Searching for Nicaragua

Kate flings herself off the cliff into the narrow river below with a growl; I am standing up to my chest in the Rio Coco – one of two rivers that carved the Somoto Canyon from the stone. Here in the far north of Nicaragua, in the shadow of Honduras, the Contra war grew bloody and tangled. We trace the shore for two hours before our river mingles with a second one snaking its way south from Honduras.

From here the river will wind east to the Atlantic, erratic and looping, like Kate and I in our explorations of the last few months. We have searched for new experiences but also authentic ones. Deep down, though, we know we are outsiders, invited to the party but only to the threshold. We can hear the raucous music and see the shadows of dancers. An insider has to be born here, I think, has lived through Nicaragua’s tumult: her revolutions, violent overthrows and civil war. An insider has to have been shaped by a land of bold leaps, of taking that big breath before the dive, the war-whoop that echoes off the mountains.

But surely this is Nicaraguan beauty; we think, as we follow the curve of the river, sometimes floating downstream, other times hopping from rock to rock. The water is low now but a few months a year it rises twenty feet and carves the cliffs. As these wear down, boulders drop into the river; diverting it. But of course the river has nowhere to go, so it slices into the cliffs, boring holes, caves and gullies. Overhead we have outcrops and overhangs and promontories. There is a story here, written in stone; I am floating through a poem.

Luís, our guide: half-mad, irreverent, courageous and strong – he is Nicaragua too. Passing by herd of cows resting on the banks of the river, he rests heavy stones on the sides of two of them. The cows moo and swish the rock with their tails, but can’t be bothered to stand. Twenty-five metres above the water, so high we could hardly see him, Luís waves tourists out of the way then leaps – hanging in the air for a second – before landing with a terrific splash. He bobs to the surface, grinning. After the conflux of the rivers we encounter other tourists, some slow and frail, who clog the pipes of the canyon and slow us down. This annoys Luís tremendously; he vents by hurling stones at the canyon walls.

Floating past an outcrop, I’m startled by the flight of dozens of bats winging benignly past my head. Moments later, Luís fishes a crab from the river and holds it for a photo op – it pinches the air. There is life here, tremendous and shifting. A swarm of bees have filled a cliff-rift with a honeycomb that must be ten feet long and weigh hundreds of pounds. As Kate emerges from the water back onto the shore she disturbs a cyclone of butterflies or, if you prefer the lovelier Spanish, mariposas. They twist around her fluttering their yellow wings. I am particularly fascinated by one cliff face, moth-eaten, it seems, and worn away in rugged crags. On the sheer surface, plants have twisted their roots in crevices and managed to flourish. As I point, a dragonfly lands on my finger.

This cliff reminds me of Nicaragua, too. How the people have put down roots and thrived often without resources, fertile soil, and buffeted by storms. These clingers are the poor, the unfortunate by birth, those who can’t afford to build high walls of gleaming spears, behind which the rich and middle class ensconce. Turning from the cliff Luís indicates the last leg of our journey will be by rowboat. A sketchy affair – the oarsman bails continuously with a sponge. Hiking back to the hostel we bid farewell to Luís and turn for one last look at the canyon.

On the bus that afternoon, I fail to grab a seat in the press of bodies, human hive, and am forced to stand. I grumble inwardly until a young mother squeezes in front of me with an infant in her arms and a toddler wrapped around her leg. Her arms are so full of child she can’t reach the support strap; her eyes are expressionless, unreadable. As an elderly lady nears her stop, she gestures for the mother to take her place. I lean towards Kate, “Maybe that was it, the authentic Nicaraguan experience. Both the suffering and the kindness.”

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Christmas in the Caribbean

When the plane took off from Managua, I was happy to have Kate’s hand to clutch. Bouncing, jittering, skittering: I imagined the pilot halfway through a bottle of Flor de Cana – famous Nicaraguan rum. Out the window it was earthskyearthsky, as the plane lolled from side to side, engines sputtering feebly.

“Kate, if we die in a horrible plane crash, I want you to know it’s been a blast.” Kate wears a fake perma-grin when she’s nervous; her voice emerges strained through her teeth, “Matt! Don’t say that sort of thing – it’s bad luck!”

But when we landed on Big Corn Island, our luck had obviously turned for the better. Lobster, shrimp, and fish swam in butter and garlic on our plates. Palm trees bobbed their lazy heads towards the beaches: white sand festooned with crabs and conchs. In fact, the crabs were so plentiful they had crab-crossing signs, like you might see for moose back in Canada. And a good thing too – Kate nearly stepped on one (crab, not moose) as we returned from dinner our first night in the dark. All we saw at first was a shadow-stone the size of my head. Under the flashlight, the shadow coalesced into a surly, side-stepping crab, mid-scuttle. One eye swiveled around on its stalk to glare.

