¨Murder, drugs...he´s murder, he´s a gang leader. Drugs, he´s drugs, that guy at the end - he´s off his face now - he was a mule......all the gringos are drugs¨
I was sat in the courtyard of Block C, Quito Prison eating a healthy-tasting three course lunch prepared by Vlady, a Belorusian inmate and friend of Jack, my guide for the day, himself two years into a twelve year sentence for drug smuggling. For my benefit, Jack reeled off the crimes of the rest of the guys in the yard. It was visiting day, and I watched as two Ecuadorian drugs mules play-fought with Emmy, the two year old son of Emilio. A smuggler from Como with eight years left, Emilio looked on contently and chatted with his Ecuadorian wife.
Getting in was easy. More and more travellers are visiting the prison. A guy I met in the hostal gave me Jack´s details and some instructions. Outside I passed rows of stalls selling pre-packed bunches of fruit, before joining the queue of girlfriends, parents, lawyers and hookers. A quick search, a glance at my passport and I was past security; the only thing distinguishing me from the 13,000 inmates was a logo stamped on my arm like you get in nightclubs (I looked at my arm. The ink didn’t seem like it would rub off too easily).
Edging down the corridor towards the main artery of the prison, I felt pretty ill at ease - there were wires poking out from both walls and a faint smell of vomit. Soon I was approached by a group of men so skinny they looked malnourished. I couldn´t make out much of their Spanish, but it seemed they were offering to take me to Jack´s cell so I followed them. They wanted money. I gave them what coins I had.
Jack lives in a cell about the size of a student room in halls, in a three-storey wing boasting a couple of pool tables, a few restaurants, a bakery and an ice-cream stall. He bought his cell ($2200), and employed other prisoners to help kit it out. Thanks to a Lithuanian electrician and a Colombian handyman the whole cell was tiled, there was a bathroom, shower, small kitchen, fridge, bookcase, TV and DVD player. Before we started talking we watched a few points of the French open on ESPN.Unlike the guys who brought me to his room, Jack has got money (¨Western Union to a woman outside who brings it in for a small fee¨), and contacts who bring him things from outside. His phone rang several times while he discussed his story - his Girlfriend back home, a Lawyer in London and even a mate organising an upcoming visit. Jack´s paying for the flights.
It turned out this wasn’t Jack’s first experience behind bars – he’d spend a couple of years in a British prison. An archaeology graduate of a red-brick university with 4 A-levels, his explanation of his situation was both eloquent and entertaining, if a little unstructured.
¨I was bang to rights and should have got 25, but my lawyer paid the court secretary to take out the bad bits from the case. 12 is a result really¨
¨This is a holiday compared to a British nick. They check if I´m here at ten, and then I´ve got the day to myself. If I get deported, with my history, I´m fucked¨
Phone calls from Europe were not the only interruption to our conversation – several other inmates dropped by to say hello: a Hungarian wanting to borrow a DVD, a Dutch drugs mule who ¨needed the cash¨ and Rodney and Michael, two Londonders in their sixties.
Jack continued:¨Didn´t you see me on that programme in Britain, about prisoners abroad. I was famous for a while¨
¨I reckon I´ve shagged about ten travellers. Ive got a girlfriend now, from Manchester - she came to visit me like you and we hit it off" When she calls a few moments later, Jack insists that I say hello, as if wanting to prove her existence.
I was taken to meet Juan, a Spanish gypsy. Being inside hadn’t stopped Juan from becoming a father during the past year. Twice, in fact, with two different women.
Loud music was coming from his cell, and venturing inside it was decorated up like a disco, with black floor, mirrors on the wall and a strobe. There was cocaine on the table, a guy who offering cheap flights to anywhere in the world (I took his number), some bloke who could barely stand up and a number of prostitutes inside. Juan poured me a whisky and coke. It was about 11 in the morning.
¨The atmosphere in here is much better than in Britain. It´s because we have visitors three times a week and on Saturdays, wives or whoever can stay in your cell¨ said Jack. "A prostitute costs $10 a night. $5-8 for a Peruvian".
We strolled downstairs, past a few curious stares and a couple of pool tables, to the courtyard, where the prison’s informal marketplace was just getting going. Stools run by prisoners were selling mobile phone accessories, toiletries and food. One Ecuadorian inmate explained how he gets ingredients brought in by his family and earns money baking cakes or cooking meals.
Crime committed or assessed risk to others has no bearing on where inmates reside, but bank-balance and passport do. Block-C is for richer prisoners or Europeans so the atmosphere is a bit easier, and the range of cuisine wider.
As we supped hot Russian stew, Michael explained the moment in Quito airport when dogs discovered the 8 kilos of Cocaine strapped to his midriff. Unlike the others, he wants to go back to Britain to finish his sentence as they might take more account of his age. He had a calm and content manner, and looked a bit like Tony Hart.¨take my number. Next time you come, let me know and I´ll bake you some apple pies. Or rhubarb.¨
Raymond had a pony tale, looked a bit like a paedophile and was altogether a less appealing character. He boasted of the hypothetical length of his sentence ¨if the police knew half of what I´d done in my life”, and refused vehemently to speak a word of Spainish ¨because I´m English....and they´re all cunts¨. I observed as he shouted ¨cough mixture¨ loudly at the guy who ¨gets medicine and stuff¨ and was ignored repeatedly.
So far so, err, comfortable. But as we ate and chatted it became clear life inside was not always the Hispanic Butlins it, sort of, resembled.
If prisoners don’t have money they hardly eat and have to sleep on the hard floor of the communal areas. The two other wings, for natives or Colombians, are ¨pretty sketchy¨ according to Jack, and appeared massively overcrowded. It emerged that violence was more common than the familial atmosphere suggested.
A skinny guy from Guatemala who looked barely 16 strolled past, arm in arm with a girl. ¨He pulled a knife on me last week¨ admitted Jack. ¨The thing is, it´s different here. In Britain, if you get in a fight, it´s a fist fight. For sure. Worst case, a toothbrush or maybe hot oil. Here, you´re pretty much dead. Everyone´s got a machete. Or a gun¨
¨last week, I was in my cell with these two British guys. One was a journalist from a well known glossy magazine. We were all coked up, in fact. Suddenly there´s this noise. Turns out someone threw a gun into the solitary area. Two guys were shot, one died. The guy who did it, they added six months to his sentence. Doesn´t sound like much, but they beat him up too”
¨A year or so ago, a Colombian was shot in the Ecuadorian wing. So Colombians went and killed two Ecuadorians. Then they called a truce¨
In 2004, inmates took over the prison. The army was sent in, amid a lot of bloodshed. Just as I was bringing this up Jack pointed out some blood on the floor across the yard, ¨That´s new¨.
Casually, it was mentioned that 12-1 was lunchtime for the guards, so we’d have to wait to leave. I looked around – sure enough there was no sign of any staff. ¨There´s a guy up there with a machine gun, though. He stays¨ explained Jack.
I wondered whether it was best practice for a prison to have a common lunch hour for all the guards. I also considered the value of a relatively wealthy foreigner held hostage in a cell. At the very least, it would be a bit of fun for people with next to no hope, and little incentive to behave.
As we made our way to the exit, having exchanged contact details, it struck me that allowing young children, women and naive backpackers loose amongst rapists, murderers and guerrilla fighters for the day was a little lax. Perhaps even an accident waiting to happen, especially given the guards´ cushy working arrangements.
There were, at least, stern messages aimed at the prisoners and posted by the entrance: respect families on visiting day and don’t use bad language in front of women.
As the recently refreshed warden accepted my stamp and the doors closed behind me I made a mental note to ensure nobody went near my bags when next at the airport - especially on this continent. It had been an interesting morning, but there’s no denying it; walking free from prison feels good however long you’ve been inside.
Saturday 31 May 2008
Monday 17 September 2007
Going Home
During the last days of my trip I tried to think about all of the experiences I had enjoyed, all of the places I had been and all of the people I had met. It was a strange feeling; I was happy to be going home but at the same time sad to admit it had come to an end.
Puerto Viejo on the Carribean coast of Costa Rica was my last stop – I had two days for reflection, and managed to achieve a textbook outpouring of sentimental thoughts. Obviously it wouldn’t be a gap year unless I found myself, so, aware of the limited time, I went looking with more determination than ever.
I sat on the beach with my feet in the sea trying to remember each day of the trip in turn, to imagine being in each of the places, recalling how I felt, the high points and the low points and what lessons I learned. Suddenly I was aware that all in all what a fucking amazing experience it had been.
I thought about the cafes of Buenos Aires, the freezing nights and fierce sun of the Bolivian altiplano, the deserts of Peru, the volcanoes of Ecuador, the young women of Colombia and the islands of Panama. I considered the people who live in these places and the acute social differences that exist between them.
