Yessss.
“I have a two-bedroom apartment,” I tell him. “Why don’t you stay with me? It won’t cost you anything, and we can study Spanish together. I need to work on mine too.” Then I explain the string. In exchange for a room, he has to take me to Nicaragua.
Henry can’t believe his good luck. He likes the idea of a travel companion; and even more, he is thrilled to be able to live rent free. And I am excited to be pointing in a new direction. It’s time for me to leave Guatemala and move on. I love making deals where everybody ends up happy.
Henry moves in; and one day we invite Doña Lina, my landlady, to join us for dinner. She is talking to me again. She was flattered that I took Jan to meet her. Until then, she hadn’t even nodded hello since I missed that lunch in her house.
And she wasn’t too happy at first about Henry moving in until I assured her that he was neither paying rent nor sleeping with me. His pay-back, I told her, is that he is going to be my escort-over-land to Nicaragua. Our dinner with her is friendly, and good Spanish practice for Henry and me.
Two days before Henry and I are due to leave, Doña Lina stops by to tell us that her nephew, who lives in El Salvador, is driving through town in his truck next week on his way home from Mexico. She thinks he might like our company.
We’d have to delay our trip for two days and detour through El Salvador, but we accept. Neither of us has ever been to El Salvador, and riding in our own private truck sounds like fun.
Antigua has been a good place for me. Filled with friends and “family,” I have met the first challenges of my new life, and I’m more confident than ever that I will thrive.
Nicaragua
CHAPTER FIVE
THE END OF POLITICAL INNOCENCE
Andrés arrives around noon in a red truck with a twenty-foot trailer and a cabin big enough for the three of us. We begin our conversation with family. It’s the universal opener. Andrés and his wife and two preschool children live in the capital city of San Salvador.
Half an hour into our trip, I ask about life in El Salvador.
“I will talk to you because we are inside my truck and no one can hear us,” he says. “In El Salvador I never discuss politics. Even here in Guatemala I won’t talk if I’m on the street. You never know who might be listening.”
El Salvador has been involved in a civil war since 1979. Left-wing guerrillas in the mountains are trying to overthrow the government. Agents of the government “disappear” people who are suspected of being in sympathy with the guerrillas. In 1987, any country trying to fight off left-wing movements gets support from the United States, which is willing to overlook government-sponsored atrocities. The army of El Salvador is trained and supplied by the United States.
“Do you know about the escuadrones de muerte?” Andrés asks. The death squadrons, supported by the government of El Salvador. “They came for my brother two years ago. We haven’t heard from him since. My brother was a student. He was critical of the government. One day my brother and four of his friends disappeared. We are afraid to ask what happened to him or they will come for us.”
For the rest of the trip, Andrés tells us horror stories of disappearances and atrocities committed by the “democratic” government.
When we arrive in San Salvador, the capital city, he takes us to a pupusería. Pupusas, a spicy mix of pork, cheese, and sausage wrapped up in a corn tortilla, are to El Salvador what hot dogs used to be to the U.S., before fast food came along. You can buy pupusas everywhere, in the markets, on the streets, and in pupuserías.
“Now you will have your first taste of El Salvador,” he laughs for the first time. “Without pupusas, El Salvador would not be El Salvador.”
Andrés is relaxed as we drink our beers and enjoy the spicy delights of our pupusas. He plays a song on the juke box about pupusas and he sings along. We are halfway through our meal when three men sit down at a table next to us. They are young and good-looking, probably in their early twenties.
“Stop talking,” whispers Andrés, not moving his lips. His breaths shorten and his hands begin to fidget. “Don’t tell anyone you are going to Nicaragua,” he adds.
Even without hearing us talk, our neighbors know that Henry and I are foreigners. One of the men asks us a question in Spanish.
“I am sorry,” I lie. “I do not speak Spanish.”
Another man asks in English, “Where are you from?”
“The United States,” I say. Henry, who is from Australia, says nothing, hoping they will assume he is my husband. If these guys are part of the government or members of the escuadrones de muerte, my country is on their side.
“How long will you be in El Salvador?”
“Two weeks. I would like to stay longer but I am a teacher and I have to go back to the U.S.,” I say, embellishing my lie. “El Salvador is a beautiful country. The people are very friendly and pupusas are delicious.”
The more you lie, the easier it gets. The pupusa part is true.
Less than five minutes after the men arrive, Andrés says it is time to go. We have not finished our meal and my beer bottle is still half full. We leave.
“I do not trust those men,” he says once we are driving again. His whole demeanor has changed. He does not say another word until he stops in front of a backpacker hotel and says good-bye. Now that we are in his country, he does not want to be seen with us. If we are on our way to Sandinista Nicaragua, we are the enemy of his government. And by association, he is subversive.
Early the next morning Henry and I walk through the streets of San Salvador, past corners where soldiers are hiding behind walls of sandbags, their guns poking through holes between the bags, pointing at the pedestrians. There is no eye contact between the soldiers and the people, no waves or smiles; one is the enforcer and everyone else a potential victim. I find myself wondering if I would be shot if I were suddenly to start running.
