Nicaragua Journal

April 2, 1999. It's been nearly five years since I last visited Nicaragua. Since the mid-1980's I've maintained close ties with this remarkable country.  I produced a series of albums of music written and recorded during the Revolution as well as a double-album of music that was created immediately following the fall of the Somoza dictatorship.  My work with Libros Para Niños kept me in close contact with the economic and social problems that resulted when the Sandanistas were defeated in the 1990 elections and the US lost interest in the people of Nicaragua altogether.  It wasn't until Hurricane Mitch stormed through the region that Nicaragua was mentioned in our media again.

My youngest son, Peter, and I are going down over his Spring Break to visit my good friend, Eduardo Baez, immerse ourselves in Spanish again, and check in on a host of old acquaintances.  I'll be sending up a journal of sorts to capture what I see, hear, and feel during our brief visit.  Peter is an avid photographer and we'll post some snapshots upon our return.  I hope to be able to post things daily, but some of the areas we'll be visiting are still without telephone service after the Hurricane and we'll be as regular as we can.

Hope it's interesting, enjoyable, and intriguing for those of you who care to check in.

Hasta el proximo.

April 4

Easter

I wake this morning
As though from the dead
The already-too-eager Florida sun
squinting through the curtains
Reminding
Me of the hour that was lost last night

"Not a single crime (or anything else) was committed
in Miami between 2 and 3 AM"

and that this was the day.

The day I return to
la tierra de las poetas
el son del guaradabaranco
la flor de la cana
el tun tun de la marimba
the shout in the alleyway
the cock, confused and shameless
the open door
la puerta abierta
Nicaragua.

My youngest son lies beside me.
He was a baby
barely walking
when first I stepped
into the volcano
It was an act of faith
that sent both of us
into the uncertainty
of where the next step led.
Now
he leaps into the sky
more air below him than above,
it seems,
(his wheeled feet flashing)
so daring
and dangerous
and beautiful
that I have to turn
away.
Spanish feels at home
on his tongue
He speaks more cautiously
and correctly
than I
el tiene solo 14 años
But
today wears the shy smile of one who knows
he no longer knows the rules.
There is no concert
no appreciative audience
teeming with likely companions
no quiet hotel room
into which he can escape
Only
a week of uncertainty
his spring break spent
this new place
this new language
and his father
and his fathers' friend, Eduardo, waiting
anxious and open-armed
at the jetway's end.
But for now
Cuba glides below
the noon sun
silhouettes
Islands of clouds
on the unending blue-green sea

April 5

El Anniversario

"Today,"
he says more slowly
than he usually speaks
(He wants to be sure I understand his Spanish)
"is the 45th anniversary
of the death
of my Father."

I understand
the Spanish
the meaning.
I remember the story:

Adolfo Baez Bone

the photo on the mantel
the face on the poster
10,000 cordobas for his return
Major of Somoza
Traitor
Revolutionary
Father.

April 4, 1954

the ambush on the highway
the betrayal
the pursuit
the capture
the cell.

Tacho
the young Anastasio
fresh from West Point
his shirt pressed and
clean

Tacho
cuts the tongue of his father's favorite
defiance flies like blood
from the tortured one's mouth

Tacho
who castrates
his romantic rival
who makes him dig his own grave
who calls the order "Fuego!"
who returns to the grave
to burn the body
who does it again
and again
and again
to the whole family
to the whole country.

Tacho
who will wake from his nightmare
with blood on his breast

A box of bones, buttons, and ash
hidden
in a young boy's room
The soldiers in the night
storming the kitchen
scattering the silver
searching
searching

Fr. Cardenal wrote on your stone:
"They killed you and didn't tell us
where they buried your corpse.
"But since then the entire nation
is your seplechure"

Today
"El Anniversario"
he told me his story
history
again.
We remember
we revisit
We bear witness.

Today.

April 6

En la Cocina de Etelvina

"No, como este
(like this)," she says.
I am learning
to make tortillas
because
there is no bread.
I am interupting her routine
slowing her habit
asking
her to explain things
she
has done without thinking
a thousand times.
But
she is amused
by the attention
by the tall gringo
with too-big hands.
"El secreto nuevo..."
she confides,
wax paper!
Flatten the ball
and
with the right fingers
gently
gently!
push the borders
of texture
cohesion.
with the left
hold it in.
the fire:
medium hot
("exactamente...es muy importante!")
The pan:
iron
hot
oiled
clean
ready.
The bottom (against the wax paper)
is the first to cook

Be watchful
patient
ready
Turn quickly
watchful
patient
ready
Turn it once more
ready
cloth in hand
Press down
the edges first
move to the middle now
It will rise
but
Push it down
firmly and
It will rise.

