Blind Anticipation and Chi Sao

We're on the cusp of fall here in Vancouver. The skies are clear, but the morning sun has lost her sting. I can sit by my window in direct sunlight, but the window's closed if I want my shirt off.

Little Corn Island

I'm heading to Burning Man this Saturday. In my typical fashion, I'm withholding all expectations--good and bad. I have a small pocket-full of easily attainable fantasies based on someone else's photos from someone else's year, but I don't expect to be spiritually transformed like some people have suggested; and I don't expect to be so thoroughly shocked by the environment that I breakdown on the 3rd day in fits of tearful homesickness. Instead I'm cultivating a strange denial of next week. "7 days in the desert? Sure. Sounds fun." I find myself looking back on my last trip to Nicaragua and wondering how it's possible that it happened at all. But it did and so this should be evidence that I should take next week seriously.

Little Corn Island

I'm a last-minute man by nature. For some reason I only feel motivated to do anything about anything at the very final hour. But this is not unique. What is perhaps unique is that I only feel creative when I should be doing something else. Why am I blogging when I should be packing? Why do I work on dub-techno when I should be combing through sound libraries for content suitable for the ages of 4-12?

In Kung Fu we practice Chi Sao--which roughly translated means: Sticky Hands. Another fundemental principle is Forward Intention. When we practice chi sao, we feel rather than see a way forward through our partner's structure by sticking our arms and hands to theirs. We are often encouraged to practice it with our eyes closed. By simply focussing on maintaining our own correct body structure and a forward intention, it's a waiting game, and all of a sudden, there's a way forward. When it happens there's no thinking, only effective forward movement.

Little Corn Island

I try to apply this Chi Sao and Forward Intention principle to my life. I figure if I maintain a correct structure and balance in my life, pick an intention and stick with it, when there's a way forward I've already taken it; eyes closed, unquestioning, unthinking; in the direction I picked long ago. The difference these days seems to be that it's my conscious self picking the direction instead of my sub-conscious. Or maybe, I'm just consciously aware of the fickle whims of my sub-conscious. Either way, if I know where I want to go, I'll get there, because it's all about intention for me.

Granada cafe

So back to this Burning Man business. I have no idea, why I'm blogging right now--and in broader view: why I'm creative almost only when I ought to be doing something else. But maybe it's got something to do with the Chi Sao of my brain. But instead of sticking to an opponent, I'm sticking to an idea of what I want to be doing and waiting for that moment when circumstance aligns from an impossibility to an open door that I've already walked through. Maybe my lack of expectation is not the indifference that I fear it is. Maybe it's just being ready for what comes--expected or not.

Los Cardones

Guitar Story

Likely one of my most prized instruments I've ever had (and still have) is this guitar I bought in Nicaragua. On this day we drove form Granada up to Masaya. Masaya is an artisan craftsman city in Nicaragua. I'd done some reading on a few guitar forums about these two guitar makers whose places were right beside each other just off the main highway. With no idea what to expect, Lisa and I showed up to this place and I told them I wanted to look at and try out some guitars. We went to the bigger place first. There was a tiled floor, some guitars on the walls and small sign indicating acceptance of all forms of high interest, delayed payment. Our reception at the first place (Sergio Zepeda) was a little indifferent, but they gave me an electronic tuner and told me to go ahead and try out any of the guitars on the wall. Some of these ones were really nice and others were really bad.

Then we went to the other place next door (Pilarte). Dirt floor, tin roof, plastic walls. But wow, these guitars were nice. They had character. I tried some. I immediately gravitated towards a nice thin-body, light weight beauty that resonated like a guitar twice its size. I felt pretty self conscious as I quietly plucked away in the 7 or 8 chords I know, singing some of the songs I know to see how my voice sounded with the guitar. The people here, they must've thought I was some kind of spoiled white dude, buying a nice guitar when I couldn't really play squat by their (very high) playing standards. But they were very polite... making little comments about each of the guitars I tried... highlighting one strength in tone here or a feature of craftsmanship there. They left me to take my time. I got comfortable. I got lost in quietly playing some of those guitars...

I went back into the first place after a while and found the guitars there to have a more generic quality of tone than the guitars at the shop with the dirt floor and tin roof.

All in all, I think I spent about an hour and a half picking a guitar. I ended up with the same thin resonant body that I gravitated to originally. I went to the bank machine and took out a small fortune in American cash and paid for my new instrument.

