We arrived in a Managua heavily guarded by armed government troops: an ugly city still disfigured from the destruction caused by the 1972 earthquake fourteen years earlier. A city without a heart, its center still mostly devastated.
The atmosphere was heavy, even leaden, despite the cloudless weather. A group of soldiers halted our van and ordered Ken Sehested, our group leader, to relinquish his camera. He had taken photos of the Baptist Convention building, which sat across the street from a military base. I got out of the van and entreated the soldiers to let this slip-up pass since we were just a group of Christian pilgrims searching for a fair and deeper understanding of what was afoot in the country, and Ken had taken no photos of the base, only of the Baptist installations. They were not rude or aggressive, and I guess my use of Spanish and very respectful tones suggested to them a certain kinship. Ken got to keep his camera, but not its roll of film.
Ever in the background raged a war, a bloody conflict between the revolutionary government and a growing opposition sponsored by the United States. Occupied by the Marines between 1912 and 1933, whose major accomplishment was the enthronement of the loyalist Somoza dynasty, the country had fallen to the Sandinista Liberation Front in 1979. They had initiated what looked to many around the world like an honest, well-intentioned process of reforms aimed at establishing a more just socio-political and economic system in the country, one that would give the poor the possibility of a better, fairer future. But it didn’t take long for an opposition to these reforms to arise and turn into violent resistance with the substantial financial and military aid of the Reagan administration. By the time we arrived in Nicaragua in the summer of 1986, the resistance had evolved into all-out war, the notorious Contra War.
The sadness reflected by the city’s many scars was somewhat lightened by the joyful endurance of the Nicaraguans with whom we soon interacted. Sandungueros is how I would describe them: charming, friendly, witty; exhibiting the bodily ease of people who dance. From them I learned Nicaragua’s unofficial national anthem: Ay, Nicaragua, Nicaragüita, la flor más linda de mi querer . . . (“Oh, Nicaragua, dear Nicaragua, the prettiest flower of my heart . . .”).
How do we process experiences that bring us face to face with a totally unfamiliar reality? Perhaps that initial difficulty and the passing of thirty-six years make me an unreliable witness. But indulge me as I share a short medley of the memories that linger in my heart.
Knowing that I was about to visit a country affected by food scarcity, I had pledged to myself that I would eat whatever was put in front of me. Then, for our very first meal in Managua, we were served runny fried eggs. It was only when I was turning green that Ken asked me if there was anything wrong, and I confessed to my pledge and evident weakness. He generously dispensed me from my vow. How quickly my resolve had vanished! As my food was removed from the table, my eyes followed it, haunted by images of hungry children trailing the aroma of uneaten eggs.
We traveled to Rama, near the country’s Atlantic coast, and were housed in the town’s only hotel—Hotel Johanna—which had no running water. On the rooftop sat several stalls housing what looked like toilets but were actually the mouths of latrines. And more stalls with big barrels of rainwater, each with its own metal can for rinsing purposes. This time, my resolve was to abstain from bathing, but, as will be made clear in a moment, I did not keep this second pledge either.
A fellow Puerto Rican and I shared a room. The bed linen looked very clean but exuded an unfamiliar scent that gave no hint of detergent. We turned the lights off, which was immediately interpreted by a horde of mice as license to ramble about the room. No way these two Puerto Ricans were going to sleep surrounded by nosy mice! So, we decided to sit out the night on the hotel’s second-floor balcony. When we realized that some of our group were sleeping in our van, we climbed over the balcony’s balustrade, lowered ourselves to street level, and begged for hospitality. No sooner had we found a spot and closed our eyes than we were roused by the crackling report of automatic weapons. We hit the floor of the van, where we eventually faded into sleep.
The next morning, we traveled by motorized dugout canoes to visit a farming cooperative, one of many sponsored by the Sandinista government. As we waited to set off, our guide warned us not to put our hands in the water because, as he pointed out, sewage emptied into the river. As soon as the motors were turned on and the canoes began to move, waves of river water began to break on us. My face, my eyes, my nose, even my passport, got drenched.
Once we arrived at the cooperative, we were treated to a thick venison stew inside a one-room unfurnished house. Our hosts were indigenous Miskito, residents of a relatively distant region, whose lives had unfolded with very little, if any, interference or help from the central government. Their feeling now was that the new government was being too heavy-handed.
Back at the Johanna, I took the best bath of my life using the previously disdained water in the rooftop barrels and blissfully rinsing with the metal can.
I went for a walk around town and entered what looked like a small grocery store. The shelves were so poorly stocked that one had the impression that an extremely generous sale had just ended. I asked if they had Diet Coke but was told that the only soda they carried was a locally bottled fruit drink, which I politely declined.
As I continued my walk, I passed by a house where a little girl, maybe five years old, stood in a small terrace shouting. She stomped her foot on the floor, looking up at a mango tree and yelling: ¡Bajate, bajate, hijeputa, bajate! (“Come down, you son of a bitch, come down!”) which I found appalling given the girl’s age. I looked up toward the crown of the tree, and there, among the yellow-green mangos, sat an emerald-green parrot that had apparently escaped from its cage.
We returned to Managua, where we visited a skill-developing night school. The women taking the sewing classes that evening were not shy to share with us their experiences and feelings. A small young woman stood up to speak and said, “I feel like I am pregnant with hope, but my baby might be stillborn.” Translating these words for the rest of my group without breaking down was downright hard.
So much has happened around the world since 1986. I’ve never returned to Nicaragua, and I must admit that I don’t keep up too much with their news. I know that Daniel Ortega, the Sandinista president in 1986, and his extravagant vice-presidential wife, are back in power. This time, Ortega seems to have given up on reforms and to have settled into the presidential chair with no plans to be unseated other than by death.
But I often think of Nicaragüita and of the hopes and dreams briefly awakened in the hearts of so many, dreams that were so soon miscarried. My mind’s eye revisits the small terrace of the house in Rama, and I wonder if the girl was ever able to make the green parrot give up its new-found freedom. And I wonder too about the young woman who carried in her womb the dream of a better life. And I wonder if there is a home for justice anywhere in the world.
Photograph by Ben Gelernter
Smoky Quartz 