In these moments, what before had seemed normal: jobs, careers advisors, the pursuit of money, competition between piers, seemed no more elements of a standard existence than living in the jungle, catching fish in a small boat or selling cakes on buses.
That is not to say that my life is not more favourable than the life of the majority of Latin Americans. Of course it is: I have more freedoms and many more opportunities. Very soon, those aspects of western society will once again seem normal to me and I know I am lucky to be able to say that. (The fact is; I am rich. By the standards of the world, I am stinking rich, and so are you, and I would much rather be rich, to be here writing an Internet post about what I think about the poor, than be poor.)
But what I have learned and hope not to forget is that some things are only important in western societies, and only seem important when viewed from within them. If you attempt to consider all people in the world instead of just the ones near you, to take into account as many types of people as you can, you can try to get an idea of what things are important to all people. And I don’t think mergers and acquisitions, or even bad debt, count in this category, which it sometimes helps to realise.
I thought about how I had changed. I am (even) more left-wing than before. I am more up for talking to anyone. I am happier spending some time on my own. Despite Oxford, I don’t feel old, pressured to have a career, I don’t value money for money’s sake and I don’t want or need to be best at everything. I realised that your youth lasts at least until thirty, and travel is a pursuit of the young.
I thought about how I hadn’t changed. I am still often hopeless around women, at least when I like them. I am no better at making decisions. I still love to study, to think, to get the brain working a bit, and missed this at times. And I still like the sun and hot places more than cold dark places.
Spending time away from British people has allowed me to see my country more objectively. I am much more proud of some things (the best television in the world, the best music in the world, an relatively open society (for now) with the widest mix of races and backgrounds), but more disgusted by others (the only thing more cowardly that being a bully is being the bully’s inferior sidekick, kidding himself that the bully really gives a shit about him).
On the bus back to San Jose, to take my flight, I looked at everyone around me, trying to enjoy being away for the last few moments. As often happens when you are a skinny white man sitting alone, the large black woman across the aisle gave me a warm smile. I felt a little watery in the eyes, realising I was going to miss the warmth of the Latin people.
Later the bus crashed because a drunk driver skidded in front of it, and we had to wait 3 hours for the police to take him away. To pass the time, the black woman and I chatted for the whole time, about nothing; something totally normal in this society that would seem a little bit quirky, a bit strange even, in mine.
Sitting on the plane home, I was hoping for one last chance to speak Spanish, ideally with a slim brunette woman of average height between the ages of 19 and 30. I got what appeared to be a grumpy Spanish granddad. Still, we began to talk and he turned out to be a Costa Rican doctor, a widower who was going to visit friends in Spain. Within 15 minutes he had offered me his phone number and an open invitation to stay on his farm any time I might come back to Costa Rica.
On the Madrid – London, rush hour flight full of business travellers I was sat next to a middle-aged English accented woman in a suit. As an experiment I looked at her, perhaps also hoping to find out what job had required her to travel to Spain, but she immediately looked away. I’m sure she wasn’t unkind or antisocial: she was just English.
The Final List (quantity per 7 month trip to Latin America):
212 – days and nights out of the country
1 – day in Prison
1 – traveller met who spent three days in prison, actually in prison
4 – Spanish teachers employed
1 – traveller met who had slept with all 3 of his Spanish teachers so far
10 – countries visited (shortest, Brazil – 6 hrs, longest Argentina – almost 2 mths)
3 – number of gay blokes (all locals) that openly tried to seduce me.
2 – number of sexy time (not related to the above statistic)
2 – nationalities of the above
6 – times when I had spent a long time alone chatting to a girl who I really liked and was single and seemed to like me and I didn’t do anything.
5 – nationalities of the above
At least 20 - travellers I met who had been robbed in surprising, shocking or violent ways.
1 – robber I met who robbed me in a surprising, shocking and violent way
11- nights spent in hammocs.
5 – times I caught, or somebody with me, caught my dinner.
2 – times I travelled in aeroplanes (not buses)
1 – train journey
4 – number of nights spent at sea
2 – broken hearts, victims of my wish to keep on going
4 – random football matches with locals 3 – when I was the only gringo.
21842 tonnes – quantity of rice consumed
21842 tonnes – average weight of a cow in Argentina
21.842 grams – average weight of a cow in Bolivia
21842 - number of times I was offered drugs in and around Colombia
21842 – amount of grams of cocaine you can buy in Colombia for the price of a gram in London (apparently)
21842 pounds. Average cost of a weeks sheep shearing programme in Peru (with lots of other Bristol University students) arranged via Gap International in the UK
0 pounds (obviously) – average cost of helping people who need it when you get there for as long as you want
2 – readers of this travel journal who have actually made it to the end
0 – number of those who aren’t my next of kin
Saturday 8 September 2007
Free Weights
‘Fantastic Felix, so what did you say your new job was?’
‘Err, accountant’
‘And when did the job start’
‘Umm… a couple of weeks ago’
‘And you’ve taken a day off already?’
‘Yes…so what did you say the opening hours are, again?’
It was a guise I had adopted previously - accountant was a well-paid job and seemed plausible. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought my story through - the fact that it was half two on a Tuesday afternoon didn’t fit. Still, Lloyd the sales representative from Esporta health club didn’t seem to care. So long as I was seriously considering membership, my employer’s generous holiday allowance was no skin off his back.
Having kept the time free in case of job interviews that never emerged, I was stuck at home for a month before jetting off to South America on my post-university gap adventure. Keen to get in shape for the beaches of Brazil, I needed the use of a gym. Unfortunately, my student membership had long since expired and, with every spare pound saved for night-time jungle trekking and jeep safaris while away, I had resigned myself to curling cans of beans in the pantry and bench-pressing my mate’s girlfriend. That was before I hit on the idea of blagging a free trial at the local gym.
The strategy proved remarkably easy, and before long I had sampled the facilities at what seemed like every health club in Southampton. Weekends spent visiting friends in Oxford and London created more opportunities, allowing me compare different clubs from the same chain. The only down side was the slightly uncomfortable process of having up to ten different identities.
LA Fitness Southampton
I had simply to turn up and convince Gina, an amiable if slightly overenthusiastic ‘fitness advisor’, that I was seriously considering membership. After a relatively painless discussion of my ‘slef-improvement goals’, I was shown round, agreeing to discuss monthly rates post trial. Luckily, after an hour or so in the gym followed by a lengthy sauna and Jacuzzi, Gina appeared to have gone home, leaving me free to peruse the magazines in the members lounge before leaving refreshed.
Fitness First Southampton
‘So what did you think?’ questioned Amy, frustratingly sill floating around after my two and half hour free-weights and steam room blitz.
‘Well, the facilities were excellent …I’ve got your number so I’ll ring you tomorrow’
‘You know our special offer ends today?’
‘Erm….right… Ive, got to go’
Dulwich Hamlet Gym, South London
‘Hi, this is my friend -he’s just moved in with us and is thinking of joining the gym. Is there any way he could try out the facilities with us to make sure he knows what’s on offer’
‘Yes, no problem – we actually do a three day free trial…can I just get your name’
‘Felix Hill’
Following week, same place
‘Hi, this is my friend – he’s just moved in with us and is thinking of joining the gym. Is there any way he could try out the facilities with us to make sure he knows what’s on offer’
Same assistant ‘Yes, no problem – we actually do a three day free trial…can I just get your name’
‘Felix Hill’
Esporta, Oxford
‘Would you like a complimentary tea or coffee while we discuss membership?’
‘Err, yes a coffee would be great’
‘Large or small’
‘Large please’
Living-well, Southampton
‘Would you rather discuss membership now, or after your free trial’
‘Erm…it would probably be best after, I guess’
‘No problem, don’t forget to come and find me when you’re done’
‘Of course’
By the end of the month, as well as being a bit fitter, I was a veritable expert on the relative merits of the health clubs of the South of England. But I wanted more. Like any respectable rock band, and, err, Tescos, I wanted success on an international stage.
Argentina
So, during my first weeks of travelling, whilst studying Spanish in Buenos Aires, one of the first real tests of my Spanish was lying to a gym receptionist. I had signed up for three free visits on the basis I was going to be staying for a year to study in the university.
On my last day in the city, after three weeks, I went with a friend for our third session. ‘So, you must be ready to sign the contract now’, said the guy who had been there all week.
‘well, I was going to just have this last free day to make sure…just to be certain, you know’, as if there was some possible defect in their shoulder presses that might only reveal itself to the experienced user.
On the way out we pulled our caps low over our heads and hotfooted it out of the door and down the street, on a bus and out of the city.
The only other time I went to a gym was in Bolivia, a month or so later. The gym had no website, no free pass, and no swimming pool. All the machinery was looked at least 30 years old. The cost: 4 Bolivianos a visit or 25 a month. (There’s 16 to the pound) – I paid it. Grudgingly.
