My friend Morrie rebuilds his castle, Corn Island, Nicaragua, and intro to Ralphie.
“Little by little. Little by little” says my good and trusted friend Morrie as he shows me his progress in rebuilding his parents’ house down the dirt road just before you get to the 10 or so panga fishing boats resting on shore as the Caribbean gently licks the sterns.
Morrie, the cow farmer, and his residence Corn Island, Nicaragua copyright rj lerich
I first met Morrie on my first trip to Big or Great Corn Island, Caribbean side of Nicaragua, some 10 or 12 years ago. I decided to wander off the one paved, main road that went around the perimeter of the island. The dust followed my footsteps as I passed a few houses, all so totally different from houses where I reside part of the year, Bedford Village, NY(and where my readers reside in Milan and Brazil and London and more) each with maybe 1/2 dozen kids playing whatever it was they were playing and a few moms nursing those in diapers as the overpopulation of mutts stopped to sniff the interloper. Now, the houses are not what we in America or England or Spain would recognize as residences but they worked in Corn Island.
Common zinc/clapboard home with transport and food prep table jungle
Corn Island, Nicaragua copyright rj lerich
Either wood or cinder block or zinc sheet metal seemingly slapped together with outside running tap near the laundry zone. Swallow, the matriarch of the neighborhood, stared and nodded along with her two attractive daughters, Hailie and Hilma, along with a bunch of guys, some in tatters, others in hip-hop fashion, who were just chilling. My Nikon around my neck was probably worth more than the annual GDP of the folks for whom I was now the talk of the town. I was aware but had little fear.
Ok. I was on another adventure in unknown territory exploring the so called lay of the land with a spot of trepidation. A few hundred steps further down the pot hole filled dustbowl of a road, chickens crowing as they crossed, stood a couple of guys next to a structure of some, or should I say, major disrepair. Both sides sizing up the other, I nodded as they called out “allright”, the locally accepted greeting throughout the island. The tall, gangly, seemingly emaciated Creole chap was Morrie, his threadbare shorts being held up by protruding hip bones, chest with the architecture of an Auschwitz resident. His long face above a 6′2″ frame of maybe 125 lbs. was topped with a smile, gray stubble and long fingers held a well sharpened machete gleaming in the Carib sunlight.
Portrait my trusted friend Morrie, Corn Island, Nicaragua
I walked straight over to Morrie and his young, analytical eyed cohort. Held out my hand. Said “mawning” (as Corn Islanders say “morning”) and shook Morie’s now extended hand. People. People just going about their daily lives as I’ve thought on the buses of Rio de Janeiro, the souk marketplace in Istanbul or the rooftop smoking palace and bar overlooking Cairo as men and their dates sucked their hookahs, me in Ralph Lauren polo and New Balance sneex. My philosophy around the world has been these are humans going about their daily lives. A white man intruding is not cause to change from decent people to thieving animals in need of a traveling Seiko “orange monster” dive watch or an unusually traveling Rolex Sub/Date.
“How’s it going?” “Right here, Robert”, my name preceding my arrival in Morie’s bit of the world as “the white man” cometh. The coconut telegraph (nod to Jimmy Buffett) is very efficient and travels with the speed of a drum beat. “This my house, mon. Me parent house. Them dead now.” The house was a structure of stone walls, roof here and there, puddles of water, and Morrie’s pride, his new bedroom; elevated 4 poster on dirt floor with a door that closed. He was a very proud man, my new Nicaraguan Creole friend, Morrie. As the years pass, a tour of the improvements is on my schedule on every visit. Now the bathroom and a lovely tile patio, as is generic to Nicaragua, is the current project.
Morrie proudly in front of progression of castle construction
I left my first meeting with Morrie at that and with a smile and handshake, I headed through the jungle past Morrie’s 5 cows, tree tied and nibbling the grass, to come upon the fishermen and the official self proclaimed maitre de, Ralphie, whose residence was a zinc house, dirt floor and, again, a poster bed.
Rundon Corn Island, Nicaraguan national treat steaming under banana leaf pot copyright rj lerich
He was seaside and as the years past, Ralphie would cook rundon, the traditional native dish, for me from fish/lobster/mussles and herbs/roots and vegetables steamed under a banana leaf over the wood burning makeshift.
Good friend Ralphie serving me rundon in his kitchen
Corn Island was growing on me like a tropical jungle vine wrapping tightly around my psyche.
Bedford, NY, USA writing and photos copyright rj lerich June 14,2016
professional website www.rjlerich.com