Back home in Vancouver, I grew to love my Nicaraguan guitar more and more. We're getting to know each other. I'm learning how to hit an A without ever buzzing and my guitar is teaching me which parts of the neck and body are best for little percussion taps with my thumb. I recently played out for my first time at the Anza Club and had to use a friend's electric guitar for my songs because my guitar was built with no pickup. While the guitar itself great, I really missed my Nica-Guitar up there. So I brought my guitar to Not Just Another Music Shop to have a pickup installed. Rob (the owner) treated me really well there and had a really nice set of tune-ups done to really bring out more tone and resonance as well as installing a great pickup under the bone. I'm looking forward to playing at the Anza again with my Nica guitar... Now if I can only remember to sing into the microphone... :)

A picture of the guitar maker, Pilarte, and me.

New Documentary on Nicaragua

LAND trailer for feature documentary from Julian T. Pinder on Vimeo.

Coffee Farm

Where does your coffee come from? Not here. The stuff in these pics goes to Europe. In fact, this whole area has been funded by European countries--infrastructure, schools... etc. They tend have a longer-term, more sustainable view of coffee farming than Nescafe or Starbucks.

We toured this coffee farm in the Northern Highlands--very close to the Honduras border. It's near a town called Jalapa (pronounced Ha-la-pa). We rode 30 minutes on a bumpy road up out of the valley and into the hills. We were the only tourists around and it stretched Lisa's Spanish to the max to keep up with the quick-talking Nicaraguan farmer and his dad.

We toured around the property for the morning before the sun got too hot and learned a few tidbits about grass-roots coffee production. It's these types of sustainable coffee farms that we need to buy coffee from. Starbucks is not in these hills folks--the coffee from this place is expensive because it's sustainable.

After tasting the beans and taking a few pictures of the view, we were back in our strange little hotel for lunch. While this place was way off the beaten path, it was also extremely hard to travel comfortably in (at any price). There was no food to be had that wasn't deep fried and mass-produced (aside from plantains--which were still deep-fried, but at least local). The coffee berries were the tastiest thing we tried all day.

Not used to having requests for tours of their farms, the transport up and down was in a single passenger seat of a pickup truck whose window was stuck half down. The road was mega 4x with ruts that could swallow a Smartcar.

Rough Day?

One day in Nicaragua, on the Rio San Juan, we sat in hammocks, drank rum, and smoked Romeo and Juilets. We had a bird book from which we found 11 species of bird. It was definitely our laziest day in Nicaragua. It was great.

Ometepe

This transit day sticks out as one of the most memorable.

We'd spent the morning, ending our affairs in Granada--checking out of the hotel, buying ferry tickets for the long ride across Lake Nicaragua, buying hammocks in the mercado for a long boat ride for another day we knew was coming.

To get our ferry tickets we went down first thing at 9am--the time we were told the office opened. No, we were mistaken, it doesn't actually open until 10. Ok, so Lisa went back after 10. No, we were mistaken, they need passports to sell ferry tickets. So I go back around 12, passports in tow and book us tickets (first class--foriegners are only allowed to ride first class) to Ometepe.

Then we battled and lost with the baggage clerk to try to carry on our luggage. No way... we even had the captain of the boat speaking with us. No go. Have to check the luggage. We weren't the only gringo's pissed about it. This one dude from some unnamed, highly efficient, European country almost bust a gasket trying to convince the captain to let him carry his fishing gear on. It was nice to have a champion fighting for our cause, but in the end, we disassociated ourselves from him because he was just too intense about it--some people really can't tolerate being told no. It's just not worth it to shout at people who aren't going to change their minds.

Anyways, we got on the boat and had a few sneaky sips from the bottle of rum we snuck on with us in our bag. Some people try to change the rules... other people just break them when they can.

Our first class seat put us on the upper deck. We had our choice of the frosty, air conditioned cabin playing a bootleg copy of 2012 or the open air deck with no chairs and a steel floor, and a fantastic view. We chose the view. I played guitar and sang and an artist from France came and sat with us and pencil-sketched me playing guitar. Nylon-stringed guitar, French being spoken on my right, the dull rumbling hum of the engine and waves below, Lisa reading her book to my left, sneaking sips of rum with our cigars--the 4 hours passed quickly.

Our first view of the twin volcano island of Ometepe was gradual. The cones revealed themselves in increments from the clouds as the sun raced them to the horizon.

We arrived that night to a horde of waiting taxi drivers all trying to charge us about 20 times more what the same ride would cost in Granada. The first taxi we got in broke down after 15 minutes of driving. The driver still wanted us to pay. We did not. We'd paired up with a young couple from Montreal and started a late night tour around the island from hotel to hotel, each one booked solid. Our mood quickly deteriorating, we finally arrived at a hotel that not only had space, was actually completely empty. Lisa saw a number of new species of jungle insect when the lights to the room were flicked on and I pretended not to understand as she described they're many manacles and antennae. We slept poorly and checked out the next day. [TBC]

Beer Frosty

It was in Leon and it was really hot. And the glasses for our beer were so cold that the beer froze as soon as we poured it.

 

I miss the buildings. And I miss the non-existent man-hole covers. Watch your step...