El Compañero

As I haven´t been writing much lately, here is something I from my journal from some time ago...

When I first heard about Benito I pictured him as a younger guy. A teenager maybe and a little green behind the ears. Mario talked about how Benito lives in Leon and has been installing some filters in that area. I don’t know why I immediately made him a kid in my mind. Maybe for the name, as Benito sounds diminutive with the ito at the end. But as soon as I met Benito I saw how wrong my assumptions really were.

I was sitting and talking with Benito yesterday. He had his left leg crossed over his right, man style, and I noticed his boots. They were the heavy leather ones with thick soles whose traction was like that off a catipiller or other bulldozing machinery. Far from being athletic or dress up, they were actually the only shoes I can image Benito ever wearing. He needs something to support that gait of his. Extra wide to give him the steady base so he doesn’t tip over when he pounds his feet forcefully into the ground with each step.

As we were talking, Benito he had his hand gripping his crossed boot, his arm was bent and I noticed his elbow/forearm area. It looked like the land of Nicaragua right there at the back of his forearm. The muscle part of his forearm was strong and evlevated and pronounced. Then just dropped off and kind of dipped down like one of those lagoons that sit right below the many volcanos here in Nicaragua. He not only was bred on this spot of earth but has so internalized it he expresses it unknowingly in his muscles.

Another thing I am used to Benito doing, especially as we talk about the early ‘80s, is his simulation of shooting a gun. He doesn’t just elevate one week arm from his side and make the international gun sign with his thumb and index finger. What he does looks as if he was actually lifting a forty pound gun. He brings those trunks of arms up head high, the right one fully outstretched while the left one is bent, elbow out and hand near the face obviously on the trigger. He then closes one eye and squints with the other, looking down the length of, not only the gun, but maybe even his history.

It wasn’t long after I met Benito that we got into a conversation about his time with the Sandinista army up in the mountains somewhere. I mean when someone tells you there were in the army and lived in the mountains for two years you naturally want to know more about it. So I began to question him and paint his story in my minds eye.

My peaceful upbringing was spent on the square patch of grass in our front yard, with a soccer ball at my feet, and friends to kick with. When Benito was twelve years old, and he assures me he was skinny at this point, he was climbing down into manhole covers and running below the streets of Leon, delivering covert letters to various Sandinista leaders. He says once some guards stopped him. They spread his fingers and put their noses to the weby part between each digit to check for any bomb making residue. They beat him and kicked him and put their guns to his back. He remembers thinking he was going to dye, but one guard finally convinced the other not to kill the kid, and they let him walk with a stiff boot in the back as he left.

When Benito gets his mouth moving it is hard to slow him down. And it’s not just war stories he tells. He has plenty facts to share and opinions to let fly. Yesterday we were talking politics, the American variety. Our conversation floated over Obama’s election and previous decades and presidents. I was slightly surprised when Benito began speaking about Regan and Carter. I think I was surprised because from my campo time in the DR I became used to less than apt conversations about current American polotics much less past presidents. I remember Benito saying with his tongue flying, “Oh, Regan fue un…” except I don’t remember the adjective he used. I do know that Benito believes Regan is fully responsible for the ten years of war that his country went through.

In contrast to Benito’s feelings on Regan are his opinions of Bill Clinton. His eyes become happy and that pointy lipped smile of his pops onto his face when he begins talking of Clinton. Benito has repeated to me, at least twice, what Clinton said upon arriving to Nicaragua after some major flooding and a landslide that buried almost an entire city. He says Clintons words were to the affect of, I have not come in war but in peace, to support Nicaragua in development not destruction. Whatever Clinton said or didn’t say is irrelevant.

I realized then, while talking with Benito, how important our President is to other countries. I mean that, often when I hear of our presidents visiting other countries, I think not twice about it, much less once. I now see, from Benito’s smile while thinking of Clintons visit, how much a visit from the United States president means to people living in that country.

Here are a few pictures of Benito and what we do now.

Here's a random one for you...

It’s Friday afternoon. Thanks to the security guard, I took a new cow trail home on my way out of work. Just another example of how dependent I become on local knowledge when I am in a new city or country. It was the older guy in rubber boots who showed me the first trail which chopped my walk from the road to the Nehemiah Center in half. I remember I was hesitant to trust him. He came on pretty outgoing at first which is often my clue that something isn’t exactly right. They either want money or have ulterior motives. But I remember this guy’s motives were pretty genuine. He was headed down the same trail to the last house and why not point the gringo in the right direction?

Anyway, that trail worked well for a while. Cut out the worst part of my walk; the narrow gentle curve in road that dump trucks use on their way in and out of picking up a new load of dirt. I sometimes wonder how there can be enough dirt for their endless processions. They must have one heck of a hole going on. Maybe they are the guys who, when younger, believed their parents when they said China was only a matter of digging deep enough. And it’s not just an issue of one dump truck every now and again.

