Saturday, January 19, 2008
Single-floored bungalows in Nicaragua are caged-in like tropical skittle-colored birds. Stray dogs with swaying ball sacks meander into the town square, and Sandinista cowboys comb their nearly there handle bar moustaches. Reggae-tone rings out over the rooftops, someone somewhere strangles a rooster, murals feature anti-American slang. I know I look like a gringo. Epiphytes are hemmed onto the electric wires and at night look like small, pudgy, angry birds. If you don’t know what an epiphyte is, tough. Here the moon frowns in the morning and smiles by dark; in Montreal it’s a clipped-off fingernail. Evangelists hold sermons on street corners and plug themselves into amplifiers. I’m staying with a woman called Lucillia. Her house is one drawn-out hallway with rooms biting into its side. She lives with a man who might be her father, or husband, or mechanic, and another who I suspect is her son. He rides a mean pink dirt bike and sports a pink parachute material windbreaker, and once I found him polishing his well-coordinated pink water bottle. He looks like Borat, and his moustache might be made of pubic hair. It’s really unfortunate I don’t know any Spanish.