95

I couldn't believe it when it came in the mail yesterday, wrapped in bubble wrap in a padded manila envelope. Thank you Sistah K-Cat! She wrote "Let not the small pleasures be a once-in-a-PCV-experience. Enjoy!" She needn't worry.

But here I am, still here, I am, and my guitar is calling out louder than ever, and so is that little piece of chocolate, silently screaming 'soy sabroso' from the cold fridge. Can you hear it?