The trucks continuously rumble by, shifting gears while really not picking up much speed. Each shift throwing a heavy hand of gray smoke out of their charred stacks. It’s the kind of thick grey smoke that sticks to you, puts an invisible chalky layer on your forehead for the rest of the day. I have come to enjoy, if somewhat strangely, this kind of dirty grey smoke. It’s one of those immediate triggers to times and places of past, that I hold close to my heart. It’s also one of those very tangible things that remind me I am not in America. One of the uncomforts that makes the day to day more visceral, like the sweat that drowns my back while walking to or from work. This is all kind of my bent attempt at some kind of solidarity. Especially now as solidarity is not part of my job description. Whether the people I am trying to live in solidarity with actually notice my effort is another story. I mostly get looks like, “why’s the weird gringo coming out of the cow pasture with a backpack and sweat rolling down his temples?”

Should a tick so full of doggy blood that it looks like a grey raison gross me out? I don’t know. It looks more curious to me then anything. Its body so distorted from the other features like the numerous legs and head that protrude from it. The little head, so pointy with its two horizontal jaws still chomping back and forth, searching for the next meal that it has no room for. Should numerous swollen ticks on our tiled patio floor be worse than one? They are spread out like some kid threw a handful of small clumps of dirt, except they are little sacks of blood from the dogs, Forthy and Lucy.

Bus Stuffing

The roosters have gotten it all wrong. It’s a little after 11 pm and I hear them going to town with their cock a little do. Maybe they are Chinese roosters and still haven’t grasped they are on the other side of the world now. Or maybe they’ve been sleeping all day, seeing as it is Saturday and rained straight through the afternoon and evening. That’s what I would have done had I not gone exploring.

I did catch a hole in the clouds this morning; big enough for me to go do check out Managua, public transportation style. It’s always interesting (read frightening) to test the waters of a different developing country’s transportation systems. I did have a few things going for me this morning. One, it was sunny for the most part and no matter how many twists and turns we made, I had a clear read on the shadows. Two, I had time, all day in fact, to get lost and straighten it out if need be. Thirdly, it’s really kind of hard to get lost when you speak Spanish. It’s like if you were in New York and spoke English…I mean you just stop and ask for directions.

So Managua’s transportation resembles Panama’s in that they both rely on the old yellow American school bus. They just differ in the extent to which they use said school bus. Panama’s drivers, probably do to heavy American influence over the years, are some what more respectful of personal space. They must read the capacity sign on the front of their buses. In Panama, if capacity says 60 they may stretch it to 70, and everybody’s still ok. But in Managua they take the capacity sign down to make space for one more person! Think of a school bus with 1,000 people in it. I’M NOT LYING! I dare say they give Dominicans a run for their pesos. I actually would like to see a bus stuffing competition between Dominicans and Nicas. Nicas might win, seeing as they make full use of not only the inside of the bus but the top of the roof as well.

I know it might sound like, “wow, I don’t think I would have enough room to even breath!?” And while that is a legitimate concern, it should not be the principal worry. You need to be worried about how you’re going to get off the thing. And you don’t have the Jaws of Life coming to cut you out. Oh and actually before that, you first need to figure out where you are going to get out. Have you ever tried to orientate yourself while standing up inside a yellow school bus? You can’t! Unless you’re a midget. You have about five feet from the side of the bus to study the road/sidewalk and figure out where you are. And don’t think your going to duck or bend over to steal a glimpse out the window. Remember there’s no space for that nonsense!

Anyway, I also felt more at ease figuring out the whole transportation system as I studied a Budget Rent-A-Car map relentlessly over the past week. Although no street names are used in real life, I did have a basic understanding of the layout of the town. So I knew that when I arrived to Bello Horizonte after about an hour winding through the Managua streets I was much too far east, almost to the airport. My goal had been to make it to the central shopping area where I could exchange my somehow overly complicated cell phone for one that was actually sensible. Although I knew I had been going east for far too long I let myself wander. For one thing, I had a seat and could actually see out the window. I took advantage of the view and the opportunity to see a bit of Managua.

Nicaraguan History 101

If you are like me and really didn’t learn much about Nicaraguan history in High School/College – did they even teach it? here’s your ten minute history review. And if you are in the movie making business, here’s your Oscar winning script; a script spanning four continents and featuring numerous tyrants and rebellions; not one, not two, but five (if I’m counting right). Add in violence and war, although unfortunately no big love scenes, even though I’m sure there had to be some loving going on somewhere in country. So anyway, here’s your run down. And if you want to go straight to the source for all the greasy details read this book…Blood of Brothers by Stephen Kinzer. You will be amazed.