‘Err, accountant’
‘And when did the job start’
‘Umm… a couple of weeks ago’
‘And you’ve taken a day off already?’
‘Yes…so what did you say the opening hours are, again?’
It was a guise I had adopted previously - accountant was a well-paid job and seemed plausible. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought my story through - the fact that it was half two on a Tuesday afternoon didn’t fit. Still, Lloyd the sales representative from Esporta health club didn’t seem to care. So long as I was seriously considering membership, my employer’s generous holiday allowance was no skin off his back.
Having kept the time free in case of job interviews that never emerged, I was stuck at home for a month before jetting off to South America on my post-university gap adventure. Keen to get in shape for the beaches of Brazil, I needed the use of a gym. Unfortunately, my student membership had long since expired and, with every spare pound saved for night-time jungle trekking and jeep safaris while away, I had resigned myself to curling cans of beans in the pantry and bench-pressing my mate’s girlfriend. That was before I hit on the idea of blagging a free trial at the local gym.
The strategy proved remarkably easy, and before long I had sampled the facilities at what seemed like every health club in Southampton. Weekends spent visiting friends in Oxford and London created more opportunities, allowing me compare different clubs from the same chain. The only down side was the slightly uncomfortable process of having up to ten different identities.
LA Fitness Southampton
I had simply to turn up and convince Gina, an amiable if slightly overenthusiastic ‘fitness advisor’, that I was seriously considering membership. After a relatively painless discussion of my ‘slef-improvement goals’, I was shown round, agreeing to discuss monthly rates post trial. Luckily, after an hour or so in the gym followed by a lengthy sauna and Jacuzzi, Gina appeared to have gone home, leaving me free to peruse the magazines in the members lounge before leaving refreshed.
Fitness First Southampton
‘So what did you think?’ questioned Amy, frustratingly sill floating around after my two and half hour free-weights and steam room blitz.
‘Well, the facilities were excellent …I’ve got your number so I’ll ring you tomorrow’
‘You know our special offer ends today?’
‘Erm….right… Ive, got to go’
Dulwich Hamlet Gym, South London
‘Hi, this is my friend -he’s just moved in with us and is thinking of joining the gym. Is there any way he could try out the facilities with us to make sure he knows what’s on offer’
‘Yes, no problem – we actually do a three day free trial…can I just get your name’
‘Felix Hill’
Following week, same place
‘Hi, this is my friend – he’s just moved in with us and is thinking of joining the gym. Is there any way he could try out the facilities with us to make sure he knows what’s on offer’
Same assistant ‘Yes, no problem – we actually do a three day free trial…can I just get your name’
‘Felix Hill’
Esporta, Oxford
‘Would you like a complimentary tea or coffee while we discuss membership?’
‘Err, yes a coffee would be great’
‘Large or small’
‘Large please’
Living-well, Southampton
‘Would you rather discuss membership now, or after your free trial’
‘Erm…it would probably be best after, I guess’
‘No problem, don’t forget to come and find me when you’re done’
‘Of course’
By the end of the month, as well as being a bit fitter, I was a veritable expert on the relative merits of the health clubs of the South of England. But I wanted more. Like any respectable rock band, and, err, Tescos, I wanted success on an international stage.
Argentina
So, during my first weeks of travelling, whilst studying Spanish in Buenos Aires, one of the first real tests of my Spanish was lying to a gym receptionist. I had signed up for three free visits on the basis I was going to be staying for a year to study in the university.
On my last day in the city, after three weeks, I went with a friend for our third session. ‘So, you must be ready to sign the contract now’, said the guy who had been there all week.
‘well, I was going to just have this last free day to make sure…just to be certain, you know’, as if there was some possible defect in their shoulder presses that might only reveal itself to the experienced user.
On the way out we pulled our caps low over our heads and hotfooted it out of the door and down the street, on a bus and out of the city.
The only other time I went to a gym was in Bolivia, a month or so later. The gym had no website, no free pass, and no swimming pool. All the machinery was looked at least 30 years old. The cost: 4 Bolivianos a visit or 25 a month. (There’s 16 to the pound) – I paid it. Grudgingly.
Spanish Time
Like many of the capital cities in Central America, San Jose is best off avoided. It is ugly and has zero obvious signs of culture. Most tourists spend nothing more than a night there on their way to the beaches or jungle. I stayed for three weeks.
Costa Rica is like an example to the rest of Latin America. It’s relatively rich, partly a consequence of a well-managed tourism industry and partly because, in contrast to neighbours Panama and Nicaragua, it has been a stable democracy for 60 years.
How they achieved this seems to be a story of great leaders. First some guy in the forties came to power in a military coup and decided to disband the army. Even if there had been a civil war like in Nicaragua, the people would have had only bananas with which to fight. Then, when Reagan did his best to drag the Costa Rican’s into helping the Contra-revolutionaries in Nicaragua the country voted to ignore him.
In a way that makes it a bland destination for backpackers: lots of North Americans on holiday, relatively high prices and a less welcoming atmosphere. The people have tired of surfers acting like twats, and I worked hard to distance myself from this image so that they liked me. Of course, it would have been sufficient to watch me attempt to surf, but we were inland and up a mountain so I resorted to being polite.
Why, then, did I stay for 3 weeks? Well I was doing a preparation course for an internationally recognised language exam and San Jose seemed like the best place to do it of the available choices. I arranged this before I arrived.
Most of the city was built in the sixties, and it is uuuuuuugly. Pavements were never built at all, so any pedestrians share the edge of the road with terribly driven cars and buses. It rains heavily from 12 till dark every day without exception, often with thunder and lightning. The puddles in the street mean that, even if you don’t get run-over, you almost certainly get a good soaking.
I scoured the city listings looking for an apartment with local students, knowing that the most important thing to practice was the spoken language. I had a good mastery of the grammar and my written Spanish had reached a good level, but with only a few months in touristy locations to practice oral communication I was far behind my classmates: one had a Cuban husband and had been living in Costa Rica for 10 years and the other had spent a year living in San Jose with her local boyfriend.
Of course, as always, the only short-term options were popular with foreigners. In the end I moved in with a Costa Rican girl, two Dutch girls and American bloke and a Norwegian, placing all of my hopes on the native speaker. Unfortunately she wasn’t around much, and when we spoke in Spanish the others gave us funny looks. One again, conversing in the official language of the country I was in had become an unrealisable dream.
Because of this, despite doing well in the grammar and written tests in the exam, I didn’t practice what I needed to most, something that you can’t do in the classroom. Although I could speak clearly and accurately in Spanish it was just too much of a novelty for me, not quite instinctive enough, to happen naturally and fluently under the pressure of the exam. And failing one part means failing it all, so I await the results, due in a few months, with little confidence.
After the exam, and a night of drowning my sorrows, I got on a bus to the coast. For the first time in my trip I had given up on Spanish – if you want to learn a language get a job, some friends and stay in the same place – and planned to get drunk and impress American girls with my English accent and the Oxford thing. And then, unexpectedly and very ironically, something happened and I found exactly what I had been looking for.
In the bus station, on my own and back in that often necessary, superficial, hostel bar friends-meeting mode for the first time in a few weeks, I noticed two Spanish girls. Despite wanting to, I didn’t have the guts to speak to them (obviously), but it turned out we were on the same bus, and I was sitting next to one of them, with the other a few rows back. From here even I couldn't fail to get chatting and we spent the next 5 hours talking continuously.
A Chilean guy joined us and, as a four, we had a fantastic 7 days on Panamanian islands and the Costa Rican coast. The week was spent laughing, joking, mucking around and getting drunk. I didn’t speak a word of English, and it all came out without thinking, as if my mind had finally adapted like I had wanted.
There were two details that meant the conversations had a very different dynamic from speaking to taxi drivers or fishermen: a) we had more to talk about than football b) they spoke Spanish correctly. A cynic might add c) I was trying to get in their pants. I refuse to comment, except to confirm that this certainly wasn't this case with most taxi drivers.
During this time, if anyone in the street spoke to me in English I ignored it – it didn’t even register. If it was important I spoke back in Spanish. I had the confidence to shout them down if necessary, and in fact it was easier than having to think in English again.
On the last night for fun and as practice we spoke a little in English. It wasn’t that their English was bad; it was just like my Spanish had been four months ago. And in that moment I realised, despite the exam, what I had achieved. Because although they were speaking perfectly they had no personality; it was like they had changed, become one dimensional, even boring, which they certainly weren’t.
And I knew that, despite speaking perfectly well, I would have seemed like that myself in Spanish a few months back, and it must have been a huge barrier to getting on with local people. And I realised that I could never have got to know them so well - got to understand what they were really like as people - speaking in English.
