Nicaragua at the Foot of the Volcano

Copyright © 2015 Maarten Roest.

English translation: Scott Rollins.

Original title: Nicaragua. Tegen de vulkaan.

First published in Dutch in 1999 by Podium Publishers, Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

This translation is based on a fully revised manuscript by the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover design © Omar Iglesias

Cover picture © Maarten Roest

Picture author © Giulio Napolitano

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7350-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7351-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 11/13/2015

CONTENTS

OMETEPE

The Queen of the Lake

The Magdalena

The Match

PACIFICO

Doctor Ramírez

The Children of Adiact

The Sorcerer of Masaya

Faith

COSTA

Bluefields Blues

Cool-Cat

BACK to MANAGUA

The Magdalena II

The Match II

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Difícil es y duro el luchar contra el Olimpo acuoso de las ranas

It is a hard and difficult fight against the watery Olympus of the frogs

Carlos Martínez Rivas

THE QUEEN OF THE LAKE

T he winds of January scurry across the lake. Under a cloudless sky, the two volcanoes rise clearly from the waters. Only above Concepción hangs a small cloud, like a cap just above the mouth of its crater. Exposed, the Madera bathes in the midday sun.

The boat departs at three thirty. I have bought a ticket and taken a seat at one of the little eateries in front of the pier. Time enough for a midday meal. I order rice and beans, grilled chicken and fried plantain with a Victoria, one of Nicaragua’s finest beers.

San Jorge is a two hour drive south of Managua. You take a left near the little white church in the middle of the village and then the first main road to the right. You drive between twin towers that resemble castle turrets, except they do not have steeples and are made of concrete. There’s a ticket window in the left tower and the fares are painted on the right one. Fares for busses, cars and motorcycles. A toll will probably have to be paid here during Easter, when it’s at the height of summer and the beaches of San Jorge are packed. The road ends at the pier a few hundred meters past the towers. The entrance is blocked by an iron gate. On either side of the pier run long stretches of sandy beach. There are women along the waterline with washboards on wooden stakes doing the laundry and a couple of kids who dare to venture out into the surf.

A port official opens the gate for a truck, that drives onto the pier with its freight. The official closes the gate again behind the truck. Passengers have to wait. A few families have already taken up positions. Mothers holding their children’s hands, grannies sheltering from the sun under an umbrella, boys sitting on sports bags packed to the gills.

A couple of tables away from mine two women really seem to be enjoying themselves. There’s a bottle of rum, two glasses of coke and a bowl with ice in front of them. One of the women asks the man walking past with a crate of Pepsi on his shoulder, if he would like to have a drink with them. When she sees me looking at them, the other one calls out:

Come and join us!

I lift my bottle of beer in the air and gesture that I am fine where I am.

I gaze out over what - to the naked eye – seems an endless expanse of lake water. The Concepción is an hour away by ferry. Even further, on the opposite shore, must be the hills of Chontales.

The stiff wind blows clouds of dust across the outdoor cafe. I put a hand in front of my eyes. The wind blows a great deal in Nicaragua, just as it did over a year ago the first time I came. The thing that first caught my attention though when I stepped out of the plane at the airport from a cold Europe, was the smell. And the heat. It feels like you are walking into a greenhouse. It has the same kind of odor and naturally, it is just as hot.

The image in my mind at the time of my first arrival was only vague at best. A tropical country that had undergone a revolution. I knew what Daniel Ortega looked like, thick glasses and moustache under a soft army cap. I did not exactly warm to the image he projected. There was something courageous about the Sandinista struggle, but also something sad, something impossible. The Sandinistas had just lost the elections for a second time when I first came. The people were complaining. Everything was getting more expensive, electricity, telephone, gas. How were you supposed to come up with your children’s school tuition? And what if they had to go to the hospital? Things used to be different, things used to be taken care of. And the streets were not as unsafe either. But indeed, in today’s Nicaragua nobody does anything for the poor anymore. People steal out of desperation.

Nicaragua had long since stopped being the ‘violently dear Nicaragua’ of the Argentine author Julio Cortázar, from whose pen one of the most passionate declarations of love for the Sandinista revolution had flowed. In Cortázar’s new Nicaragua the ‘smile of freedom’ was abroad everywhere you looked, as well as the ‘the freedom of the smile.’ Anyone arriving at Managua airport felt a different kind of breeze than this warm wind now blowing dust into my face: The wind of freedom was your pilot, and the compass of the people indicated north, Cortázar wrote to the traveler, and to he who doubted: No, you have not mistaken the airport: come further, you are in Nicaragua.

