All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category

The Beer Bandit of Granada

     The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is very high, even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the friendly sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.

     The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in this fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded by the policies of Big Brother up north.

     The brightly painted restaurant walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.

     The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.

     Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with an torrid, almost indistinguishable beat. 

     Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.

      Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.

      But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park,  I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana  rum, arguably the the finest añejo rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba).

     The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from b.o. Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy  Nicaraguan puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, a most effective method for calculating beer purchases on this lovely patio.

     That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. Damn he’s big for a Nicaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged  garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.

     He crosses the street but fades into the evening shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He is smiling now. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, grans it by the neck and slams it down as well, again gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off almost giddy between the alley no-tels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.

     I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is this thirsty intruder part of their all-inclusive experience?

     Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table, stands at attention and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling something akin to: “Beer belongs to the people!”

     I have to admit I am enjoying his antics more and more with every cold Victorian that goes down my throat. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe newspaper en los Estados Unidos.

     No one seems all that ruffled.

     This suds guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is an overlooked talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!

     He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. I am clearly his size and perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of swim fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was fully intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in the Andes and offer me their coats on a cold night. Kindred spirits.

     I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer. Not on your Nellie!

     “He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”

     Yes he will.

     I watch as the conversation returns and beers continue to disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.

    The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, this dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.

     “Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.

     Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.

     The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.

     A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.

     “When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.

     “You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.

     The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer gnawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of its icy walls. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.

     He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn either way. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…

     Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his disadvantaged  horizontal posture sucks it dry.

     “My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to punitive festivities unknown to a relieved clientele. Laughter subsides and smiles emerge as our dinner arrives.

– Kevin Haley

DOW Out of Fish

(Denver) The Colorado Division of Wildlife has admitted this morning that the agency is fresh out of fish. The shortage, which includes all varieties of trout, salmon, perch, bass and northern pike, is reportedly the result of a failure to reorder a sufficient supply to last through the winter months.

“There are no rainbow, native, brown or cutthroat,” said a DOW release, “ and the next fish delivery day isn’t until next March.”

Normally around 2500 fish are kept in reserve and, as ponds and steams are stocked, the supply is adjusted and sent to the areas most in need. Fish counters expressed surprise at the news since they say there were plenty of cold-blooded clients as recently as December. Even with the popularity of catch-and-release the impact is overwhelming when one considers the milllions of tourists that fish Rocky Mountain waters through the summer and fall.

“We do have some nice catfish today,” smiled Lacey Ditchwater, a recognized fish head for the agency. “We’ll even filet them for you. Tomorrow at 4 am we are sending a crack fly team over the frontier into Wyoming to poach a breeder or two. While in those badlands we hope to secure enough fish to last for the week.”

Summer is the busiest time for vacationing fish and fishermen and DOW sources say that with the economic times more people are fishing to eat and not just fishing for sport. They add that license violations are way up since June. Fishermen have been complaining of chronic bad luck syndrome since early May, which is said to have prompted the embarrassing DOW admission.

This is the first documented client/ward shortage since 1989, when the same agency had run out of elk. As I turned out, rogue agents had lost many of the animals in a poker game with the Department of Energy. Others, it was said, had been in New Mexico for a long weekend “Comete Tus Astas” competition which negatively affected the statistics.

“I don’t want to cast doubts here. This is nothing,” said Ditchwater. “We all realize that it is far easier to catch a mess of trout than a mess of elk. We’ll have everything back to normal before long,” she promised from her desk in the abandoned town of Chivington in fish-challenged Kiowa County.

– Rocky Flats

Child-Proof Condoms Approved by Feds

Doctors at St Roscoe’s Community Clinic say that a host of federal agencies have given final approval to a new breed of child-proof condoms that are set for release this week. The breakthrough product is expected to revolutionize irresponsible sex and could be a major bone of contention with population peacocks and reproduction power brokers.

The OK came despite the rantings of consumer groups which say the condoms are still often too difficult to negotiate in the dark. One proponent of the commodity praised “the progressive nature of these developments” adding that it was about time we did something to protect our children from potentially dangerous technology.

These safer condoms are expected to be available in drugstores and groceries soon. They will be packaged in discreet brown paper so as to not cause suspicion. Buyers should expect to show appropriate identification upon purchase.

BEER TRUCKS IN FENDER BENDER

Local council declares a bank holiday so locals get to slurp.

(Montrose) Two large semis filled with cold beer collided today in a minor accident at the corner of Main and Townsend here. The trucks spewed some 2300 gallons of the hoppy nectar up and down the street.

     “It was a living hell,” said one unnamed bar patron, who had only minutes ago left LeCave for an afternoon walk.

     At the high point there was an estimated four foot wall of beer charging down Main Street toward City Hall. Fortunately, a contingent of courageous local citizens was there to turn it back.

     “For a while there it looked like we were going to be overrun,” burped another anonymous source.

     Officers on the scene, unable to determine fault, called the wreck a draw as city crews began the final mop up.

     The mishap was the worst of its kind since 1945, when a turboprop henway, caught in a hail storm, inadvertently dropped some 30 bags of gold dust onto the town. Luckily there were no direct hits and no injuries. The gold was never recovered. Authorities believe it is still somewhere between Hadley’s, the Stockmen’s Cafe and the Chipeta Hotel Bar. Anyone with information about the whereabouts of the loot is asked to call Crime Stoppers after happy hour.

-Pepper Salte

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WORLD IS FLAT SAYS KANSAS EVANGELIST

(Dodge City) An often respected television evangelist, Reverend Philip “Phil” Pharisee, has shocked his flock by declaring that the world is flat. The announcement came in the middle of a sermon delivered at Church of the Undivided Plain in nearby Spearville. Pharisee remarked that it is refreshing to see ancient articles of his well-watered imagination backed up by physical law for a change. He added that any fool, even a secular humanist, only need look out of his window to know the real truth.

     Pharisee, a major proponent of secession in Southwest Kansas, went on to add that the entire concept of Columbus discovering America was nothing but a cheap real estate scam.

     “If he really discovered America why won’t he return my phone calls!” shouted Pharisee, working up quite a sweat by now. “If you cynics out there don’t believe me you can read it for yourself as soon as somebody gets his ducks in a row over at UPI!” he warbled.

-Estelle Marmotbreath