My second attempt
rises
and looks like
the other tortillas in the basket.
Etelvina gives
a shy smile
The others in the kitchen
cheer.
And
over huevos rejueltos
and salsa
and gallo pinto
and
Tortillas
I marvel
at the simple sacrament
of Food.
A billion times a day
Tens of thousands of times a lifetime
fingers,
knowing and strong
dance
in flour
and corn
and masa harina
Tend the flame
watch
and wait
And by secret
and sweat
and magic
Lay before us
another day of life.

She will not sit
to eat
with us.
And when I collect the plates
to the sink
she protests.
"My mama raised me right,"
I offer.
She answers with a curious smile
and wonders
about
This Woman.

April 7, 1999

Mi Machete

It is July 1986
the 17th:
"El Dia de la Alegria"
the 7th remembrance
of the night
Tacho fled
to Miami
with his family
and the gold of a nation.
Here in the shadow of Momotumbo
in el barrio Monimbo
Brass bands on
every ragged corner
Fireworks blossom
in arrhythmic staccato
in the star-spangled sky
Lovers bleed a soldier's last kiss
in alleyways and cantinas
A delirious dance
throbs its way out the doors
of the CPC
and into our evening.
Canto Libre
(Freedom Song),
friends and musicians,
tug us inside
It is all hips
and hearts
and eyes
and sweat
in this dance of memory:

We dance for Los Indios
who danced before Cortez
before Vanderbilt
before Walker
before Somoza
before Reagan
We dance rich with blood
of Sandino
of Fonseca
of Chomorro
of Nicaraguenses
untold and unnamed
whose crosses sprout like incessant birds
on the roadsides and squares
We dance, drunk with the foolishness
of youth
of age
of impossibility
of dancing
We dance with the passion
of lovers whose arms we no longer know
of friends surrendered to time and clay
of children yet unborn and unheld
of music unheard and unsung
of dancing untouched and unseen

Two weeks later
while packing to leave
I remember.

A small dulcimer
-inexpensive and light for travel-
sits quietly in the back of the car
Like a child
on her way to school's first day
-expectant
-unsuspecting
-quiet with questions
to Masaya.

The streets are thick with the dust of memory.
Francisco is there
quiet and wide-eyed
He takes the black box
and takes the first dulcimer
to ride a bicycle.
I watch them round the corner and then
They are gone.

It is April 1999
A chance comment.
A Chinese restaurant
in the InterContinental
It is Francesco
and his/my dulcimer
Her tongue is now Latin
Her skin
loved and worn
but I know her voice.
"Es mi machete,
(my machete),"
he smiles.
How I do my work,
How I do my life
His hammers
His eyes
My heart
Dance.

April 8, 1999

Myles

Today
Eduardo and I
discovered
that our road to one another
met at
Myles.

For me it was 1972,
A chance detour
in a young life
A 20-year-old's adventure:
A backpack
a banjo
a thumb
in a less fearful time
Friendships
measured in miles
I was all questions
and quest
It was a cheap hotel across from the Rhyman
campgrounds and underpasses
The South through a dirty windshield
and finally
Highlander.

A celebration
of forty years
of popular
(though often unpopular)
education.
Where union workers
learned to organize their future
and embrace their past
Where black and white
met clandestinely
to help plot the Civil Rights Movement
Where poor and working people
voiced both
fear and defiance
to the Wheel
bent on crushing
Where culture was understood and used
as instrumental
rather
than ornamental
to community life and
organizing.
Where the final
evolutionary spark
birthed
We Shall Overcome.
I stood open-eyed and
mute.
It was a common
well -
one I knew must exist -
And found
at last.

Myles.