At the girls’ behest, we soon resorted back to Spanish and the joking and banter started again. Spanish Felix isn’t quite the same as English Felix, but he’s no worse, no more boring. In fact, I think he might even be better; he thinks just a split-second longer before opening his mouth.
Costa Rica is like an example to the rest of Latin America. It’s relatively rich, partly a consequence of a well-managed tourism industry and partly because, in contrast to neighbours Panama and Nicaragua, it has been a stable democracy for 60 years.
How they achieved this seems to be a story of great leaders. First some guy in the forties came to power in a military coup and decided to disband the army. Even if there had been a civil war like in Nicaragua, the people would have had only bananas with which to fight. Then, when Reagan did his best to drag the Costa Rican’s into helping the Contra-revolutionaries in Nicaragua the country voted to ignore him.
In a way that makes it a bland destination for backpackers: lots of North Americans on holiday, relatively high prices and a less welcoming atmosphere. The people have tired of surfers acting like twats, and I worked hard to distance myself from this image so that they liked me. Of course, it would have been sufficient to watch me attempt to surf, but we were inland and up a mountain so I resorted to being polite.
Why, then, did I stay for 3 weeks? Well I was doing a preparation course for an internationally recognised language exam and San Jose seemed like the best place to do it of the available choices. I arranged this before I arrived.
Most of the city was built in the sixties, and it is uuuuuuugly. Pavements were never built at all, so any pedestrians share the edge of the road with terribly driven cars and buses. It rains heavily from 12 till dark every day without exception, often with thunder and lightning. The puddles in the street mean that, even if you don’t get run-over, you almost certainly get a good soaking.
I scoured the city listings looking for an apartment with local students, knowing that the most important thing to practice was the spoken language. I had a good mastery of the grammar and my written Spanish had reached a good level, but with only a few months in touristy locations to practice oral communication I was far behind my classmates: one had a Cuban husband and had been living in Costa Rica for 10 years and the other had spent a year living in San Jose with her local boyfriend.
Of course, as always, the only short-term options were popular with foreigners. In the end I moved in with a Costa Rican girl, two Dutch girls and American bloke and a Norwegian, placing all of my hopes on the native speaker. Unfortunately she wasn’t around much, and when we spoke in Spanish the others gave us funny looks. One again, conversing in the official language of the country I was in had become an unrealisable dream.
Because of this, despite doing well in the grammar and written tests in the exam, I didn’t practice what I needed to most, something that you can’t do in the classroom. Although I could speak clearly and accurately in Spanish it was just too much of a novelty for me, not quite instinctive enough, to happen naturally and fluently under the pressure of the exam. And failing one part means failing it all, so I await the results, due in a few months, with little confidence.
After the exam, and a night of drowning my sorrows, I got on a bus to the coast. For the first time in my trip I had given up on Spanish – if you want to learn a language get a job, some friends and stay in the same place – and planned to get drunk and impress American girls with my English accent and the Oxford thing. And then, unexpectedly and very ironically, something happened and I found exactly what I had been looking for.
In the bus station, on my own and back in that often necessary, superficial, hostel bar friends-meeting mode for the first time in a few weeks, I noticed two Spanish girls. Despite wanting to, I didn’t have the guts to speak to them (obviously), but it turned out we were on the same bus, and I was sitting next to one of them, with the other a few rows back. From here even I couldn't fail to get chatting and we spent the next 5 hours talking continuously.
A Chilean guy joined us and, as a four, we had a fantastic 7 days on Panamanian islands and the Costa Rican coast. The week was spent laughing, joking, mucking around and getting drunk. I didn’t speak a word of English, and it all came out without thinking, as if my mind had finally adapted like I had wanted.
There were two details that meant the conversations had a very different dynamic from speaking to taxi drivers or fishermen: a) we had more to talk about than football b) they spoke Spanish correctly. A cynic might add c) I was trying to get in their pants. I refuse to comment, except to confirm that this certainly wasn't this case with most taxi drivers.
During this time, if anyone in the street spoke to me in English I ignored it – it didn’t even register. If it was important I spoke back in Spanish. I had the confidence to shout them down if necessary, and in fact it was easier than having to think in English again.
On the last night for fun and as practice we spoke a little in English. It wasn’t that their English was bad; it was just like my Spanish had been four months ago. And in that moment I realised, despite the exam, what I had achieved. Because although they were speaking perfectly they had no personality; it was like they had changed, become one dimensional, even boring, which they certainly weren’t.
And I knew that, despite speaking perfectly well, I would have seemed like that myself in Spanish a few months back, and it must have been a huge barrier to getting on with local people. And I realised that I could never have got to know them so well - got to understand what they were really like as people - speaking in English.
At the girls’ behest, we soon resorted back to Spanish and the joking and banter started again. Spanish Felix isn’t quite the same as English Felix, but he’s no worse, no more boring. In fact, I think he might even be better; he thinks just a split-second longer before opening his mouth.
Saturday 25 August 2007
kings of Leon (plus something in Spanish)
My time in Leon, Nicaragua was coming to an end. I said goodbye to the veterans of the revolution who sat outside the FSLN building on the city's main square, and with whom I chatted most mornings on the way to and from the university, where I attended some classes.
The first time I approached them, they gave me a guided tour of the small museum they had created to mark the revolution. They were happy to recount their stories and talk about the current situation, and didn't mind that I came from a rogue state that had helped support the funding of the contras. 'we share the same cause as the pueblos of the world, and realise its not always the same as their leaders'.
The tour consisted of a chubby man, probably in his forties, crouching down and demonstrating how he shot at government forces from various places in the city. He did a bit of reading from newspaper cuttings that were stuck to the wall, and showed me some pictures from the time.
It turned out all of this was a warm up to the star attraction- his mate, an even chubbier man who looked a bit dopey and possibly drunk. With a huge grin on his face he lifted up his shirt to reveal a range of different scars on his ever-more wobbling belly. The first man, relishing his role as guide, explained the story behind each wound, pointing at them with a long cane.
After Leon, in something of an experiment in isolation, I spent 5 days in a remote part of the pacific coast. Every day I learned some vocabulary, ate fish in a local restaurant (the kitchen was a mud hut full of chickens), ran along the beach and played football with the fishermen on a wet sandy bay.
Leon had been a unique experience, and Nicaragua a fascinating place to spend time. I boarded the bus knowing it was the final long journey of my trip. I was heading to San Jose, Costa Rica, from where I would eventually fly home.
Estoy buscando a alguien que no hable inglés....
'Entiendes que tendrás que saber español?' me dijo la risueña muchacha en la agencia de viajes. Estuve a punto de comprar mi boleto para latinoamerica. 'Europa no es. No son muchos los que hablan inglés y si lo pueden lo hablan muy mal. Reservar pasajes de bus, pedir direcciones, comer en restaurantes...no van a ser fáciles si no puedes comunicarte'
Sus palabras me sonaban a pedir de boca. Tras mi viaje, con tanto tiempo completemente inmerso en el idioma, iba a ser un maestro de la lengua, pensé. Tal vez, fuera a olvidar el inglés. 'Me parece perfecto' le respondí.
Por desgracia, resultó que la muchacha no tuvo razón. Por más que he intentado, nunca he pasado un día entero sin decir algo a alguien en mi idioma nativo. Y eso lo escibo después de más de medio año en paises latinos.
Reuerdo al humilde minero, recién convertido en guía turistico, que me presentó las famosas minas de Potosí, Bolivia. No solo se había enseñado un inglés preciso y eficaz, aprovechandose de los pocos libros a los que tenía acceso, sino quería practicarlo tanto como fuera posible, incluso conmigo. Y la situación fue empeorado por los demás touristas; aunque ningún era de un país anglohablante, tanto el sueco como el francés quiso que el tour se realializara en Inglés.
También pienso en el recepcionista ecuatoriano que, a pesar de que le rogé muchas veces que me comunicara en español, se empeñaba en decir palabras extranjeras. 'Si ustéd fuera a Inglaterra, le hablaria inglés' le dije. 'Sorry, I forget', se le salió la respuesta, con un accento irritante estadounidense.
Me accuerdo del conductor del bus peruano que me saludó en Inglés. Cuando me bajaba me deseo 'a good trip'. En los mercados y kioscos todo se vendia por un 'good price', 'un dolar' o 'muy cheap'. Y sigue siendo una surpresa si, mientras camino en la calle, los niños callejeros no me gritan hello o good day.
Cuando, por fin, conocí a alguien, un taxista del norte de Colombia, que no podía hablar en inglés, resultó que tampoco sabía español. O, al menos, hablaba una especie rara de la lengua que para nada podía comprender.
