Homework.

If I had to choose a favorite novel, I would say Revolutionary Road, by Richard Yates. It has been made into a movie starring Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet. Yes, they were in Titanic together.

´´Rose! You´re so stupid, Rose!´´

´´Draw me like one of your French girls.´´

Etc. What a movie.

Now, as much as I enjoy Titanic, get thee to a bookstore or library and read the book before star-crossed lovers Jack and Rose forever replace Yates´s own star-crossed lovers.

In other news, I went to Costa Rica for three days in order to renew my tourist card. It was an experience that I may or may not blog about at length, but know this: having spent all of yesterday in the company of Nicaraguans who work there and were coming home for the holidays, I am shaken by the sacrifices these men make in order to keep their families afloat. Obviously I´m aware of people living similarly in the States, but there was something significant about being on the road, shoulder to shoulder, with these guys who hadn´t seen their wives or children for 51 weeks. One of them befriended me and guided me through the border, and on the Nicaraguan side we took a series of interlocal buses in order to disguise the fact that we were coming from Costa Rica. He was carrying a year´s worth of earnings, and if we were to take the express bus to Managua, he was afraid that upon disembarking we would be robbed, as thieves are well aware that around holiday time, anyone coming from Costa Rica is like a walking bank.

The fact that, as we speak, men are losing everything they worked for over this past year -- and to their fucking countrymen -- it makes me sick.

Here.

I finished the 3rd draft of my novel Sunday night. When I say 3rd draft, I'm including two aborted attempts, so I'm not sure if this is version 3.0 or 1.3. Anyway, here it is on my bed. I printed it off at the Xerox today and I was absurdly proud to inform the gentleman helping me, "This is a book that I have written." I neglected to mention that I've still got months of revising ahead of me. But, for now, I party.

Volcano

I finally climbed a volcano. Cerro Negro is more of a hill than a mountain. In fact, it means "Black Hill" in Spanish. It is only a few centuries old, having pushed up out of farmland over the course of a few exciting weeks. It last erupted in 1999 and supposedly erupts every eight years. Eight years on, there was nobody to keep us from entering the crater. The ground was hot underfoot. I am shielding the back of my head from sulphur fumes. In examining at this picture I am struck by this thing where my abs used to be. Is that a -- a -- belly? Someone needs more exercise! Someone needs to cut back on rice and beans!











Another group of hikers. The divide between green and black down below.












Wilbert, a friend of mine and my guide for the day. He is fluent in English, largely self-taught, and justifiably proud of this.


In other volcano news, one of the volcanoes on Ometepe Island, in Lake Nicaragua, erupted on Saturday. We're unaffected by this in Leon, and, as with the Hurricane, the locals are unimpressed. "Not a real eruption," they say. "It's just -- you know -- activity."

Back on Stage

Friday we returned to the stage. We played Via Via, a hostel operated by Belgians who don't believe in charging admission for live music. Thus, the place is ordinarily quite full. Friday it was exceptionally full (check the bottom photo). You can see pieces of a very odd mural on the wall behind us -- I have never been able to make sense of it.
Mario, Roman, Don Will, and John.

Look, I'm dancing! (You can tell I'm dancing because I'm snapping my fingers.)

Candy and Cement!

Last week was Saakje's birthday. Saakje is one of the Dutch girls living in my house, and I'm certain that I'm misspelling her name. Anyway, we bought a pinata and she beat the hell out of it with my broom but this was a very sturdy pinata, and so eventually she had to remove her blindflold in order to break it. Upon its destruction, we discovered that its insides were coated with cement.


This is Goofy, the house terror, awaiting for candy to fall from above. All the girls hate him. He bites their feet. Me, I had a soft spot for him until recently -- rather than bite my feet, he humped my leg. However, yesterday morning he pissed on my laundry. I'm still waiting for an apology.

