Interlude: A 3rd World Instruction Manual/Frustration/Chaos Theory/Has Anyone Fed Castro Today?

How To Take A Bottled Water Shower: A Third World Primer.

They fooled us. Tuesday night they sent trucks through the streets with loudspeakers announcing a major water-out Wednesday from 6 AM to 6 PM. Tuesday night we all dutifully filled every reserve gallon and pitcher in the house. Allan filled his coffee maker. I banked gallons in my room. The kitchen was full of reserve gallons, liters, everything. Everyone took long showers that night.

Wednesday morning dawned rainy, gray - and with running water. All day.

Thursday, however, I go to brush my teeth and turn on the tap to hear that sickly air-gasping noise coming from the faucet.

Water-out. And the occasional rolling black-out to make things really fun.

To quote a bunch of pissed off Nicas, thank you Ortega.

I have to go for my ultrasound and exam today. I need a goddamn shower. A real shower. That is not going to happen. Thus I am reduced to the gallon shower. J., my roommate, swears that's one of those skills you develop in Nica - The Ability To Take A Decent Gallon Shower. It goes along with Learning To Enjoy The Cabbage Salad and Dealing With A Postal Service That Has No Interest Whatsoever In Mail.

For those of you who have never done it, this is how it works:

1) Take out little wash basin thing. Fill halfway with water. Wash face.

2) Use face-washing water to scrub feet. Your face is substantially cleaner than your feet. And if you're like most people here you washed your feet before you went to bed so they're pretty clean already. And to be perfectly honest you're not going to get zits on your feet. Unless you're some kind of freak with zitty feet. In which case that's going to happen gallon shower/face washing water be damned.

3) Give up on the idea of washing your hair. Braid it back or pin it back or whatever. Unless you're a guy with shaved head just give it up. You can drop a couple of gallons in the basin and try it if you're that desperate but you're just going to wind up with soapy hair and no water left for the rest of you. Take some measure of relief from the fact that water-outs rarely last more than twelve or fourteen hours and the rest of the city has unwashed hair as well.

4) Get in shower with one gallon jug of water and big ass two and a half gallon bottle of water.

Yes, there is more water under the sink. Tempting. But keep in mind that you probably will want to flush your toilet at some point during the day. And you will want water to brush your teeth again if this keeps up. Also get the reserve water in the kitchen out of your head. That is for cooking and cleaning. And just as you know exactly how many reserve gallons are in that kitchen, all your roommates do, too. Be a sport.

5) This is where it gets unpleasant. Get in shower. Dump part of gallon of water over body. No matter how hot it is, this is not nice. If you don't believe me get in your shower and dump a bucket of water over yourself. While I, like most people here, don't have hot water, there is a world of difference between cold water coming out of the shower and purposely dumping cold water on yourself. It's vaguely sadistic.

6) Before you have a chance to dry, grab soap and lather. Quickly. And keep in mind that any soap you put on you, you half about three gallons to get off.

7) Before soap has a chance to dry dump remainder of gallon over yourself. Hit critical parts first.

8) By now you're original gallon is out. Refill gallon from big ass jug.

9) Repeat process until all soap is gone. Dump water over self. Refill gallon. Dump more water over self.

10) Even though you are essentially clean, extra deodorant and lotion are called for. You are clean, it's entirely psychological but still. Most people here shower several times a day - quick rinse offs, real shower and all. You will not be doing this until the water is back on. Fuck-all only knows when that will occur. Load up, kids.

11) When you come home that night and the water is on do exactly what you shouldn't do when you live in a country with a horrible infrastructure that causes rolling water-outs: take a twenty five minute shower. Wash your hair. Shave your legs. Act like it is the last shower you will ever get in your life. Shower desperately, apocalyptically. Your roommates have just done the same thing, as have all your neighbors.

12) Promptly forget to refill all your reserve gallons so when the next unannounced water-out occurs you will be shit out of luck and forced to make sad cow-eyes at all your roommates under the hope that they will cough up a gallon or two. Or to cannibalize your expensive five gallon jug of drinking water. (Expensive being 28 c. - about $1.09 but everything is relative).

Frustration: The Never Ending Story.

I thought it was over today. I really did. I walked up Calzada, through Parque Central today sure that the Sick Phase would be done today. Today I would get the ultrasound, the rest of the lab work, one stop shopping, write it off, clean bill of health and life carries on.

Sometimes I forget where I live.

I have a new doctor today - a radiologist. In theory he'll check everything - do an ultrasound, run all the labs, poke and prod me a bit and release me to life as usual. Not going to happen.

First of all I go without a translator. I don't know why, I'm just sick of asking people for help, my Spanish - particularly medical Spanish* - is decent, though rusty. And I'm sick of having people, no matter how much I adore them and no matter how much they've saved my life, all up in my shit. I've always been private about my health and my relationships. It's a good time to return to that policy. No translators. And mi doctora speaks some English, knows my language limitations so I kind of assume this guy will as well.

He doesn't but he's patient with me and all the language is stuff I understand - rinones, kidneys, antibioticas, etc. Most medical stuff is the same in English and Spanish but with different accents. If I don't get something he reverses, uses simpler language, uses a few English words. I like him. My Spanish, mostly forgotten and neglected during me being sick, comes back, creaky and stiff. I remember words like 'tuve' - I had, 'tal vez' - maybe, 'espalda' - back, 'tengo mieda' - I am scared.

