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.