Baseball

It's been raining constantly here for more than two weeks, washing out highways and giving everyone cabin fever. As a result, the baseball playoffs have become a much-needed distraction from wet feet, not to mention mold. (The girls who live in the low-rent rooms in the back of my house are finding mold in their clothing and books -- my room is drier because it's more expensive -- I have a real ceiling.)

The locals are huge baseball fans. Most of them are rooting for the Red Sox because there's a Nicaraguan pitcher in Boston's farm system.

Last night at the bar I ended up at a table of Americans. I hadn't been around Americans in a long time and it was a pleasant surprise to be able to shoot the shit with some countrymen. Turns out I was sitting with two players in the Cleveland Indians organization (they're in AA) and a player-turned-coach, who was featured as one of Billy Bean's top prospects in the book, Moneyball. Ex-prospect's wife was there, too.

They're in town playing winter ball in Leon, and none of them speak Spanish. I had my hands full translating for them. Once the locals found out these guys were playing for their beloved team, they went a little nuts, saying things like, "This city depends on you," etc.

It was fun to get a professional perspective on the game. At one point a batter swung at a Papelbon fastball and missed, and I was like, "Oooh, nasty!" Pro says, "Uhh, that was a terrible pitch. Dude missed his spot by three feet." As Indians, they were furious when Kenny Lofton was held up at third base. I cheered very quietly for the Sox.

Anyway, they'll be in town for a few months and looks like I'll be going to lots of games. We're going to get a poker game going as well. It's about time I got some income.

The sun finally came out today and if the rain holds off, I'll get my bi-weekly basketball game in. I started playing pick-up games a few weeks ago and do pretty well against the local competition. It helps that there's always somebody my size to guard. The Americans are giants in comparison.

The Wedding

A couple of weeks ago we played a wedding at the Hotel El Convento, the fanciest place in town. (It used to be a convent, then squatters took over during the revolution, and it was rescued from oblivion a few years ago by one of the wealthiest local families, who also own the art museum.) The wedding was between a local fellow and an American, and the Americans kept telling us to turn the music down during the first set, but once they'd consumed enough liquor they got used to the noise (everything is overamplified here -- that's how the Nicas like it), they stopped complaining and tried to dance. To the left is our guitarist, Don Will, who brought me into the band. He teaches guitar lessons to the kids who live in my house. His sons are in one of the most popular rock bands in the country, and one of them, Lenin (yes, L-e-n-i-n), is taking English classes from me. Will's childhood girlfriend lives in San Francisco, and appropos of nothing, he loves to say to me, "Michael ... San Francisco ... mi amor," and kiss his fingertips.

John, the ex-Canadian, the organization behind the outfit. He teaches music at a private school in Managua to the children of foreign dignitaries, etc. On the road every morning at 4:30am, and on Fridays, when we perform, none of us get home before 2am. I'm not sure how he does it.

Salsa-ing. You can see that people dressed up. I bought new dress shoes for fifteen whole dollars. For some mysterious reason, our timbales player missed the memo (timbales are drums, but most of the time you hit the sides instead of the tops) and showed up in a green t-shirt -- he's just visible in the lower left-hand corner of photo #4. He tried to fit into one of my shirts, because I live across the street from the hotel, but despite being the same height, he's got a few pounds on me and he couldn't move his arms when the shirt was buttoned. Anyway, his green shirt -- "la camisa verde" -- is now infamous.





Another shotof Don Will. He's the big draw of the band -- the man knows how to milk a crowd. I have told him that my big regret with trumpet is that while I'm playing, I can't make the faces that he makes.

Debut.

I´d been saving my lucky yellow shirt for a suitable occasion, and if nothing else, I was easy to spot on stage. I was also boiling. I played six songs over the course of three hours, which left me plenty of time to mingle and enjoy the minor celebrity status accorded musicians here. One nice thing, as you can see, is that the only person significantly taller than me in the band is John the Canadian. Alex, the trombone player, has a ridiculous case of perfect pitch -- he can listen to a tune and arrange all the different parts without touching an instrument. This frightens me.