We all know how the story starts (as far as takeovers go) for most of South America and even North America at that. The Spanish come with their guns and colds and wipe out the Indians and make all who are left speak Spanish and eat Mexican food – ok, just in Mexico. So that basically was the fate of Nicaragua until 1821 when all the Central American countries united for a United States of Central America. This fell apart a few years later and Nicaragua became the ruler of its own independent country. Well until America stepped in, particularly the adventurer William Walker, who took manifest destiny to heart, seeing internal conflict as an opportunity for him to grab up his own small country. With a ragtag bunch of other Americans he came down to Nicaragua, forced his way to power, and in 1856 held corrupted elections where he magically came out on top.

Obviously, the home town folks didn’t like the idea of this gringo ruling their country so they kicked him out, but not before Walker could burn to the ground everything he had built. So for forty years after, power was shared between a handful of wealthy Nicaraguans, until our next star of this tale appears. Jose Zelaya was his name and he was a reformer, a change maker, an Obama or even a McCain if you believe it to be, and he brought the goods. Zelaya did great things for Nica, among them funding for education and infrastructure, grating rights to all citizens including women, and outlawing slavery. But unfortunately he was a little to Nationalistic for American mining and timber interests, and even began talks with the Germans, Japanese, and British for a competing trans-isthmian Canal.

Well American president Taft had something to say about all of this even going so far as calling Zelaya a “medieval despot”. Through the Knox Note in 1909 the US demanded Zelaya’s resignation calling for a government “capable of responding to demands…”etc, etc. Zelaya got the point, packed his bags, and left for exile. US marines came in and did the next logical thing, installed a new government that knew, if you will, who their daddy was. As before, the locals didn’t like this American intervention so much either, and one of them, Zeledon decided to organize and fight back knowing good and well he was signing his own death warrant. He died, and his rebellion was quieted, but his spirit and ideas were carried on in the national and international superstar of Augusto Cesar Sandino.

Sandino was born a poor Nicaraguan and went to work for United Fruit and a US petroleum company in Mexico. Like the nerdy kid in school, he and his country were generally picked on by Mexicans and other Central Americans, for living under and allowing the rule of the North American Big Daddy. Sandino took this to heart and being inspired by the rebellion started by Zeledon began to fight back, to “recover its national sovereignty, stolen from us by the Yankee Empire.” After much fight back and afforded luck by the oncoming Great Depression the US retreated in 1932. So Sandino won and in turn brokered a peace deal with the American puppet and president Sacasa. But before the marines left, they installed Anastacio Somoza as jefe of the National Guard.

Somoza, not unlike most of the rest of us, wanted power and wealth and decided to do something about it - and I guess it’s easier when you have the National Guard under your command. Anyway, after Sandino and President Sacasa had a festival sort of ball one evening, the NG stops Sandino on ride home, kidnaps him, takes him to an airport runway and shoots him. This puts Somoza in good position to nudge out Sacasa, which he does, then calls for elections, which he wins in 1936. Somehow only 169 people found the courage to vote against him.

“He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s ours,” were Roosevelt’s comments upon Somoza’s lavish reception in Washington soon after all the smoke settled. Upon completing his 5 year term, and given Nicaragua’s constitution bans re election, Somoza hand picked a friend, Arguello, and held corrupt elections to get him elected. Once elected Arguello throws his hands up, or washes them clean, and says he has no commitments with anyone. Of course Somoza doesn’t like to hear this, so he calls up his army lead a coup and reinstates himself as dictator.

Well to shorten things, three Somozas ruled Nicaragua with much US support, until 1979. To be sure, they were all dictators – doing much of what dictators normally do: amassing much wealth and power by “controlling railroad and steamship lines, factories, fishing fleets, gold mines, lumber companies, and Nicaraguas largest brewery.” They also traded in drugs, gambling, and prostitution for fun. They censored the press while torturing and killing dissidents appropriately.

After the country had enough of this, which I can imagine they did, they became more sympathetic to a growing nationalistic movement, with Marxist leanings, called the Sandinistas. These Sandinistas fought their way into power and were set on “destroying a system that had created so much injustice.” They redistributed farm lands, launched literacy campaigns, and even kicked out my favorite organization the Peace Corps for a mistrust of motives. Although after so much past American influence, I don’t know if I can fault their misconceived beliefs.

So this book, Blood of Brothers, spends over 200 pages on the years ’79 to ’90. But the basics of all of it is this: the US didn’t like the Sandinistas, so the CIA funded and trained (clandestinely at first) an anti-revolutionary movement (contras) and pretty much an all out civil war. Add to this a devastating earthquake in ’72 and you have the basis for a country that went from being one of the most developed in all of Central America at the turn of the 20^th century to being the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere at this current time.

