The Rooster 2: Tom 0 (The Narcotics Anonymous Edition)

By Tom
El Rama, Nicaragua

In previous blog posts, I've expressed my dislike of roosters. Who could love anything that makes such an awful squawk. Even the hens, featherless on their necks from where the rooster has violently mounted them, hate the rooster. For the last 10 days, our routine at the farm in Jinotega has been to let the chickens out during the day and then to herd them back into the coop at night. The coop is farther down the hill away from where we sleep. Sometimes, we'd forget and the chickens would roost in a nearby tree for the night. In that case, before going to bed the caretaker Elias and I would knock them out of the tree with a broom, squawking and shreeking, and then the dog (who probably also hates the rooster) would chase them back into their coop.

Two nights ago, I was just settling into bed when I remembered that we'd forgotten to put away the chickens. Julia tried to talk me out of it, but I headed out into the night in my underwear, dog in tow, to chase the chickens back into the coop. They had settled for the night in a tree near a picnic table and a couple of stacks of lumber. I grabbed the broom and jumped on the picnic table to knock them out of the tree.

Let me pause in the story for a moment, and tell you about Suzanne's (the owner of La Biosfera) philosophy on volunteer work. She's very open about people applying their creativity and skills towards whatever project they think would improve things. However, not every volunteer actually has real skills to apply to projects. I noticed this on the first day when Suzanne gave us the tour when I took a look at the bench at the end of the picnic table. Without any cross-supports, the legs of the bench teatered at about 30 degree angles from the seat. It looked like a bad set prop in an old slapstick comedy, something you know will collapse immediately after being sat upon. I pointed it out to Suzanne on the tour and she agreed that she should fix it.

And like an old slapstick comedy, I stepped on the bench that night chasing down the rooster and it collapsed immediately, sending me flying into the mud and the pile of lumber. But instead of little animated stars appearing above my head, I lay there in my underwear in the mud sure I'd broken several bones. I hobbled back to the room and inspected my wounds which included a deep tissue bruise on my bicep, a gash across my chest, and road-rash all down my thigh. As I lay in bed with Julia applying ointment to my wounds, I fumed that the rooster had won that round.

Last night, Elias assured me he would put the chickens away as I was cooking. When I woke up this morning at 3:45 to the sound that to me is like a fork and a knife being scratched across fine china, I knew instantly that he had not. The rooster had chosen to roost directly outside our bedroom door, and with the open walls of the dorm next door, it was as though he was calling through a bullhorn directly in my ear. I lay there for an hour and tried to let it go. I even fell asleep for about 15 minutes. Much like the times that I've dreamed about standing in line for the bathroom and then woken with a painfully full bladder, the screeching permeated my dreams. I dreamed I was part of a squad assigned to find and kill the rooster in a tough urban neighborhood and every time the rooster went off, the sound radiated off the buildings taunting me and my team members. Julia awoke to me putting on my sandals to walk out the door and mumbling "I can't let the rooster win..." I grabbed the broom and the dog (who was probably laying there before I came out covering his ears with his little paws) was more than ready to assist me.

The tree was perched on the edge of a steep muddy hillside. I tried pushing the rooster out with the broom, but he was just out of reach. I went to the edge of the hill and stood up my tiptoes. I still couldn't quite get him. He squawked and flapped. I glanced around for a stool or a chair. I contemplated climbing the tree. But then I looked down the steep muddy hillside and felt the pain all over my body and conceded defeat once again. I went back to bed and read with a headlamp until it was light, listen to the rooster taunt me in defeat.

Mark my words, I will have my revenge on the rooster before this trip is over.

-

A group of about 30 people from all over Nicaragua gathered for a retreat on Saturday night at La Biosfera and we were privileged to join them in their fun. They ranged from some local teenagers from Jinotega to men in their 50's. They had some meetings and a big dinner and an all night bonfire up on the hill. It was a great group of people; all very jovial and welcoming. You'd have thought you were at a family reunion except for one thing. Most of the group members were formerly addicted to hard drugs such as crack. The group was very supportive, and with the exception of one missing camera the next morning, there were no hitches. It turned upside down the notions that I had about hard drug users. Drug addicts really can be anyone, particularly in a developing country like Nicaragua where drug education is not as available.

A guitarist came and sung traditional Nica songs that everyone knew the words to and sang along. The lyrics talked about the good land, family, and home that everyone treasures in Nicaragua. I'd mentioned that I play the guitar and eventually the guitar was passed to me. I tried to play things I thought the Nicas would know. I started off with a couple of Bob Marley songs, which many people knew and sang along with. Then I named a few bands to see if people would recognize them. When I mentioned the Rolling Stones a couple people shouted out, so I started into the Stones' song Dead Flowers. Only after I'd started did I realize to my horror that Dead Flowers is a not-so-subtle metaphor for poppy seeds. And several of the members spoke nearly fluent English.

It's not often one finds oneself at a Narcotics Anonymous retreat in the highlands of Nicaragua playing the Rolling Stones' tribute to heroin addiction. I did my best to mumble the lyrics in the second verse about being "In my basement room with a needle and spoon." After the song was over, I nervously fessed up to the group in Spanish what the song was about, and they all had a good laugh. So no harm done.

-

Julia and I have had a lot of time to spend together. Sometimes, there's not much to say and we just enjoy each other's company in silence. Here is the transcript of the entirety of our conversation on this morning's 2.5 hour busride.

Me (without warning or lead-in): Did you ever think about the phrase "the shit hits the fan?" Where did that come from? I mean, did someone really throw a pile of shit at a fan, or do you think it's just assumed by every one that a really bad situation would follow if someone were to throw a pile of shit at a moving fan? I guess that phrase doesn't really make sense if you stop and think about it.

Julia: That's why it's called a metaphor, Tom.

She then returned to looking out the window.