Anyway, I stayed out very late because I didn´t have a beer until after midnight, nervous I would forget all the song structures with alcohol in my system. I had only rehearsed one tune with the band, all the others I had practiced alone in my room. I can´t remember ever getting on stage feeling less prepared. The best thing is that because the show was no disaster, I will have fewer nerves in the future.

Was glad to see that they hadn´t changed the marquee this morning. It says, ¨Viernes 14. Fachento. En Vivo.¨

The King of Leon.

Today is Independence Day in Central America, so all the schoolkids took to the streets, banging drums, twirling batons, etc. This is a right of passage supposedly reserved for students in their final year of high school, but an exception was made for the kid on the right, and rightfully so.

If I look half as cool on stage tonight, I'll be pleased. Yes, tonight is my debut with Fachento. I will be accompanying them for no more than four songs, but I'll be making up for my paltry musical involvement by stacking the crowd with supporters. I've invited just about everyone I know to come, and because it's Independence Day, everyone is looking for an excuse to drink rum. (Actually, most people here don't look for excuses to drink rum -- being alive is reason enough.)

Check here tomorrow for photos of me turning purple, attempting to reach the high notes.

This You Should Know!

I have rented a mailbox. All letters, books, music, and surprises should be sent to:

Michael Heald
Apartado 413, Oficina de Correo
Leon, Nicaragua

Safe and Sound

For those of you I haven´t had the chance to directly communicate with, the hurricane passed to the north and barely touched us.

That evening was my first rehearsal with Fachento. We rehearse on the front porch of the keyboardist´s house, so we turned our backs to the rain and made some noise. It´s quite a privilege to play with the band -- the feel these guys have for rhythm is just incredible. My work is definitely cut out for me, though there is a possibility I´ll be ready to play a few tunes at the show on Friday. I´m practicing two or three hours a day, playing along to my iPod and stretching my range.

The bandleader, John, is Canadian. He moved here six or seven years ago with ´no intention of staying.´ He teaches music at the wealthiest school in the country, in Managua, and has a three-year-old child with his wife, who is Nicaraguan. He invited me over to his beautiful house last night and I made the rather obvious comment, ´wow, it´s like you really live here!´

What else? I´m teaching trumpet to the younger brother of the keyboardist. I´m teaching English to my former teachers of Spanish. I´ll be done with the first half of the novel by this time next week.

It´s hard to believe it´s September! The days are not noticeably shorter than they were when I arrived ten weeks ago. Living up north, we have this built-in expectation that each month should feel different.

Hurricane Felix

There´s an odd mix of excitement and resignation here, not so much for what the storm might do to us, but for what it means for the people on the Atlantic. They are some of the country´s poorest, and none of their homes are built to withstand hurricanes. It´s hard to imagine where their food and shelter will come from in the days and months ahead.

Out on the streets everyone seems relaxed. Leon is in a fairly protected position. I just came from lunch. The majority of the people were drinking. There´s really nothing to do but wait and hope that the storm moves quickly over us -- the problem with Mitch in 1998 was that it stalled and dumped ridiculous quantities of rain.

Anyway, I may be without internet and phone for a little while, but I´ll keep myself entertained, and you guys informed.

In none storm-related news, I am rehearsing tonight with a salsa band called Fachento, which translates to ´snooty.´ They perform every Friday at one of the hottest nightspots in town, so if they are willing to have me, I will earn the kind of notoriety reserved for gringos foolish enough to get up on stage. But seriously, I am delighted to have the opportunity, and am enjoying practicing the trumpet much more than I used to.

Leon from above

This morning my friend Fred and I shelled out the outrageously large sum of two dollars to climb to the top of the cathedral. Fred is from Portland, and is standing alongside his truck, which he plans to drive around Central and South America for the next year. Behind the salmon-colored church you can see several volcanoes. Many travelers enjoy climbing the volcanoes. I have had trouble drumming up the interest to spend hours out on black cinders under this strong a sun. Maybe I`m just lazy.