Por supuesto hubiera hecho más para evitar el inglés. Iba a lugares turisticos; uno no debe perdir los increíbles sitios historicos ni las joyas de la naturaleza que se encuentran por todas partes de sud y centroamerica. Y lo que es peor, a veces me he alojado en hostales internaionales con dueños extranjeros; era necesario ya que viajaba solo por terreno desconocido. Sin embargo, nunca me había imaginado cómo la influencia del inglés se había extendido a través del mundo latino.
Quién tiene la culpa por esta invasion linguistica? No puede ser los ingleses; nuestro imperio nunca llegó a estos países. O quizá sí tenemos la culpa, por llevar nuestra lengua a los estados unidos, donde su importancia ceció llevandola más allá del imperio britanico.
Pero prefiero echar la culpa a los almunos latinos, diestros y habiles, que insisten en no solo aprender el ingles sino demostrar su capacidad cuando quiera que sea posible.
Por mi parte, como Ingles, me siento orgulloso que la mayoría de la gente inglésa nunca traicionaría a sus raices en aprender idiomas extranjeros.
The first time I approached them, they gave me a guided tour of the small museum they had created to mark the revolution. They were happy to recount their stories and talk about the current situation, and didn't mind that I came from a rogue state that had helped support the funding of the contras. 'we share the same cause as the pueblos of the world, and realise its not always the same as their leaders'.
The tour consisted of a chubby man, probably in his forties, crouching down and demonstrating how he shot at government forces from various places in the city. He did a bit of reading from newspaper cuttings that were stuck to the wall, and showed me some pictures from the time.
It turned out all of this was a warm up to the star attraction- his mate, an even chubbier man who looked a bit dopey and possibly drunk. With a huge grin on his face he lifted up his shirt to reveal a range of different scars on his ever-more wobbling belly. The first man, relishing his role as guide, explained the story behind each wound, pointing at them with a long cane.
After Leon, in something of an experiment in isolation, I spent 5 days in a remote part of the pacific coast. Every day I learned some vocabulary, ate fish in a local restaurant (the kitchen was a mud hut full of chickens), ran along the beach and played football with the fishermen on a wet sandy bay.
Leon had been a unique experience, and Nicaragua a fascinating place to spend time. I boarded the bus knowing it was the final long journey of my trip. I was heading to San Jose, Costa Rica, from where I would eventually fly home.
Estoy buscando a alguien que no hable inglés....
'Entiendes que tendrás que saber español?' me dijo la risueña muchacha en la agencia de viajes. Estuve a punto de comprar mi boleto para latinoamerica. 'Europa no es. No son muchos los que hablan inglés y si lo pueden lo hablan muy mal. Reservar pasajes de bus, pedir direcciones, comer en restaurantes...no van a ser fáciles si no puedes comunicarte'
Sus palabras me sonaban a pedir de boca. Tras mi viaje, con tanto tiempo completemente inmerso en el idioma, iba a ser un maestro de la lengua, pensé. Tal vez, fuera a olvidar el inglés. 'Me parece perfecto' le respondí.
Por desgracia, resultó que la muchacha no tuvo razón. Por más que he intentado, nunca he pasado un día entero sin decir algo a alguien en mi idioma nativo. Y eso lo escibo después de más de medio año en paises latinos.
Reuerdo al humilde minero, recién convertido en guía turistico, que me presentó las famosas minas de Potosí, Bolivia. No solo se había enseñado un inglés preciso y eficaz, aprovechandose de los pocos libros a los que tenía acceso, sino quería practicarlo tanto como fuera posible, incluso conmigo. Y la situación fue empeorado por los demás touristas; aunque ningún era de un país anglohablante, tanto el sueco como el francés quiso que el tour se realializara en Inglés.
También pienso en el recepcionista ecuatoriano que, a pesar de que le rogé muchas veces que me comunicara en español, se empeñaba en decir palabras extranjeras. 'Si ustéd fuera a Inglaterra, le hablaria inglés' le dije. 'Sorry, I forget', se le salió la respuesta, con un accento irritante estadounidense.
Me accuerdo del conductor del bus peruano que me saludó en Inglés. Cuando me bajaba me deseo 'a good trip'. En los mercados y kioscos todo se vendia por un 'good price', 'un dolar' o 'muy cheap'. Y sigue siendo una surpresa si, mientras camino en la calle, los niños callejeros no me gritan hello o good day.
Cuando, por fin, conocí a alguien, un taxista del norte de Colombia, que no podía hablar en inglés, resultó que tampoco sabía español. O, al menos, hablaba una especie rara de la lengua que para nada podía comprender.
Por supuesto hubiera hecho más para evitar el inglés. Iba a lugares turisticos; uno no debe perdir los increíbles sitios historicos ni las joyas de la naturaleza que se encuentran por todas partes de sud y centroamerica. Y lo que es peor, a veces me he alojado en hostales internaionales con dueños extranjeros; era necesario ya que viajaba solo por terreno desconocido. Sin embargo, nunca me había imaginado cómo la influencia del inglés se había extendido a través del mundo latino.
Quién tiene la culpa por esta invasion linguistica? No puede ser los ingleses; nuestro imperio nunca llegó a estos países. O quizá sí tenemos la culpa, por llevar nuestra lengua a los estados unidos, donde su importancia ceció llevandola más allá del imperio britanico.
Pero prefiero echar la culpa a los almunos latinos, diestros y habiles, que insisten en no solo aprender el ingles sino demostrar su capacidad cuando quiera que sea posible.
Por mi parte, como Ingles, me siento orgulloso que la mayoría de la gente inglésa nunca traicionaría a sus raices en aprender idiomas extranjeros.
Monday 30 July 2007
World Rally Champions
I cheered my arse off for Hugo Chavez, partly because he´s charismatic, but mostly because I wanted to make it clear that, despite my appearance, I was in no way in favour of the so called Imperial Occupying Force that we will kick out of Latin America just like Bolivar kicked out the Spaniards. That way, I figured, I was less likely to get lynched by the hundreds of thousands of increasingly excited people in my imediate vicinity screaming the words to revolutionary anthems.
In Nicaragua, politics matters, and people care. There´s a good reason for this; the country has seen a lot of fuck-ups over the last 50 years. Having your son shot by government troops tends to quell political apathy, as does your parents dying of starvation.
To understand better, it´s important to read the following completely un-prejudiced history of the country´s recent past. It starts not in Nicaragua but a little further north, in the world´s headquarters.
The United States has a history of producing great war heroes, like Jonny Rambo and George W Bush. The famous military school at the heart of this success, West Point, also trained a Nicaraguan called Somoza, who then went back to his country and became the president, round about 1950. The US liked this, because they had a man who did things their way, and the US likes other countries to do things their way. Somoza was happy too, because he got a lot of money and support and made Nicaragua relatively prosperous, at least in terms of figures and economics.
Some other people were less happy because although the numbers looked good it was only a very small rich elite that actually had money and opportunities. Worse still, whenever they tried to complain they were put in prison, which doesn´t seem like the sort of thing that should happen in a country that is the friend of the world´s most influential democracy. Neither does passing the presidency to your son when you die without asking the people, but that happened too.
People protested, especially students, often in large numbers, although they kept getting shot. They were angry that those who lived in rural areas were being prevented from learning to read and write and rarely had enough to eat, angry that people couldn´t say what they wanted and angry that the same family had ruled the country for almost 30 years. They wanted a homeland that was free, and were very brave, but the Somoza dynasty, with financial support from some star-spangled friends, kept killing them.
As time passed the number of people who were rich got smaller and everyone else not only got cheesed off but also better organised. Eventually a war started. It lasted a long time and a lot of bad things happened, both to soldiers and civilians, but on 19th July 1979 Nicaragua was freed of Somoza, who escaped to Paraguay where he was blown up by a bomb.
The country was in a terrible state but for the majority of Nicaraguans it was an incredible triumph against adversity. A new government was formed and immediately tried to teach poor people to read and write, gave them food and allow them access to some of the rights that were previously only the preserve of the wealthy few.
Since then a lot has happened. The new government struggled to run the country because it was so battered by war and because, overnight, the United States stopped sending aid and support. Worse still, by comparing the Nicaraguans to Russian communists they were able to get the American people to support the funding of an army which would mobilise in bordering countries and then invade Nicaragua to topple the government.
Of course, this was a terrible shame for the Nicaraguan people because it meant the peace they were expecting never really came. The country remained in a state of war, while mass murders and other atrocities continued to happen.
After a while, the American people realised it wasn´t really any of their business, or at least that a free Nicaragua didn´t necessarily mean a dirty red terror spreading accross the continent. They helped to ensure that Congress voted against sending more support to the contra-revolutionary forces. It seemed the fighting and atrocities might finally stop and the people might have a chance to build lives.