So our story of tyranny and rebellion ends in 1988 with a peace deal brokered by Costa Rica’s President and Nobel Laureate Oscar Arias. This established the democratically elected government that still functions today in Nicaragua.

I have never been to a country so recently torn by civil war and I'm interested to see for myself what Nicaragua looks like and feels like today. I can not really image.

Here's your wiki...http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicaragua

I guess I'm a sucker for familiarity. Or maybe its balance. Whatever it is, I'm sending out from where I set in. Three last nights at la casa de carmen to match the first three nights I spent at this comfy courtyared and hammocked of a hostel on arrival in country. If I had some weird form of amnesia I might fool myself into believing my tarzan life never really existed. I mean what do I have to show for it? No parasites according to three straight days of pooping in a cup. No malaria, dengue, or really any other jungle fever you can faintly remember the name of, but heard its really bad. And they're bad, I promise you. Never got it, but I promise you don't want it. I also seem to have narrowly escaped the Chicken Pox outbreak over the past month in my community and the neighboring one. Anyone that hadn't had the ohh so attractive welts covering their body before a month ago has had them now.

So unfortunately, my immune system doesn't like to hear me share cool sickness stories with my friends. That's all right. I still have the head full of bees stinging story. Our best crocodile hunter impression story. The tree ripened banana eating in the rain while hiding under cacao leaves in the jungle story. General living with indians in the jungle stories, including monkey alarm clocks and spear fishing. I have Amaranto's epic quest to find a wife in the Darien and bring her back home no matter her age or the amount of time he has known her...that story as well. Along with Amaranto's epic quest goes his ability to out fish anyone anytime, bringing home 20 fish or more whenever he wants, giving him the right to go to the Darien and find whichever wife suits him...as long as they aren't alergic to fish. I have other stories as well...they are just buried deep and maybe (but hopefully not) be called up only by certain trigger words. So excuse me if I have random flash backs and burst into laughter while sitting quietly listening to you talk to me. It's just that this is going to be on my mind for a while.

Some thoughts stored and forgotten

Something I found stored away from about 4 months ago. An interesting peek at things back then (especially for me). Seems like this was written after a probably frustrating day as I sense my cynical side coming through. So maybe this is a small picture of Peace Corps on one of those days. But I also must say my thoughts have changed and evolved since. Maybe I could do a response to this sometime. Anyway, here you go...


Some good things happening. Computers are now in Spanish and the unknown “file” is now a more understandable “archive”. The keyboard also jumped around on people, with the @ sign now being hidden behind the alt and 2 key. I guess now I will be keyboard translating instead of file menu translating. But that’s all right; at least now the accent doesn’t take an alt plus a three digit number to get to. If they could only place their fingers on asdf jkl; the world could be so much easier for them. Or me? Actually they probably could care less, they just ask me the same question a hundred times over when they get stuck.

Zuleika is slowly progressing with her mouse range. Although still wanting to drive her finger through the mouse button on a double click. Madeline got the right click down today. I think.

I do wonder sometimes as I walk under Aristides et al. on my way to the computer room. As I fill myself with worry and hurry and sometimes even double step it there to download a Service Pack 2 or install the entire office suite. The pounding of his makeshift wooden hammer log and homemade al against the cocobolo turtle he is working on summon me back to earth. My minds eye sees the turtle held between his feet, as he sits bent over and 6 inches off the floor on his simple wooden stool. I’ve seen the image so many times already. Really every time I take a peak over his way. He works, dark red wood chips cover his clothes and surround him like rose petals around a bride. More veins then I ever knew a person to have cover his forearms and hands as they maneuver tightly around his rough masterpiece.

I wonder as I look back and see Huma on the floor, eight feet off the ground, and leaning to her left, legs bent to her right as she plays with her three year old granddaughter. She always says something to me in Wounaan, still so foreign to my ear. I wonder as I see the three sisters, three wives of three brothers, weaving up there, shy and only now starting to smile at me first. I wonder. Who is going to use this Microsoft suite I am rushing to install? Huma, Aristides, etc. don’t even show face in the computer converted side of their bathroom. Actually, Aristides did once, the first class. I feel it was more like a show of support and a welcoming gesture then any interest whatsoever in the subject matter. I mean really, he’s going to be carving Cocobolo every day for the rest of his life. And he doesn’t mind that or even should you.

So I wonder, how many people is all this currently impacting? Well unless a huge flood of tourists come as a result of the new web page, which I’m pretty sure won’t happen, the current impact of all this is very small. But then the potential is big. It’s big for the younger residents of San Antonio, I tell myself.

This makes me smile

Yeah Victor!! And thanks betsy!

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