Uh oh, mustache comes to town.

On Wednesday I took the day off and went to the beach. The bus costs 50 cents. The surf was huge, and my swimswuit threatened to come off with every wave. Luckily, on a Wednesday, I had the beach to myself.

We weren`t actually moving.

Esther, one of my teachers, is in front. A cow can be glimpsed in the distance. After Tuesday, Esther is going to become my student, as I am finishing with my classes then, and she wants to learn English. At this point I`m as fluent as I ever imagined I would be, which is to say that I am able to talk Spanish all night, using maybe 30% of what I know. I have found that arguments bring out the best in me.

What´s in Your Toilet?

Yesterday, in ours, was a rat.

My soon-to-be ex-bathroommate Elena (she´s returning to Yale in a week) opened the lid and saw what she believed to be a snake flopping about in the water. She ran and fetched one of the maids, who, in lifting the seat, discovered that the snake was the tail of a very wet rat trying not to drown. Elena retreated to her room while the maid used our toilet brush to jerry the rat.

With the water shut off during the day, it seems that rats are able to wander around the mostly empty pipes. That said, by all accounts it is unusual to have one appear in your toilet.

We haven´t decided yet whether to leave the lid up or down after usage. Leaving it down eliminates the possibility that a rat might succeed in hefting himself out of the toilet, and onto the floor. That said, lifting the lid requires a bravery that we´re not sure we possess.

In other news, Hurricane Dean went far, far north of us. We´re getting a good soaking, nothing more.

Where am I in the novel?

Today I reached page 78 of the third draft.

Some observations:

I have incorporated approximately one page of my previous drafts into this draft.

My characters´ names: James Weaver, Quinn Carroway, Elliott Carp, Bishop Lyle, and Calgary Lyle. The characters in the second part will sport less white-sounding names.

The conception of the novel occurred during my spring break of 2006 while I was shaving. Since then, my murderer has transformed from a young woman to a young man, and my victim has transformed from a middle-aged woman to a middle-aged man. For those of you who don´t know, my novel is about murder and the third world. I would say more, but can I trust you? I´m talking to you, internet. Can I trust you?

I intend to finish the first half of the novel by the end of September, at which point I will begin writing about Nicaragua. I am at once very excited and very nervous to write about Nicaragua. It has always been easier for me to write about places when I am no longer living in them. One thing in my favor is the timing: my friends Mick and Julia return to The Netherlands at the end of September, so it will be a natural transition. Looking back at my first three months here will come more naturally.

If anything, I´m slightly ahead of where I thought I would be. Mid-December still looks good for the send-off date to my readers. If you´re wondering who my readers are, you´re one of them.

Who is responsible for all this joy?

That´s how I would translate what we shouted last night during the annual ´Gritaria,´ or shouting match. The Gritaria only takes place in Leon, and celebrates the end of the last really violent eruption of Cerro Negro, one of our neighboring volcanoes.

It was very much like Halloween, in that we were rewarded for shouting at people´s doorsteps. However, unlike Halloween, the people doling out treats would respond, ´La Concepcion de Maria,´ at which point my lone English student William would say, ´La Virgen,´ and I would mumble something that sounded like ´La Virgen.´ Then they would hand over the bootie.

Among my bootie: six boxes of matches, a pacifier, laundry detergent, a cross, two combs, and candy.

As a gringo I was given preferential treatment, and often received special bootie. This, I imagine, explains the pacifier.

Tour de Leon

Leonardo, the brother of the director of the school where I study Spanish, is a professional cyclist. Last week he took second place in a criterium here in Leon despite falling on the last lap during an ill-timed downpour. Below he is celebrating with his son.

Amazingly I haven´t grown a mustache yet.