One year ago, when I walked off the airport under an enormous sign that read: WELCOME TO THE REPUBLIC OF NICARAGUA, I did not feel a wind of freedom blowing through my hair, nor did I expect anyone to point out where north was. After all, revolutionary nostalgia had not been my reason for coming here. In July 1979, when the Sandinistas ousted the dictator from power, I still had not reached my twelfth birthday. As far I was concerned, the only real news from Latin America in those days was coming from Argentina, where the Dutch national soccer team had lost in the finals of the World Cup the previous year. And, can you be a revolutionary, if you are born in 1967, two months before the ignominious death of that embodiment of the New Man, Che Guevara? Hadn’t the revolution been dead and buried with his passing?

After the revolution of 1979 it was not a smile that was abroad in Nicaragua, but the ghost of a ‘second Cuba’, so the United States feared. This was supposed to be the country of land reform, where people were taught to read and write, the country of the ‘democratization of culture’, of popular theater, the poetry workshops and the primitive painting, the land of peasant masses, of God for the people, where Christians and Marxists strove together for a just society, the land where an all-embracing revolution had taken place, which the poet priest Ernesto Cardenal had summarized as follows: The revolution is the most prominent work of art our people have produced.

I was shocked at what I saw. The shacks of corrugated iron sheets and rusting zinc roofs. The children at the traffic lights. Their ragged clothes, filthy feet and their faces, that looked like they were covered with soot by the stinking exhaust fumes of the busses. For the first time I saw poverty up close.

But I did see lots of smiles. In doorways, at crossroads, at bus stops. Whether they were smiles of freedom, I could not tell. One month after my arrival, I discovered you grow accustomed to the sight of poverty. Just like you do to rice and beans, with grilled chicken and fried plantain. And the heat. You practically don’t notice the greenhouse odor anymore after descending the aircraft steps.

A month later I was also on Tiscapa hill for the first time, the highest point within the Managua city limits. A paradoxical place. Here stands Ernesto Cardenal’s iron statue of the freedom fighter Sandino. Like a gigantic ode to liberty it looms above the capital city. Not much farther on is Somoza’s ‘bunker’, the place where his National Guard are supposed to have carried out their most cruel acts of torture.

From the hilltop there is a panoramic view of Managua, standing amid the ruins, beautiful in its fallow land, as Cortázar wrote at the beginning of the 1980s. He saw a city in ruins. The funds received to rebuild the city after the earthquake of 1972 had largely disappeared into Somoza’s pockets and during the war years of the nineteen eighties, there were other things on people’s minds than restoring the devastated city.

The rubble has been cleared away after the peace of 1990. The few buildings that still remained standing after the earthquake have now gotten neighbors. Not far from the white tower of the Bank of America an apartment complex was built with blue plate-glass windows. In the shade of the Intercontinental Hotel, that oblong pyramid at the foot of Tiscapa hill, a shopping mall has risen. Nonetheless, the city is more reminiscent of some huge garden village. You have to look hard to find any residential housing among the palm and banana trees along the banks of Xolotlán, the lake at Managua. When you drive down from the hill open fields extend before your eyes. This used to be the city center, now there are only a few ruins. And it should come as no surprise to see a cow grazing.

The statue is still there. Militantly thrusting its rifle into the air. The blue iron must have lost some paint since the time when one sympathizer after another had their picture taken in front of this heroic guerrillero, drawn by the cry of freedom that he, with his chin held proudly aloft, seems to hurl to the skies. What has become of all these pictures?

Further on, behind the National Palace and the old cathedral without a roof, is Managua’s boulevard. Imagine an avenue in the shade of waving palm trees, with bustling sidewalk cafes on one side and the beach sloping downward on the other, and Managua could very well resemble an elegant city on the lakeshore. There are indeed palm trees along the boulevard, but the promenade arching over the waterfront affords scanty access to the water. The city turns its back on the lake, wrote Sergio Ramírez, one of Nicaruaga’s most prominent novelists and vice-president during the Sandinista government, to relieve itself in its waters and turn it into a cesspit. If there is an onshore breeze, the stench of raw sewage is unbearable.

Under the promenade, meters below, are blocks of concrete, rubble and garbage. The turbulent water pounds into it, but the concrete is hard and the water ricochets back. The lake is a mirage, according to Ramírez, and Managua – the mocked bride of Xolotlán – an enemy to its surroundings and nature, that avenges itself, like with the earthquake in 1972.

When Julio Cortázar passed away in 1984, he took his promised Nicaragua unmoved with him to his grave. Later on the face of that dear country began showing grimaces. Censorship was imposed. The army abused its power. What would Cortázar think of the Sandinista leaders after their defeat in the 1990 elections, when they robbed the state of businesses, land and houses,