There were soldiers with guns in Antigua too, standing stiffly outside government buildings and banks. They were intimidating, but I was never afraid they were going to shoot me. I always felt that they were protecting something, like money or officials. Here in San Salvador, the guns are pointing at me, and I am frightened.
Henry and I leave on the first bus we can find to Honduras, another U.S.-friendly country. When we arrive at the Honduras border, each passenger is taken individually into a room where there are two armed soldiers. I am asked to stand across a table while two men turn the pages of an album filled with pictures of unwelcome foreigners. They look at the pictures and then at me. Up and down, page after page. It takes fifteen minutes to go through dozens of pictures. I am not in the album.
I have recently heard that there is a peace march, made up mostly of U.S. citizens, working its way through the countries of Central America and ending in Nicaragua. I have also heard that the Honduran government is planning to refuse entry to the marchers who are considered dangerous left-wingers, supporters of Nicaragua, supporters of peace. Presumably the marchers are also an embarrassment to the Reagan government, which is bombing Nicaragua. Who knows where the pictures in the album came from. Many of them look like passport photos. I wonder if they were supplied by the U.S. government.
When I leave the room, my passport is stamped and I am told I can go. I meet Henry outside and we walk down the road together. Neither one of us wants to do this alone.
“To Nicaragua?” we ask one of the uniformed, gun-toting Honduran soldiers.
He directs us to a bus that is already filled with people. It turns out that they are Nicaraguans on a chartered bus, returning from a shopping trip to San Salvador. The Honduran government won’t permit Nicaraguans to step on their land. There is a soldier with a gun slung over his shoulder, sitting next to the bus driver, facing the passengers. In his hand are all of our passports wrapped up in a rubber band. We are told they will be returned when we arrive at the border.
In addition to people, the bus is stuffed with shopping bags, boxes, duffel ba
gs, and suitcases battered and new, all filled with things that are hard to get in Nicaragua—things like toilet paper and toothpaste and deodorant, underwear, jeans, T-shirts, light bulbs, makeup, and toys. Contraband that will be sold on the black market in Managua.
During the trip, the soldier never smiles. He never interacts with anyone. He just sits there staring straight ahead, our passports in his hand. The gun is American made.
We get off the bus at the border of Nicaragua. Two soldiers accompany us until we have all crossed over into Nicaragua.
Borders are always a disappointment to me. Going from one country into another should be more than just walking down a road. The color should change. You should go from green to orange like you do on a map. At the very least you should be able to look off into the distance and see a line painted across the landscape. But the only line here is a ragged one of sweaty people carrying lots of bags.
There are no other people once we are in Nicaragua, just us bus passengers and Sandinista soldiers standing in the distance on top of the hills, staring off into the fields surrounding us. They are looking for Contras, the guerrilla army that has been trying to overthrow the revolutionary Sandinista government in what has become known down here as Ronald Reagan’s war. The United States is training and supporting the Contras.
It is sweat-dripping hot. The women from my bus have towels or rags around their necks so they can soak up the sweat. I just drip, as though someone is wringing out clothes on my head. From time to time, I wipe the sweat with the bottom of my T-shirt.
“It’s dangerous along this road,” says one of the women. She points to the abandoned customs building where government officials used to check passports and luggage. The building is shot up with bullet holes, and the ground around it is littered with empty sardine cans, old plastic bags, torn wrappers, and some mangled pieces of metal. The reason the Sandinista government had to move the office away is that people were getting killed by Contras who were camped across the border in Honduras.
The government moved the people too—the ones who used to live in the disintegrating shacks along the side of the road, the ones who used to farm the fields that stretch into the distance. Too close. Too dangerous. Good fertile land that used to feed people has been abandoned.
After about a twenty-minute walk, everyone stops. We are to wait there for a ride to the new customs office. Some Sandinista soldiers join us, guns slung over their shoulders, smiles on their faces. They are kids in their teens. The people share snacks with them, and exchange greetings. The Nicaraguans from my bus do not think of these soldiers as the enemy; they are treated like family.
I share a bag of peanuts with two soldiers. When they ask me where I am from, I tell them, but I am nervous. The Contra bullets that are killing them are U.S. bullets fired from U.S. guns.
“No problem,” says a baby-faced soldier who can’t be more than sixteen. “It isn’t the American people who are doing this to us. It is your government. You are welcome in Nicaragua. When you go home, tell your people we want peace.”
After forty minutes of standing in the hot sun and fifteen minutes packed upright, like a giant bunch of asparagus, in the back of a pickup, we finally arrive at customs, a bunch of wooden shacks and rusty trailers. Henry and I are sent into different lines. When it is my turn to enter the first shack, the soldier inside asks me for my passport. Then he begins to fill out an entry card.
“What is your profession?”
“Writer.”
The corners of his lips curl up into his mustache. “Me too. I’m a writer. I write poetry. What do you write?”
“Children’s books.”
“How nice. Do you have any with you?”
I look at the long line behind me as I fumble through my backpack. I pull out three books. He turns the pages of Why Can’t I Fly? Then he looks up.
“I have a six-year-old daughter. May I take this home for her?”