But strangely the contra forces were able to keep fighting. So the bloodshed and suffering continued, and there was little hope of economic recovery either.
Some time later it emerged that, despite the money being refused by Congress, Reagan had found an ingenious way of continuing to support the contras. He sold arms to Iran (for which their civilian population was undoubtedly grateful) and sent the profits to some men in bushes in Central America, against the wishes of the American people.
Unfortuntately for Reagan, an Arab journalists let the secret silp. So, as you might imagine, he and the others responsible for prolonging for nine years a state of bloody war in Nicaragua, fighting in which over 30,000 lives were lost, were punished. Or at least they were threatened with punishment (for lying to the American people) and some were made to resign.
And then pardoned by George HW Bush a few years later.
So it was never a glorious revolution, but there was eventually peace and a democracy did come to exist. And for those reasons the Nicaraguan people are incredibly proud of their efforts in the late seventies and how the vast majority of the nation worked together to support the rights of the very poor, making things change against the odds.
And that explains why lots of people come to Managua on the 19th of July every year, and what I was doing in the middle of them all.
This year´s bash was a little different because the political party most associated with the revolution, the FSLN, was back in power after 16 years and its leader, two-time president Daniel Ortega, was determined to make a big scene. What Ortega had realised, and what I was about to find out, is that Hugo Chavez is a good ally to have when you want to make a big scene.
To ensure the largest possible attendance, free buses were provided from all over the country. I was living in Leon with a wealthy family who opposed the revolution because their salaries were cut, but snuck out and met up with a pro-FSLN family before catching an old American school bus (your child´s safety is OUR business, said the sign above drivers seat) that was waiting up the street.
Like the rest of the 40 buses that left from my town, it was jammed full of people wearing the colours of the revolutionaries, and we drove the hour and a half to the capital with a flags on poles stuck out of every window. Sticking my head out the window like the rest of the passangers gave a sense of the scale of the operation; there must have been over a hundred buses, lorries and vans hurtling down the highway, all packed full with flags flapping by the sides, almost nose to nose.
Why do you support the FSLN? asked the twelve year old boy sitting next to me, realising the party paraphanalia that I had covered myself with didn´t really match my less-than-Nicaraguan features. I was caught off guard and felt like a fake; a phoney tourist amongst those really affected. Shamlessley I threw the question straight back: err...why do you support the FSLN? Theyre the only ones that look out for the poor people, came the immediate response.
Managua was wrecked by a huge earthquake in 1972 which, as well as killing thousands of people, turned the capital into one of the world´s ugliest cities. The vast open space created when buildings collapsed in the centre of the city is now used to host huge public events like this one.
Nicaraguans are short, so from our vantage point somewhere in the middle I was able to see that the mass of red and black spread for hundreds of metres in all directions.
That was late afternoon and the square was rapidly filling up. I spent some time observing the various T-shirts on show. The most common was completely red, with a photo of Ortega with his arm raised and the slogan Arriba los Pobres del Mundo. Up the poor people of the world.
Second place was a large print with the faces of Bolivia´s Evo Morales, Ortega, Chavez and Castro and their names written vertically or horizontally across the front. The presentation made them look a bit like a boy-band (new socialists on the block?), although this illusion was shatterd on closer inspection by Ortega´s moustache. Third spot was, predictably, the red Guevara, a common sight the world over, leaving Morales-on-his-own, Chavez-and-Castro, Guevara-and-Castro and Puma to fight it out amongst the also-rans.
The first to speak was Ortega´s wife, mother of his 8 children, who jabbered on for ages about unity and sacrifice and was often interupted by revolutionary songs played over the PA system and fireworks going off behind her. Eventually she introduced the guest speakers; first up was Honduras´ lefty president who spoke about the Central American pueblo. Pueblo means village, by the way, although in this context it has come to mean the common people or the poor.
Next up was Panama´s new socialist leader who looked suspiciously slick and didn´t mention pueblos at all, merely co-operation and stuff. He looked a bit slick to be a proper socialist; like a young tony blair with a tan.
After Mrs Ortega had harped on a little bit more and the first of many rounds of fireworks had transformed the sky into a deep red, it was time for the big guns. As I braced myself for Chavez she pulled out a trump card I hadn´t expected. He wasn´t able to be there in person, but Colnel Gadaffi was appearing by live video linkup (well he sent a message and she red it). From Lybia came comparisons with the African Pueblo and a reminder that Lybia had supported the revolution all those years back.
The crowd was increasingly animated, with almost everyone waving large flags; the red and black of the revolutionaries, or the blue and white of Nicaraguan . Amidst the smoke from the fireworks and flares were the sihouettes of men who had climbed lampposts to display banners. The largest on show: Cuba Supports our Revolutionary Brothers.
And so came the turn of Chavez, who's presence on the stage seemed to dominate the other speakers. He started quietly (its a pleasure to be here), raised the heat with a touch of panto,
Do we have any young male revolutionaries in the crowd? Lets hear you. [loud cheer]
What about the girls? [loud cheer, higher pitch]
before whipping the hordes into a patriotic frenzy. Citing legends from the Bible, Latin folklore, Roman times and the Colonial wars, he castigated the imperial tyranny of Washington and urged the Latin people to come together to form one big err, well, pueblo. The woman next to me began screaming hysterically. I pulled the black and red flag I had just bought higher up by my face and raised my arm in support, but feared it wasn´t enough of a disguise. My hair was too light and Chavez was showing no signs of stopping.
Luckily some small kids emerged from behind me trying to catch a glimpse of the giant screen. Without asking I hoisted one onto my shoulders high above the crowd and gave him my flag. Blue eyes or not, I was surely lynch-safe now.
There can´t have been many examples of stolen thunder more clear that Chavez´s theft of Ortega´s limelight here. The hero of the revolution and former child abuser (according to wikipedia) spoke for ages about some touchy domestic things (tractors, electricity shortages), some hot potatoes (why he recieves aid from both China and Taiwan) and the occasional juicy bit (his support of Iran, Evo Morales, Castro, how the revolution is spreading), although mostly he was boring and waffly, a bit like a grandad, and nobody seemed too interested. The rapidly dwindling numbers also reflected the many who support the revolution but not the president´s history of corruption (yes but the others are worse argued a supporter when I mentioned this).
Eventually I too chose to leave, or rather my adopted family did, so it was back to Leon for us and back to looking at people's calves for the kid on my shoulders. The hysteria continued on the bus back, where the chanting was led by a frail grey-haired 80 year old: el pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido he shouted defiantly.
United, the poor will never be defeated.
In Nicaragua, politics matters, and people care. There´s a good reason for this; the country has seen a lot of fuck-ups over the last 50 years. Having your son shot by government troops tends to quell political apathy, as does your parents dying of starvation.
To understand better, it´s important to read the following completely un-prejudiced history of the country´s recent past. It starts not in Nicaragua but a little further north, in the world´s headquarters.
The United States has a history of producing great war heroes, like Jonny Rambo and George W Bush. The famous military school at the heart of this success, West Point, also trained a Nicaraguan called Somoza, who then went back to his country and became the president, round about 1950. The US liked this, because they had a man who did things their way, and the US likes other countries to do things their way. Somoza was happy too, because he got a lot of money and support and made Nicaragua relatively prosperous, at least in terms of figures and economics.
Some other people were less happy because although the numbers looked good it was only a very small rich elite that actually had money and opportunities. Worse still, whenever they tried to complain they were put in prison, which doesn´t seem like the sort of thing that should happen in a country that is the friend of the world´s most influential democracy. Neither does passing the presidency to your son when you die without asking the people, but that happened too.
People protested, especially students, often in large numbers, although they kept getting shot. They were angry that those who lived in rural areas were being prevented from learning to read and write and rarely had enough to eat, angry that people couldn´t say what they wanted and angry that the same family had ruled the country for almost 30 years. They wanted a homeland that was free, and were very brave, but the Somoza dynasty, with financial support from some star-spangled friends, kept killing them.
As time passed the number of people who were rich got smaller and everyone else not only got cheesed off but also better organised. Eventually a war started. It lasted a long time and a lot of bad things happened, both to soldiers and civilians, but on 19th July 1979 Nicaragua was freed of Somoza, who escaped to Paraguay where he was blown up by a bomb.
The country was in a terrible state but for the majority of Nicaraguans it was an incredible triumph against adversity. A new government was formed and immediately tried to teach poor people to read and write, gave them food and allow them access to some of the rights that were previously only the preserve of the wealthy few.
Since then a lot has happened. The new government struggled to run the country because it was so battered by war and because, overnight, the United States stopped sending aid and support. Worse still, by comparing the Nicaraguans to Russian communists they were able to get the American people to support the funding of an army which would mobilise in bordering countries and then invade Nicaragua to topple the government.
