Allow me to introduce you to perhaps the most ridiculous human being on this planet.  Words will never fully do him justice, but I will try my best.  Meet Saoul.  Sauol is both a professional bus driver and a professional eater, and it would not surprise me one day to find that he is also a professional wrestler.  Sauol has three gold teeth, an enormous belly, and a glow in the dark rosary which he displays proudly around his neck.  

My first memory with Sauol came 3 years ago, when we were working in a small fishing village near Honduras.  He didn't speak much that didn't come out in grunts, but one word was always clear, "comida."  "Comida", meaning "food", is usually Saoul's main reason behind taking any sort of action.   A gigantic iguana crossed our path, and Saoul burst into joyous chortles, waddling after it in the brush, murmuring to himself.   A few moments later, he emerged, holding the dinosaur by the tail.  Proudly, he held it up and announced, "Comida."  The day went by and I later found him slurping out of a rather large bowl.   Protruding out of the bowl were the claws, tail, and head of his captured beast.   I don't think I ate for days after that experience.

Since then, my love for Saoul has continued to grow, and so has his vocabulary.   He still speaks in mainly grunts and the occasional shouts, but his gold tooth grin rarely leaves his round face. Every morning I find him in the fridge, searching for something new to munch on, or just looking at things to daydream about all day.  He frequently takes his shirt off just to rub his watermelon of a stomach, but never does so without cracking himself up.   I have yet to meet someone who is that content in their mere being, and I must say, I appreciate it.  His ability to make me laugh simply by existing is a stellar quality.  Well done, Saoul.

It was my plan to write all of the above last week, but never got the chance.  Now that I have shared with you my dear love for that rotund man, it would be remiss of me not to tell you the rest of the story.

As I have made quite clear, Saoul is difficult to understand when he speaks.  His Spanish is slurred, and I find myself often having to repeat it in my head before I answer.  Last week, Saoul was sitting at the beach with several women from the group, looking pleased.  I approached them to check on their afternoon, and one said to me, "We've been talking to Saoul.  He lived in Canada for two years, did you know that?"  At hearing this, I laughed, and said, in English, to Saoul, our pseudo-spanish speaking bus driver, "That's a load of crap.  You did not."  And without hesitation, he replied, IN ENGLISH, "I did.  In Toronto."

Do with that what you may.

I am planning on killing a bird.   I am not sure how to go about this task, or even the right tools to accomplish it, but I know that once the deed has been done, life will be better for everyone who resides in this casa blanca.

Here is the problem.  This creature has encroached about my personal time more than once.  In fact, I would venture to say that he has violated my ears at least 8 times a day since I have taken up residence in the country.  Granted, he was here first, so the tree hugging argument might be that I should, in fact, acclimate my hears to his sweet melody. However, I am not a tree hugger and his melody is by no means sweet.  It might be the worst sound that has ever been emitted by a living creature.  I dare to say its the worst sound ever emitted, though I am sure that a few Euro techno clubs could rival its horror.  Therefore, the only logical solution is to find a sling shot and relieve everyone else around me.

I climbed up on the roof recently, to watch the sunset and spend some time with the Lord, finally escaping for a moment alone before another group arrived.  Just as I has positioned my self comfortably on the mattress I had precariously dragged out to rest my weary self upon... he appeared.  And by "he", I don't mean Jesus.  I mean this monstrous creature, with beady black eyes, black feathers, and a black beak.  He had a smirk on his face, because he was knew exactly what he was up to.  He had come to ruin my silence, to impose him self uninvited, and to be a general DB.  We had a stare down for a while, both of us refusing to move, breathe, distract our intense gaze.  Who would win?  Who is, in fact, more powerful?

Then that little winged devil did something I could not.  He wailed.  He opened his throat and let out that wincing cry, and I could do nothing but cringe.  Then he fluttered away with contempt, knowing that he had, for the time being, conquered me.

He may have won the battle, but this war is longed waged.  And I will win it.

I am also waging war with the beetles.  They have moved in to my bed,  built a subdivision, and they throw a block party on my body every night.  They must be in cohoots with the demon bird, because they are conniving about their attacks.  They wait until I am just about to sleep, and then they nestle themselves into places they have not been invited.  Namely, my hair and my knee pits.  Every time I find one, I rip him off,  tell him something negative about himself, and then violently though him out the window or onto the floor.  I was hoping that if I don't kill him, at least my words will make him feel so bad about himself that he won't want to come back.  It hasn't worked.  So far, it's only upped the challenge, and he and all his beetle friends have invaded my personal space.

Other than the birds and the beetles, Nicaragua is simply delightful.  It never ceases to amaze me, as the people are just their own unique brand.  I have started scribing a list, entitled, "Nica Things I hope never cease to make me laugh."  Here is a sampling:

1. Shirts worn by all the local with highly inapproprate phrases, unbeknownst to the wearer.  Direct example from this morning- (worn by an extremely obsese woman., who was by no means wearing  a bra nor did this shirt cover her entire mid section) "What's wrong with big tits?"  Yes.

2. Staring is culturally acceptable, and it is done without shame.  Sometimes it is accompanied by the phrase, "Gringos!"- as if the parade has just come into town.

3. The fair makes its way to Chinandega at least once every two months.  The hierarchy of the carnival rides is as such:  1. Rejected in America 2. Rejected in Mexico. 3. Rejected in Costa Rica. 4. Accepted gladly in Nicaragua.   Bolts are flying everywhere, each structure is so rusty that I wait for it to snap mid ride, and whatever speed regulations/precautions that are taken anywhere else, they have been thrown to the wind here.  Safety bars are a thing of the past.  Each ride has a sign that clearly states, in Spanish, "We are not responsible for any of your injuries due to our own negligence." Do with that what you may.  The good news is, the fair is never without carmel apples.

4. The musical genuis of the 70s and 80s has only just now reached Chinandega, and it is being well appreciated.  I hear, at least once a day, the ballads of Toto, Bonnie Tyler, and American Heartbeat. I sing Eye of the Tiger at the top of my lungs everyday.   And I don't complain.

The list goes on, but I really ought to be doing the things I stayed in the office for today.  I will do my best to do this once a week... but I am not making any promises...