Vidal

He walks around these streets like they are his very own, like they are miniature models of streets that he has the privilege of crushing after he builds them.  He struts with his shirt off, loudly greeting people as he passes them, sometimes with the phrase, “Que Onda”, sometimes a hiss, other times an indecipherable noise that all men seem to call and respond to.

Husband to a host sister of mine, they have had three children together, the last being a boy in a generation of many girls.  Neither his first nor his second daughter could be said to be much like him, except, perhaps, in their ambitiousness and their manner of telling stories. Likenesses between he and his baby boy have yet to be determined. As of very recently, they have walking in common.

He and his wife supposedly married without the permission of her parents. One day she left the house, to be found later living with Vidal. She was 16 years old. He a couple years her senior. 

He is stronger than he used to be. His features are mostly symmetrical. His skin is practically hairless, colored like a well sanded African Mahogany. 

You don't know how he smells. You try not to get that close. You do trust him, as a member of the family. Especially because of the visit from your real brother. He came for Christmas, and Vidal attached to him immediately, talking with him, drinking with him, and at the end of the trip calling him his own brother as well.

He keeps me company on occasion at the famous dining room table. Around this table he helps me with Spanish pronouns, tells stories - which he is rather skilled at and clearly enjoys - eats dinner or lunch, and generally causes a ruckus. He will often burst into the house singing with his baby on his hip to disrupt whatever it is I am occupied with. Naturally, an adorable baby is a welcome break any time. On occasion we talk about politics, (Vidal and I, that is. Not the baby and I.) Or rather, he talks about politics and I desperately try to follow the conversation, which is clearly and obviously lain out in front of me, but at speeds that make the perfect organization of information almost for naught. I do pick up on the fact that he has an interesting point of view. He calls himself Sandinista, which is the name of the ruling party.  In the last election, in between promoting the party, he voted at least 4 times. He confides to me one afternoon in the fading daylight that he doesn’t approve of the current actions taken by the Sandinistas. But that, in the next election, he will still vote for them, and still canvas for them. His reasons are two fold. 1: the alternative parties aren’t much to be desired, either. 2: if your town is Sandinista, then it gets more financial priority from the government. Roads, schools, parks, and other various signs of infrastructure pop up weekly.

He used to intimidate me. Interestingly, I ceased being intimidated the day he hit on me for the first time.  He did nothing overt; it was simply holding onto me in a hug too long for my liking, lingering the greeting cheek-kiss a moment more than was appropriate, looking into my eyes without saying anything, but refusing to let go of the hand that I had proffered for him to shake. His hands are plenty worn, plenty callused. What from, I don’t know. His smile is distracting and cut with four false front teeth, sometimes they seem as though they are about to fall out. He is not much taller than I am – Maybe 5’10” on a day he’s feeling particularly confident and awake. He works long days, and as a result 50% of the time I see him in his home, he is sleeping. The other 50% he is watching television. Cable, naturally.

For work, he owns a microbus, which he uses to taxi people back and forth from the main part of town where he lives to a place 30-45 minutes away.  I rode with him once – he killed two Coral snakes on the road within 2 minutes of each other. Those are the only two Coral snakes I have seen. The only other snakes I have seen were one that spanned the entire width of the road I was running down, was a deep shimmering blue-green, and was thankfully without a head. The other was the fellow above. Not quite as terrifying. Vidal is also the provider of cable to anyone in the main town that has that luxury. A corner of his downstairs is filled with cable boxes and wires. There is something a bit voyeuristic about looking at those cable boxes.  Knowing exactly which channel people are watching in the comfort and privacy of their own homes.

You know very little about his childhood. When asked about his family, he responds that his family is your family.  You take that to mean that his family is not around, or not welcoming. It softens your disposition towards him.

When I first moved into the mountains, I was looking for an alternative ride to the nearest hospital, should an emergency occur and the ambulance be otherwise occupied. In addition to the microbus, Vidal has a small white pick-up truck. I gathered enough courage one day, maybe less than a month into my living there, to ask him if he would be willing to take me the 100 km from Rancho Grande to Matagalpa, should the worst happen. He was quiet a moment, looking earnestly at me. Perhaps judging if I was trying to take advantage of him - I truly thought he was going to say no. But he didn't. And it has made me feel safer. And that is quite a gift.