Of course, this was a terrible shame for the Nicaraguan people because it meant the peace they were expecting never really came. The country remained in a state of war, while mass murders and other atrocities continued to happen.
After a while, the American people realised it wasn´t really any of their business, or at least that a free Nicaragua didn´t necessarily mean a dirty red terror spreading accross the continent. They helped to ensure that Congress voted against sending more support to the contra-revolutionary forces. It seemed the fighting and atrocities might finally stop and the people might have a chance to build lives.
But strangely the contra forces were able to keep fighting. So the bloodshed and suffering continued, and there was little hope of economic recovery either.
Some time later it emerged that, despite the money being refused by Congress, Reagan had found an ingenious way of continuing to support the contras. He sold arms to Iran (for which their civilian population was undoubtedly grateful) and sent the profits to some men in bushes in Central America, against the wishes of the American people.
Unfortuntately for Reagan, an Arab journalists let the secret silp. So, as you might imagine, he and the others responsible for prolonging for nine years a state of bloody war in Nicaragua, fighting in which over 30,000 lives were lost, were punished. Or at least they were threatened with punishment (for lying to the American people) and some were made to resign.
And then pardoned by George HW Bush a few years later.
So it was never a glorious revolution, but there was eventually peace and a democracy did come to exist. And for those reasons the Nicaraguan people are incredibly proud of their efforts in the late seventies and how the vast majority of the nation worked together to support the rights of the very poor, making things change against the odds.
And that explains why lots of people come to Managua on the 19th of July every year, and what I was doing in the middle of them all.
This year´s bash was a little different because the political party most associated with the revolution, the FSLN, was back in power after 16 years and its leader, two-time president Daniel Ortega, was determined to make a big scene. What Ortega had realised, and what I was about to find out, is that Hugo Chavez is a good ally to have when you want to make a big scene.
To ensure the largest possible attendance, free buses were provided from all over the country. I was living in Leon with a wealthy family who opposed the revolution because their salaries were cut, but snuck out and met up with a pro-FSLN family before catching an old American school bus (your child´s safety is OUR business, said the sign above drivers seat) that was waiting up the street.
Like the rest of the 40 buses that left from my town, it was jammed full of people wearing the colours of the revolutionaries, and we drove the hour and a half to the capital with a flags on poles stuck out of every window. Sticking my head out the window like the rest of the passangers gave a sense of the scale of the operation; there must have been over a hundred buses, lorries and vans hurtling down the highway, all packed full with flags flapping by the sides, almost nose to nose.
Why do you support the FSLN? asked the twelve year old boy sitting next to me, realising the party paraphanalia that I had covered myself with didn´t really match my less-than-Nicaraguan features. I was caught off guard and felt like a fake; a phoney tourist amongst those really affected. Shamlessley I threw the question straight back: err...why do you support the FSLN? Theyre the only ones that look out for the poor people, came the immediate response.
Managua was wrecked by a huge earthquake in 1972 which, as well as killing thousands of people, turned the capital into one of the world´s ugliest cities. The vast open space created when buildings collapsed in the centre of the city is now used to host huge public events like this one.
Nicaraguans are short, so from our vantage point somewhere in the middle I was able to see that the mass of red and black spread for hundreds of metres in all directions.
That was late afternoon and the square was rapidly filling up. I spent some time observing the various T-shirts on show. The most common was completely red, with a photo of Ortega with his arm raised and the slogan Arriba los Pobres del Mundo. Up the poor people of the world.
Second place was a large print with the faces of Bolivia´s Evo Morales, Ortega, Chavez and Castro and their names written vertically or horizontally across the front. The presentation made them look a bit like a boy-band (new socialists on the block?), although this illusion was shatterd on closer inspection by Ortega´s moustache. Third spot was, predictably, the red Guevara, a common sight the world over, leaving Morales-on-his-own, Chavez-and-Castro, Guevara-and-Castro and Puma to fight it out amongst the also-rans.
The first to speak was Ortega´s wife, mother of his 8 children, who jabbered on for ages about unity and sacrifice and was often interupted by revolutionary songs played over the PA system and fireworks going off behind her. Eventually she introduced the guest speakers; first up was Honduras´ lefty president who spoke about the Central American pueblo. Pueblo means village, by the way, although in this context it has come to mean the common people or the poor.
Next up was Panama´s new socialist leader who looked suspiciously slick and didn´t mention pueblos at all, merely co-operation and stuff. He looked a bit slick to be a proper socialist; like a young tony blair with a tan.
After Mrs Ortega had harped on a little bit more and the first of many rounds of fireworks had transformed the sky into a deep red, it was time for the big guns. As I braced myself for Chavez she pulled out a trump card I hadn´t expected. He wasn´t able to be there in person, but Colnel Gadaffi was appearing by live video linkup (well he sent a message and she red it). From Lybia came comparisons with the African Pueblo and a reminder that Lybia had supported the revolution all those years back.
The crowd was increasingly animated, with almost everyone waving large flags; the red and black of the revolutionaries, or the blue and white of Nicaraguan . Amidst the smoke from the fireworks and flares were the sihouettes of men who had climbed lampposts to display banners. The largest on show: Cuba Supports our Revolutionary Brothers.
And so came the turn of Chavez, who's presence on the stage seemed to dominate the other speakers. He started quietly (its a pleasure to be here), raised the heat with a touch of panto,
Do we have any young male revolutionaries in the crowd? Lets hear you. [loud cheer]
What about the girls? [loud cheer, higher pitch]
before whipping the hordes into a patriotic frenzy. Citing legends from the Bible, Latin folklore, Roman times and the Colonial wars, he castigated the imperial tyranny of Washington and urged the Latin people to come together to form one big err, well, pueblo. The woman next to me began screaming hysterically. I pulled the black and red flag I had just bought higher up by my face and raised my arm in support, but feared it wasn´t enough of a disguise. My hair was too light and Chavez was showing no signs of stopping.
Luckily some small kids emerged from behind me trying to catch a glimpse of the giant screen. Without asking I hoisted one onto my shoulders high above the crowd and gave him my flag. Blue eyes or not, I was surely lynch-safe now.
There can´t have been many examples of stolen thunder more clear that Chavez´s theft of Ortega´s limelight here. The hero of the revolution and former child abuser (according to wikipedia) spoke for ages about some touchy domestic things (tractors, electricity shortages), some hot potatoes (why he recieves aid from both China and Taiwan) and the occasional juicy bit (his support of Iran, Evo Morales, Castro, how the revolution is spreading), although mostly he was boring and waffly, a bit like a grandad, and nobody seemed too interested. The rapidly dwindling numbers also reflected the many who support the revolution but not the president´s history of corruption (yes but the others are worse argued a supporter when I mentioned this).
Eventually I too chose to leave, or rather my adopted family did, so it was back to Leon for us and back to looking at people's calves for the kid on my shoulders. The hysteria continued on the bus back, where the chanting was led by a frail grey-haired 80 year old: el pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido he shouted defiantly.
United, the poor will never be defeated.
Sunday 15 July 2007
Forget me yacht
Something I didnt know before I got to South America is that you cant leave the continent by land. The territory around the border between Colombia and Panama is run by drugs smugglers and wild animals. Most outsiders that venture into the region end up kidnapped or eaten. To avoid these fates I took a four day sailboat trip from the Colombian coast with the promise of a few days spent on islands en route.
As far as I could see, the only possible risks with this choice were high seas and bad company. As it turned out, I got a bit of both.
A few hours into the trip I began to realise that being on a small boat with a lot of passangers in a fucking big ocean is not an ideal situation. In hindsight I think the problem was that my ideas about being on such a boat were based on eighties pop videos.
The waves were very high. Almost all of the eight backpackers on board started to feel pretty queasy. A few went green. The captain´s wife, veteran of over 100 such trips, chucked up over the side. Instead of standing up by the mast watching dolphins, with girls in bikinis bringing me pina coladas, I was curled up below deck trying to overcome the nausea felt every time I opened my eyes.
What´s more, the captain, a fat bearded Mormon from California, with, as we later found out, a reputation for extreme stinginess, was constantly on our back for breaking apparently obvious rules. Except he hadnt told them to us and nobody had been on a boat before.
Steering badly, steering too agressively, not flushing the toilet, over-flushing the toilet, wasting water, standing in the wrong place, moving cushions, throwing away used tins, eating the wrong bread and not eating the right bread were just some of our misdemeanours. Each one was met with a stern telling off.
After a hellish night spent falling out of the same single bed as a 16 stone Australian, failing to steer the boat correctly and listening to christian rock, I was relieved to arrive at the Islas San Blas. Nothing to do with Andy, or Brian for that matter, the archipelago consists of hundreds of tiny sand islands the larger of which are populated by Kunas, an indigenous people with unique rights of governance of the whole area.
