Cow trucks and Cow Pies

Tuesday Jan. 12, 2010 S.J.D.S. Nica.

The Casa del Oro shuttle, a converted cattle truck, had us tourists crammed on the wooden benches, mooing and knocking knees- a goteed, auborn-dreaded dude to my left, a plumpish hairball with dualing hawaiian shirts and shorts to my right. The driver dropped me off at the corner nearest our property, a mile short of Maderas beach, so I could do a quick evaluation of the property. The good News: no one has squatted, built a house, hotel or hostel; planted corn or Marijuana, or started a neo-revolutionary retro-sixties-communist training encampment, although fences are more-or-less down on three sides of the property so military excercizes could easily begin. The tracks were not of soldiers but cows, the hump-backed, long-horned brahma species, who have been grazing and fertilizing the soil and creating good soil tilth. The bad news: broken, fallen fences- or worse yet no fences - make for bad neighbors. This IS Nicaragua afterall! Our gringo neighbor advertizes on a rusty sign´frisbee golf´, so we have plenty of cow-pies to do a Nica-version.
An in-law had given me two baseball mitts to gift to the local ´squatter´kids who live in shanties on the dirt lane on the east side of the property- our buddies and work force in years past. Only Orlando, who I had dubbed `Abe Lincoln´, as he was learning to speak english and read, was home at his families shanty.
`How are you?´He asks in English. Wow, very good. We chatted briefly, and he gave me what little news he had: The brick-less well that almost happened. The recent dry, rainy-season. The slow tourist season last year. Then I did a short visual inventory. No palms visible and lots of scrub brush , then took off walking the mile to the beach. Within two hours of my swimming at Maderas, Orlando had collected all the boys in our little barrio and they came looking for me, like a hispanic version of David Copperfield ragamuffins. They greeted me with handshakes, smiles and more smiles. Phillipe, the more assertive but younger and shorter of the two older boys, wore a nice shirt- collar stylishly up- styled and gelled his hair, and bore himself with the confidence of a much older person.They of course wanted work. Phillipe, was especially familiar and friendly so I had to explain I had no money and therefore there would be no projects.
This years finances wouldn´t permit renting a car, or buying or delivering supplies. We shook hands and all was good.
Speaking of retro-sixties-revolutionaries, I had quizzed the shuttle driver on the trip down from Managua and the airport the other day on his opinions of President Ortega. Taxi cab driver interviews- like barbers and hairstylist interviews- are always a good litmus test as to what the people of a country are thinking, if not looking like. ( I must now grow pointy side-burns!) His opinion: Ortega is a lyer and a clown. ´PALLASO´ ´Mierda de vaca.´ ( Cow shit. ) So here´s to chucking that political cow-pie Venezuela and Chavezes way next election!
Abrazos
Esteban