Impressions on my role in Nicaragua

I am lounging on the hotel terrace in Managua while heat lightning plays on the top of Mount Momotombo, the nearby volcano. It is too early for stars, but not mosquitoes. Palm trees and corrugated metal roofs hide the streets, where wild dogs bicker.

Where would I be without Carefree Kate, the camerawoman? A chew toy for the strays, I think. She speaks for us both, these days, as her Spanish is better. I am her sweaty bodyguard and packmule, tongue-tied. I am reborn a caveman: need coffee; I don’t understand; I would like rice and beans and cheese, please; can you speak slower?

My first Spanish lesson: the teacher’s hair is greying by the second. Consider my clumsy conjugations and sentences punctuated by mysterious lacunae. No holding forth here, no pontificating, Matt the dim-witted tilts his head to the side—helplessly ignorant. I will sit in the corner while the smart kids patter. I will ride the short bus home and lick the window. I am learning how to be a fool.

Fortunately, for now, I am only required to growl. Our friends advise that while I’m walking with her, Kate is less likely to suffer the advances of the piropos, cat-callers and whistlers, gawkers and oglers, lechers and gropers. Today she strolled past three campesinos, who lay down their rakes to stare at her body—her arms were showing. They didn’t respond to her “hola!” or make eye contact. It was as if her greeting was inappropriate, a failure to perform her role of being a passive body: meat.

There is nothing to do in times like these but laugh; for in all the wandering I’ve done laughter is the only thing I’ve learned. It heals wounds, lessens stress, dissolves fear. “Life is just like underwear,” I say to Kate. “You put it on one leg at a time, unless you’re amazing and can jump into your underwear with both feet.” Then, to demonstrate, I hold my boxer-briefs at arm’s length and leap towards them. Mid-air: amazing, I’m going to make it! A millisecond later: I’ve made a terrible mistake. And my feet get caught in the elastic; I collapse onto the floor clutching a sprained finger.

From Kate, giggles—nourishment of clowns.