Kuna society is like a model of good comunism. Everyone seems equal and appears to work only for the good of the comunity, who democratically enforce laws and distribute wealth. Travellers who break laws (for example stealing coconuts) can be punished by months of detention on the islands without the Panamanian government being able to help.
Of course, that might not be such a bad thing, since the islands look like a sort of text-book paradise with glass-clear water and mayonaise coloured sand. Or crystal clear if you prefer. And there were reefs with all sorts of tropical fish so snorkeling was good too, although by this time we had forfieted our right to use the captain´s spear-gun because of bad behaviour so it wasn´t the sub-marine shoot-em-up we had been promised.
As a consequence of the island´s proximity to the Colombian coast, the Kunas, who typically wear only a small cloth and carry a wooden stick, often run into large quantities of cocaine, stashed on the islands or dumped in the sea by persued smugglers.
´what do they make of it?´ I asked Leni, a Spanish speaking Kuna I met on an island.
´ We sail to the mainland and sell it´ he replied, as if it were obvious. ´We don´t take drugs. hahaha.´
The tension between the tavellers and the captain continued to grow on the islands despite us having more space to avoid him. Aswell as chucking out bollockings left right and centre he had a habit of talking annoying nonsense (like the advantages of his country´s liberal gun policy or how the US has helped the country of Panama). Taking into account his tendency to mock his 26 year old Colombian wife´s poor english, I decided I hated him.
After one of the group left his volleyball in the wrong place the tension exploded and a large argument ensued, let by a softly spoken English literacy teacher called Laura and a brash Queenslander called, strangely, Doggy. After the munity we sailed the remaining day to Panama in complete silence. Neither Simon le Bon nor George Michael were anywhere to be seen.
The Panama Canal is useful; getting a boat from the Pacific the Atlantic would be a lot harder without it. The convenience comes at a price though; large boats pay up to 200,000 dollars to go through. And they often have to wait days for a space in the queue.
Realising the obvious advantages of such a waterway a lot of people spent a lot of time trying to build the canal, before it was finally completed in the early part of the 20th century. The French lost over 20,000 men to accidents and malaria so gave up and let the Americans get on with it.
This wasnt the first American involvement in the region. During the gold rush Americans from the east coast sailed down to Panama to cross to the pacific and sail to the west, because hostile Indians in the midwest meant this was safer than crossing overland. Many of these died of malaria too, but some survived by covering themselves in grease to prevent bites. Allegedly, when they got to the other side they would strip the grease off and sell it to someone coming the other way for a slight reduction.
Me and a Swedish guy called Eric watched as a huge ship from Glasgow carrying a lot of boxes that said Maersk spend a good couple of hours getting through just one of the many locks along the length of the waterway. Apparently the Pacific is three or four metres lower than the Atlantic.
Panama City has skyscrapers and looks like no other Latin American city. Of course, theres still great poverty, it´s just effectively kept from showing its face in the centre, where it might annoy richer people or, worse still, foreigners.
One clear signal that I wasnt in Minnesota or Kansas or Pheonix were the numerous old US school buses fitted with powerful sound-systems and painted with giant brightly-coloured images on both sides. Before I jumped on one to visit the old-town I noticed the huge mural across the front and sides depicted Moses parting the Red Sea. The words Jesus is the Saviour were emblazoned in huge letters across the top of the windscreen, and several crucifixes hung from the ceiling around the driver´s head.
The driver might have been religious, but he certainly liked Fifty Cent as I, the rest of the bus and anyone within a mile or so radius found out. And as I got off I noticed a second mural on the back, this time a striking painting of a slim, semi-naked, blonde woman with huge tits posing alluringly and sucking her finger. It was Shakira apparently.
As far as I could see, the only possible risks with this choice were high seas and bad company. As it turned out, I got a bit of both.
A few hours into the trip I began to realise that being on a small boat with a lot of passangers in a fucking big ocean is not an ideal situation. In hindsight I think the problem was that my ideas about being on such a boat were based on eighties pop videos.
The waves were very high. Almost all of the eight backpackers on board started to feel pretty queasy. A few went green. The captain´s wife, veteran of over 100 such trips, chucked up over the side. Instead of standing up by the mast watching dolphins, with girls in bikinis bringing me pina coladas, I was curled up below deck trying to overcome the nausea felt every time I opened my eyes.
What´s more, the captain, a fat bearded Mormon from California, with, as we later found out, a reputation for extreme stinginess, was constantly on our back for breaking apparently obvious rules. Except he hadnt told them to us and nobody had been on a boat before.
Steering badly, steering too agressively, not flushing the toilet, over-flushing the toilet, wasting water, standing in the wrong place, moving cushions, throwing away used tins, eating the wrong bread and not eating the right bread were just some of our misdemeanours. Each one was met with a stern telling off.
After a hellish night spent falling out of the same single bed as a 16 stone Australian, failing to steer the boat correctly and listening to christian rock, I was relieved to arrive at the Islas San Blas. Nothing to do with Andy, or Brian for that matter, the archipelago consists of hundreds of tiny sand islands the larger of which are populated by Kunas, an indigenous people with unique rights of governance of the whole area.
Kuna society is like a model of good comunism. Everyone seems equal and appears to work only for the good of the comunity, who democratically enforce laws and distribute wealth. Travellers who break laws (for example stealing coconuts) can be punished by months of detention on the islands without the Panamanian government being able to help.
Of course, that might not be such a bad thing, since the islands look like a sort of text-book paradise with glass-clear water and mayonaise coloured sand. Or crystal clear if you prefer. And there were reefs with all sorts of tropical fish so snorkeling was good too, although by this time we had forfieted our right to use the captain´s spear-gun because of bad behaviour so it wasn´t the sub-marine shoot-em-up we had been promised.
As a consequence of the island´s proximity to the Colombian coast, the Kunas, who typically wear only a small cloth and carry a wooden stick, often run into large quantities of cocaine, stashed on the islands or dumped in the sea by persued smugglers.
´what do they make of it?´ I asked Leni, a Spanish speaking Kuna I met on an island.
´ We sail to the mainland and sell it´ he replied, as if it were obvious. ´We don´t take drugs. hahaha.´
The tension between the tavellers and the captain continued to grow on the islands despite us having more space to avoid him. Aswell as chucking out bollockings left right and centre he had a habit of talking annoying nonsense (like the advantages of his country´s liberal gun policy or how the US has helped the country of Panama). Taking into account his tendency to mock his 26 year old Colombian wife´s poor english, I decided I hated him.
After one of the group left his volleyball in the wrong place the tension exploded and a large argument ensued, let by a softly spoken English literacy teacher called Laura and a brash Queenslander called, strangely, Doggy. After the munity we sailed the remaining day to Panama in complete silence. Neither Simon le Bon nor George Michael were anywhere to be seen.
The Panama Canal is useful; getting a boat from the Pacific the Atlantic would be a lot harder without it. The convenience comes at a price though; large boats pay up to 200,000 dollars to go through. And they often have to wait days for a space in the queue.
Realising the obvious advantages of such a waterway a lot of people spent a lot of time trying to build the canal, before it was finally completed in the early part of the 20th century. The French lost over 20,000 men to accidents and malaria so gave up and let the Americans get on with it.
This wasnt the first American involvement in the region. During the gold rush Americans from the east coast sailed down to Panama to cross to the pacific and sail to the west, because hostile Indians in the midwest meant this was safer than crossing overland. Many of these died of malaria too, but some survived by covering themselves in grease to prevent bites. Allegedly, when they got to the other side they would strip the grease off and sell it to someone coming the other way for a slight reduction.
Me and a Swedish guy called Eric watched as a huge ship from Glasgow carrying a lot of boxes that said Maersk spend a good couple of hours getting through just one of the many locks along the length of the waterway. Apparently the Pacific is three or four metres lower than the Atlantic.
Panama City has skyscrapers and looks like no other Latin American city. Of course, theres still great poverty, it´s just effectively kept from showing its face in the centre, where it might annoy richer people or, worse still, foreigners.
One clear signal that I wasnt in Minnesota or Kansas or Pheonix were the numerous old US school buses fitted with powerful sound-systems and painted with giant brightly-coloured images on both sides. Before I jumped on one to visit the old-town I noticed the huge mural across the front and sides depicted Moses parting the Red Sea. The words Jesus is the Saviour were emblazoned in huge letters across the top of the windscreen, and several crucifixes hung from the ceiling around the driver´s head.
The driver might have been religious, but he certainly liked Fifty Cent as I, the rest of the bus and anyone within a mile or so radius found out. And as I got off I noticed a second mural on the back, this time a striking painting of a slim, semi-naked, blonde woman with huge tits posing alluringly and sucking her finger. It was Shakira apparently.
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