But he can only do an ultrasound. He can do that and give me the results but I have to go to a lab tomorrow for the lab work and bring everything back to mi doctora for the final results. I want to scream.

He is incredibly respectful, patient, thorough. The gel is cold on my stomach. He tells me everything he's doing it as he's doing it - I need to look at your stomach, so I'm going to move this down. I try to tell him that I was sick when I was younger, I understand what he's doing, I take no umbrage. Esta bien, he keeps repeating. Es normal, esta bien. It's good, it's normal.

When he's done he tells me there's no permanent damage to anything, everything looks good. Despite roasting my organs in that fever, they came out unscathed. I will remain sore for a few days but everything is fine. But, he tells me, I am not cleared without that lab work. And without la doctora looking everything over.

For the ultrasound and all his care and time I am charged the princely sum of 250 c. - about $12.50. I leave with a typed letter basically stating 'esta bien' and a copy of the pictures of my innards.

There are times when I have my shameless American moments. I want clean and well lit and well organized. I want policies that makes sense. I want my mail. I don't want to hear Shakira or reggaeton or Enrique Iglesias at ear splitting, fan shaking volume coming through my window. I don't want to be the national ambassador for tattooed gringa women and I'm sick of mean eyed older women and their assumptions.

Right now I want medical one stop shopping. I want this to be over.

Wait, Stop, Rewind: Chaos Theory.

Lotta Nicaraguan crap-talkin' going on in this blog right now.

I've had a couple of people out to visit me since I got here. One, when faced with the Mercado stated "this is not a city, this is fucking chaos".

It is chaos, compared to the States. The crush of people in the Mercado. The nonsensical nature of our one chain store. The million unlicensed street food vendors selling everything from cheese to tortillas to bags of sugary juice type beverages with straws stuck in them. The horse cart and car traffic jams near the hardware stores. The never ending honking, noise, people everywhere you look.

Chaos.

But it's also vitally, hopefully alive in a way no place in the States could ever be. Public space actually gets used - there's a million kids playing pick up games of soccer or break dancing in Parque Central. Sidewalks are for eating, talking, even dragging the TV out for your favorite show. The pharmacist I always go to plays guitar so sweetly and always kisses my cheek, makes me practice my Spanish with him even though he and his family all speak English. Esperanza on the corner keeps my favorite soda cold for me, puts aside pieces of sweet bread when the bakery drops it off. The girls on my street who yell 'Feeent!' and wave when they see me, or stop to talk, chattering away at me with me only getting half of what they're saying, holding my hands to look at my rings or my arms, kissing my cheek, being patient when I forget words. The chicken lady who laughs and smiles and wonders where I was when I was sick and always piles extra chiles and maduras on my banana leaf. The boy down the street in University, about my half my age, who has a sweet crush on me and likes to practice his English with me, afraid to meet my eyes when he talks to me. The endless religious ceremonies. The fireworks that go off every night for no reason except Nicas like to blow things up.

And the churches that have been here forever and will be here long after you or I are gone. And the live music that comes from every direction - kids drumming in the street on Calle Calzada outside the bars, bands in the gazebo in the Parque, my drunken neighbor singing his brains out to sad ranchero music.

It is chaos. And gray water runs down the street and there's a huge litter problem and it's nowhere near perfect. But it's flamboyant and silly and ridiculous and tacky and dirty. And you either get it or you don't. And if you do get it you keep coming back. Like my roommate Allen. Like my friend Katherine. Like a bunch of other people I know who keep getting pulled back in, their second third fourth fifth eight 'I just bought a house here but it's just to rent out or I'm keeping the lease on my place or how much does it cost to change a ticket' time.

I get it.

Castro Is In The Kitchen Eating A Taco.

Technically the kitten has had a name for a while. When J's friend was visiting he started calling it Puma, prompting me to refer to J. as Uncle J-J whenever the cat comes up. But no one really used the cat's name except for J. It was always 'the cat' or 'that little bastard who was eating food off the counter'.

Lilly has rounded up an assortment of people who might possibly want a cat and there's been two offers to take him. He just has to be neutered. But every day the cat is supposed to leave and every day the cat is still here.

For the past week we've had Ivan, a Cuban guy from Miami, staying at the house. Ivan is awesome. He's funny, he owns an isleta and some property out at the Laguna he refuses to develop because it just makes him happy to know it's there, undeveloped. In a few months he's going to grad school in Seattle and sometimes we talk about Seattle or Cuba or linguistics or evolution or other things.

One day when we are all sitting in the courtyard Ivan comments on the kitten.

It's like Castro, he says, every day someone says he will be gone but every day he is still here. Unpleasant, pushy, and still here.

Thus the kitten becomes Castro. Unlike Puma, the name sticks. Where is Castro? Castro is bugging the crap out of me - has anyone fed him today? Castro knocked the garbage over.

For some reason I find this hysterical.

* Because my Spanish was so bad the last time I was here, the only Spanish I picked up was at the clinic - hearing Kit and Nick and Toni and the vets talk about infection and antibiotics with people. Thus my first fluency in Spanish was the names of antibiotics and whatnot.