NicaDayz - Three live chickens

Date: Wed, 19 May 1999 16:55:10 -0300
From: jberman@xxx.xxx.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx)
Subject: Three Live Chickens
Dear Amigos,

Whattup folks, we'se finally back up to our pre-Onelist numbers. Felicidades to NicaDayz's 100th subscriber, the artist formally known as 'ksiddall'. I don't know who this is, but he/she appears to be joining us from somewhere in Texas. To show our appreciation, Ksiddall will be receiving a copy of the NicaDayz Home Game . Don't poke yer eye out, kid.

Now, 100 is a good, round number but, like my Shugah-Daddy Schaeffah says, 'I am not sure it will grab the brass ring.' So come on guys - let's get out there and pump it up. Five gees, b'yatch! Tell your buddies to sign up and get on the freakin' bus and let's ride ['on-the-bus' reference dedicated to Mom and Allison] Get it goin' on for the Trinidad chilluns. Because whenever you think that bus is full, you can always squeeze just one more on, even if they've got three live chickens flapping out of their clenched hands.

Ahora, as all the oldschool list members will testify, there are times when I feel compelled to give an update concerning my stool, fungus and/or body hair status. Don't worry! I promise not to mention anything fecal or hairy in this message! Not telling you about the hongo on my ass though, would be a breach in the trust I have in you guys. You deserve it. [AT THIS POINT, THE SHY AND TIMOROUS SHOULD SKIP AHEAD TO THE NEXT PARAGRAPH]. I'm pretty sure it's ringworm because it has a distinctive dark red outline, and the skin inside the shape formed by the outline is dry and pink and flaky and it itches like an hijueputa. The only thing that makes me question my diagnosis is the size of the freakin' thing! We're tawkin' a double cheek span here, and don't forget about all the hair involved (whoops - I said I wouldn't go there. Sorry).

Right.

Well, I promised soybeans and you gonna get soybeans.

Just not this very second. Cause right now I'm going over to Darwin's to see what's playing on HBO Ole! Maybe we'll even rent a movie at his brother's living room video shop. I'll be back with ya bright and early in the morning over a cup of hot coffee and some toasted corn tortilla and mango jam.

Buenes noches.

Josue

Later that night . . .

Well, I didn't quite make it to the morning. In fact, I never quite made it to Darwin's house. The distractions are endless and even though I only had to walk a block and a half to get to D's, I only made it as far as Don Pio's corner house and beverage barn. It was the music, the acoustic music, coming out of the holes in the brick walls that drew me inside. So while Jaime and Darwin went back and watched 'Kinkorama 2' (dubbed in Spanish, I think), I spent the last four hours jamming with two of the best musicians in La Trinidad (a statement not lightly made considering the impressive per capita quantity of musicos here).

Don Pio is an 86-year-old mandolin picker who sells gaseosas and beers all day long on the corner down the block from my house. The floors are packed, uneven dirt, the walls are red brick, and randomly-placed stacks of worn, dark brown, rounded-edge lumber give the place that old-time downhome feelin'. Jose ('but everyone calls me 'Chepona'') is a 50-something guitar player with narrow laughed-in eyes, and he gushes the modest humility that is so nice to see in such a talented musician. The old town mayor sat at my right. Apparently he drank himself out of office two years ago. Everything about him is round and jolly and rosy-cheeked and laughing. The three of them all wore light-colored guayaveras, the short-sleeved button-down, embroidered uniform of the respected man in Central America. Guayaveras are sophisticatedly stylin' and worn exclusively by judges, doctors, congressmen in session, drunk potbellied old men, taxi drivers, bus drivers, and the occasional bushy-tailed Peace Corps Volunteer. I have two. Light grey and off-white. Sitting there tonight with these men, my guitar in my lap, a glass of Ron Plata and Coke in my hand, I wished I was wearing one of my guayaveras. It was almost worth another run back to my house.

I also wished I could see the fantastic horizontal lightning show that was going on outside, flashing the western up-valley sky purple and electric. Yeah! When I ran back to my house in my red flip-flops to grab my guitarra after I realized the sesh that was happening, I also got a quick nature show. The sky looked like the cover of some death metal album but now I couldn't see it through the brick. Besides, the electricity in Don Pio's sala was jammin'. I hadn't sat and played a session like that since I've been here. Bystanders drinking and singing along, the musicians caught up in the swell of singing and playing that makes them completely lose track of the time until someone finally thinks to look at a watch four hours later. This is what I'd been missing. Yellow mounds of corn kernels, drying to be ground into tortillas - this was the most colorful thing in the room, next to my bright red chinellas, celeste blue doctors' scrubs, and purple longsleeve Moe's Bagels shirt.

When I first walked in, the fat ex-mayor dude said that Chepona and Pio were practicing serenatas for Mother's Day which, in Nicaragua, falls on May 30. The night before, as the clock strikes midnight, it is traditional for roving bands of troubadors to sing love songs for las madres until the sun comes up. In the whole time I was there tonight though, I only heard one song for mom. The rest were Mexican rancheras, Nicaraguan folkloricos and Cuban testimoniales. Every few songs, Chepona would convince a skinny, important-looking man to stand up and sing. This guy had brown dress slacks on, a burgundy long-sleeved collar shirt, and freshly-shined black shoes. His peppered hair was standing proud in a semi-pomp and his moustache was well-groomed. Each time they asked him to sing, he pretended to be embarrassed and even put up a little fight, saying his voice wasn't right tonight, or whatever. I enjoyed the whole show.

Then they asked me what I knew and requested some 'musica country.' I busted out the Grateful Dead's 'Me and My Uncle,' Pio and Chepona jamming right along with me. Afterward I explained that the lyrics of this tune had everything a good country song needs: cowboys, horses, liquor, money, cards, pistols, gunfights, gold. . .Puro oeste! they shouted, the mayor waving finger pistolas in the air above his belly and laughing himself silly. Then Chepona broke out an instrumental piece that Donald had played for me once on a tape [Donald, incidentally, arrived safely in Milwaukee]. I forget the name of it, but the song is an immitation of an entire battle. The guitar plays the marching, the bugle, the charge, the gunfire, the retreat. It's very impressive and the whole crowd in that back dirt room listened respectfully until it was over. Finally, someone looked at their watch, and then someone else looked at theirs, then someone asked one of them what time it was and everyone was surprised when they found out. One last song was sang and then excuses were made and the party was quickly broken up.

I'm still enjoying the afterglow. I'm usually asleep by nine o'clock, but it's so nice out right now. A very light rain falls on the corrugated zing roof, the frogs and crickets conduct their symphony outside by the river, but other than that, the town is dead quiet.

I think I'll sit up and enjoy it for awhile.

I need to wake up at six to bike out to Las Animas where we are planting another 150 trees tomorrow, but I'll worry about getting up when it's time to get up.

As for the soy, next time. I promise.