Myles Horton,
Bible school organizer
Tumbling (as I)
toward ministry.
Who found
in scripture
the radical message of
Christianity
("love your enemies...")
Felt the foundation
from which
Politics
Economics
Education
Life
Would Rise.
Firm
Determined
Clear
Questioning
Myles,
Agitator
Organizer
Radical Educator
who reminded:
The aim of education
Must Be
To take part in
Correcting
Unfair privilege
and unfair deprivation
Rather
than Perpetuating them.
Who knew
the model of the Danes
had a place in Appalachia
and America.
Who knew
education must grow
from the needs
of those being educated
Who knew
that people must be
Subjects
rather than
Objects
of Education.
Who knew
that political democracy
without
Economic
Educational democracy is
Doomed.
Heady stuff for a 20 year-old.
(Heady stuff for a 46 year-old!)
But
He led me gently
each conversation
more challenging than
the last.
Admiring
Respecting
Guiding
my young legs
mind
voice
Probing
Prodding
Criticizing
Cajoling
Unearthing
the seeds of fire.

For Eduardo
it was 1983.
An international conference of adult popular educators
Here
in Nicaragua.
A delegation of norteamericanos:
most of the Highlander staff
Federation of Southern Co-ops
SCLC
Others
Hand on the plow
Eyes on the
Prize.
A Revolution:
verdant and
vibrant
not-yet vertical
not-yet stolen
still
Full of promise
passion
possibility
participation
For those willing to work
past the headlines
past the hackles of history
past the lies
This was a
Bright, Shining Moment
When
When
We could examine the experiment
Learn from those learning
Teach those teaching
Craft the model
multiply
move
But
Our old models
are branded
in our habits.
Questions quickly
are heard
As rejection.
Participation
As threat.
Democracy
As mob rule.
The old model
Is vertical.
Top-down.
Trickle-down.
The new model
Percolates
Permeates
Propagates.
Requires
Generosity
Humility
Courage
Curiosity
Wisdom
Youth
Experience
Experiments
Vision
Critique
Be patient
reminds Myles.
In the old model
Education
serves economics
Not
The other way
Around
Real change
like
Real democracy
Real participation
Real life
Requires
Time.
The Long Haul.
His Mama
named him
Right:

Myles.

April 9

Isletas de Cocibolca

Our boat teeters
like a painted bird
on the water's skin
In the shadow
of Mombacho
we thread
without direction
or hurry
among her 300
volcanic children.
While tarpon
sailfish and
even sharks
troll her
saltless depths
Patos de agua
paint the trees
and rocks
a ghostly white.
From the ashes
Walker left
rises Grenada.
San Francisco and
La Casa de Los Leones
Alone
Stood
(The Poet and The Invader
Forever joined)
and chameleon-like
grew whole
from disembodied facades.
Heat rises like a veil
from her streets.
But
Here on the water
The air is cool
The wind is strong
The beer is cold
and
The talk is tall.
"A little island,
a good hammock..."
We squint into the sun
with eyes
Unashamed.

April 9, 1999

Las Abejas

"I have a new idea,"
he beamed
"a kiosk of bees"
he paused
waiting
for the plan
to capture me.
He had chattered
excitedly
for over thirty minutes
without moving.
Another who loves bees!
A norteamericano
the first he's ever met
who has questions
about African bees
We are a
solitary lot
-beekeepers-
moving without haste
among the colonies
Quiet
Calm
Alone
Save for 100,000
or so bees
Where others see
Danger
Pain
We see
Civilization
Order
Industry
Conversations
are brief
But
with other Beekeepers
con otras abejistas
"Always in rows
or arcs
sometimes, rarely,
squares.
Why?
Mi idea:
"A circle!"
His eyes
are hummingbirds
in the afternoon light.
"A ring of stones
surrounding a
blanket of sand"
The earth
at his feet
a canvas
of stick and stone.
"No weeds
no pests
"And the doors
-las puertas-
open to the center."
He expects
and sees
my surprise.
"Sí,
in the early morning
-4 AM-
when they all leave
to work
I will sit
with my cafesita.
I will sit
with my cafesita
and watch:
a pillar
a chimney
a ladder to the sun
of bees.
Why should it
not be
a Thing of Beauty,
my work?
"It is a shame,"
he walks me
to the car
"That you are leaving
tomorrow
We could work
together
"Next visit
bring your bee clothes
You are too tall
to share mine,"
he laughs
"Soon!
Soon!"
he is waving
and wondering
as I drive
Away.