Virgin Celebration

First I should say that I have overcome technical difficulties and hope to post with greater regularity now.

Two weeks ago I went to the city of Chinandega for their virgin celebration. Every city has its own particular virgin to celebrate down here. We were all trying to get photos of the girl you see on the right, but she kept darting behind the tall men behind her. I hid my camera and got lucky.

Winter

The rainy season is for real. Every afternoon for the past five days the sky has collapsed on us. Above, you can see that the statue of Sandino is barely staying dry. I love the drama. Everyone scurries for shelter (except Mick, who takes advantage of the impromptu running water and bathes). Most of the roofs are tin. You have to shout to be heard. Recently I have worn several layers at night, which gets me thinking that perhaps it's time to buy real bedding.

A few words of explanation about the theater group: every evening from about 6pm to 8pm, Mick runs a rehearsal / improv class in the southern outskirts of the city for about fifteen teenagers and young adults. Most of them go neither to work nor to school. The class meets behind the gates of an orphanage. Several of the orphans take part as well. Saturday night we went out for a celebration dinner, for Mick and his wife just purchased a plot of land out in the Barrio on which they will build a community theater. It will provide employment (a bakery and a bar will be on the premises) as well as be the kind of shared public space for youth that is mostly absent in Nicaragua.

My role in the group is, at present, undefined. As my Spanish improves I hope to do some workshops on storytelling. What I do now is take part in the exercises and get to know the kids. They are fabulously patient with my fucked-up vocabulary.

In other important news I finally found the bar I've been looking for. A few blocks from my house in the opposite direction of the hostels. The few foreigners I met last night were chain-smoking Italians working on long-term humanitarian projects. An artsy Cuban film was projected on the wall.

And my novel is swimming along. The third draft will be done by Christmas (for those of you wondering, "where are the first and second drafts?", you are correct in guessing that they have been junked).

Applications to visit me can be submitted to:

heald.michael@gmail.com

La Sopa y Las Sandanistas

Melissa, Mick's sister. We spent all of last Saturday at their home on the outskirts of the city. Melissa is a very dramatic child and I was lucky to catch her in a rare moment of reflection.











The man wearing my cowboy hat is Mick's neighbor Hilario. We were drinking rum and Hilario kept passing his glass to Mick, saying "el ultimo, el ultimo," as if we didn't know that within twenty minutes he would once again be asking for "el ultimo." Once he drank enough he told stories about the revolution. He took a shine to my hat and I promised that when I leave next June I will give it to him. I explained that I'm so white that if I were to give it to him now, I would never survive the Nicaraguan sun.





The preparation of la sopa de res, our enormous midday meal. The woman on the right is Gloria, Mick's mother. She works at the Casa de Cultura. As you can see, the soup is being heated by a wood fire.










The view from my hammock while I digested la sopa. Later that afternoon we marched up to El Fortin, the old fort/prison overlooking the city, for the annual celebration of the Liberation of Leon. As a foreigner, I was advised not to bring my camera, so unfortunately I have no photographs of the event. The Sandanista political party (FSLN) enjoys great support in Leon, and it seemed as though everyone were wearing red and black, the party colors.

Los Hombres

Cristian, my friend the poet and schoolteacher. He is scrambling to finish his homework for our theater group. The homework? List the things you do not like.


Mick, the boss of the theater group. He and Cristian have been best friends since childhood. Mick moved to Holland a year and a half ago but he and his Dutch wife, Julia, will be living in Leon until late September. They are volunteering their time, teaching many classes to local children and taxi drivers.

Even while writing I'm thinking about "Gimnasio Muscle Power"

The toilet only flushes when it's dark outside.
My bed. I sleep without a sheet. My favorite thing about the room might be the huge mahogany closets you can see in the background. If a thief wants to steal my passport he'll have to take the closets along as well.
The patio and courtyard outside my door. Unfortunately the piano is currently out of tune.