I know that customs officials are always looking for bribes, but everyone has told me that Nicaragua is different. Besides, I am hoping to share my books in classrooms and neighborhoods all over the country. I don’t want to give them to the first person I meet.
“I brought the books to share with the children of Nicaragua,” I say. “And I haven’t even met any yet.”
“Okay. No problem. I understand. Que le vaya bien.” Have a good time.
And he passes me on to the other shacks and battered trailers for more questions and baggage inspection.
Twenty minutes later, I am walking along a dirt path that leads back to the main road, where Henry is waiting for me. As I walk, I watch a group of soldiers behind one of the trailers. They are playing a tape of break-dance music and two of them are dancing. Their guns are lying on the ground. I am so engrossed in this different breed of soldier that I don’t notice the three boys and a girl approaching from behind.
“Buenos tardes,” say the four scruffy, barefoot kids. Good afternoon.
“Cómo se llama usted?” asks the biggest boy. What is your name?
When they hear my answer, they smile and nod to each other. Then the big one speaks again. “Would you read us a book?”
And there, late in the day, on a dusty path in front of the Nicaraguan customs office, I sit on the ground and read them a book.
A pickup and two buses later, we reach Managua. Henry, who will be living in government housing and working for the agricultural department, deposits me in the foreign-tourist part of town, and we say good-bye. I’m on my own.
I check into a motel: dark rooms, shared bathrooms, lumpy beds, and cheap (three dollars a night). The place I choose is the cheapest and most dilapidated among the hotels, but it has a common room, which seems like a good place to meet people. There are backpackers draped around the couches when I arrive.
“Hi,” I say, introducing myself to the crowd. After we’ve been talking for a while, they invite me to go dancing with them—live music under the stars.
“Sure,” I say. It’s my new credo: Say yes to everything.
The parking lot turned into a dance floor is packed and sweaty. The crowd, all Nicaraguan except for the eight of us, is young and active and swinging to salsa and reggae and American rock. Hips are gyrating sensuously and the dancers are smiling, as reflections of mirrored balls and flashing lights whirl around their bodies.
When I first arrive, I am hoping to stand in the background and watch. Not a chance. There is an excess of single guys, and if you are close enough to watch, several hands and smiles greet you wordlessly at the beginning of every new dance.
“Where are you from?” asks Carlos, the young man I am dancing with. He looks about eighteen and he’s wearing a Detroit Tigers T-shirt.
“What?” The music is loud.
“Where are you from?” he shouts.
“The United States,” I shout back.
“How long have you been here?”
“I arrived three hours ago.”
“Tomorrow,” he yells at me, “I would like to take you to Xiloa!” A nearby lake with a beach.
Nicaraguans are not shy. Nearly all of the Nicaraguans I meet over the next eight months, especially the young ones, have an air of pride and confidence that comes from having made the revolution (in 1979) that got rid of the dictator, Somoza, and nearly all of the wealthy class, most of whom fled to the United States. Perhaps because I am an American, Nicaraguans are eager to invite me into their homes, to share their food, to show me that the revolution was a good thing. What I see and hear during my visit is very different from what I read in the U.S. newspapers about a people under siege by the Sandinista government. Up close, it is clear that the Sandinistas are the people.
“Sure,” I say to Carlos’s invitation. “I’d love to go to the beach.”
The next day, Carlos, his little sister, an American woman from my hotel, and I take off at noon on a crowded bus where people are squashed together like those potato chips that come in a can, every body part fitt
ing snugly into someone else’s body.
We get off at a lake just a few miles outside of Managua. Carlos, his hair below his shoulders and his smiling brown eyes flecked with green, looks handsome in a navy T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. As we walk, teenage girls turn their heads. Carlos tells me he is a medical student in his second year.
“In the days of Somoza, I could never have thought about becoming a doctor. The university was for rich people. Now, even the poorest people can become doctors or whatever they want. Education is free.”
As we approach the lake, we walk along a grassy slope that leads down toward the sand. The grass is spotted with picturesque pavilions, thatched roofs on poles with benches underneath—protection from the tropical sun. As we get closer to the water, we pass bars and restaurants with tables outside. It looks like an exclusive club, which it once was.
A pickup drives up and parks next to one of the pavilions. There are eight kids in the back and coolers and blankets and a skinny dog. And a radio playing Madonna. Four adults and two kids climb out of the cabin.
“That family would never have been here if Somoza were still president,” says Carlos, pointing to the new arrivals. “Places like this were for the rich. Now they’re for the people.”
“Come on. Let’s go in the water,” says Carlos’s sister, getting back to more important things. And we race across the burning sand to the cool water of the once off-limits lake.
Carlos does not fit the picture of the oppressed Nicaraguan I have read about in the U.S. papers. Like most of the young people I would meet in the eight months I live here, he is proud of his country and its revolution.
I spend the next days wandering, walking miles in the suffocating heat of the city or standing in line for hours to get onto buses where I can barely breathe. There are heads tucked under strangers’ arms, waists into rear ends, legs and hands and feet intertwined. No one seems to be bothered by all this intimacy. In fact, it opens up communication. If you are holding hands with someone, conversation is almost inevitable.
Tales of a Female Nomad Page 8