When not admiring the island, getting tossed like a boy in ten-foot waves, or eating the creatures of the ocean, there was the discipline of the hammock. Dangling nets of the Caribbean, hammocks swaddle the infants and comfort the elderly: from cradle to rocker. Sure your hands may twitch for your cell phone – gotta see what emails I’ve received in the last four minutes – but that’s just civilization tugging at your flesh with its hooks. Pull out a book, Mon, or better yet just pull your cap over your eyes, like the mellow fellow below. And for star watching with your ladylove, the hammock has no equal.

After two days of lounging and sleeping beneath a mosquito net, we bought tickets to Little Corn. Smaller, more touristy, less developed: Little Corn juts from the ocean five miles to the north of Big Corn and wears a skirt of white beach and volcanic stone. The huckster at the jetty sold us our tickets but I declined his ganja. He was covered in knife scars and corded muscles. The boat was about twenty feet long with ten benches; it could safely seat forty people so we crammed forty-five onboard. Then, sweltering and huddled, still clanging against the jetty, the sailors didn’t untie the lines until the huckster berated, cajoled and pleaded for a tip. Ten awkward minutes. “I work so hard, Mon! You got no idea how hard I work. All for a tip. You there! You! You like your seat? Maybe give me little tip? No? What about you over there?” and so forth. Even after we slipped our lines you could still hear him calling, “Tiiiip! There’s still time!”

Sitting in the back of the boat was easier on my stomach, but harder for the waves. Twelve feet and higher, and driving right into them, each wave hit the bow and turned into a giant salty fist. Only a few seconds between punches, eyes stinging, water getting forced down the lungs, I cowered in my hat next to Kate. Our fingers found each other on the bench under the life jacket. Within two splashes every stitch was soaked, and Kate’s purse was a runny soup. As the fear of death gibbered in my head, my thoughts flitted to Guantanamo Bay’s waterboarding victims, half-drowned by an icy sponge. Most of all my heart went out to the Syrian refugees, who must have huddled on similarly shady voyages on their journeys to new homes.

“Kate, if we drown on this boat ride, I want you to know it’s been a splash.” She yells back, “Don’t you ever stop?”

But of course we lived, otherwise there would be no story. In retrospect linking the miserable boat ride to the hell of Guantanamo was hyperbolic, and perhaps crossing a line or two. Avoiding exaggeration and respecting “lines” are concerns that the higher brain usually takes care of, and when you think you’re drowning, that part shuts down. We spend our day-to-day lives simmering in polish and tact but die like shrieking monkeys.

On the jetty we took awkward steps on new legs. Found a bar a hundred feet away to drink recovery Tona while my stomach settled. Then we indulged in all the island’s little pleasures: swimming, live music, fried fish for breakfast. We met countless Dutch people; I think they clamour to the Corn Islands as part of a coming-of-age ritual. We even hired a local guide, Tindal, to take us snorkeling among the shimmering reefs.

Tindal would not be satisfied until we swam with a shark. We found one, mottled and napping, in a bed of coral while we hovered overhead on our flippers. “You gotta touch da shark, Mon.” “No thanks.” A school of fish – communicating via hive mind – scintillates turquoise. Holding a starfish you can feel hundreds of tiny knobs and ridges in its flesh.

But my favourite was walking with Kate along the beaches. Here on Little Corn the palm trees drowse even lower, and the grass at their feet is spotted with mysterious green tufts. I can still see Kate in her sundress on Christmas day, carrying her shoes in one hand, leaping from boulder to boulder with the waves crashing around her. In this mysterious Loompaland, Dr. Seuss’ dreamland, we are sunburnt gophers hiding in hammocks.

 Taking her hand, I say, “Kate if we die tonight, I want you to know it’s been a fairy tale.”

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Pummeled by Tiny Fists

I arrive on campus early: a necessity. I’ve done this trip a few times now – the bus stop for intercity travel is here and I’ve had a job interview and when we first encountered the feminist initiative – https://www.facebook.com/ocacnic/?fref=ts – Kate and I met the planners in the shade of a palm tree. The group is a student-run initiative whose organizers, Noelia, Estrella, and Leda, champion the unpopular cause of women’s equality in Managua. Prompted by the International Day of Elimination of Violence Against Women on November 25th, the women’s self-defense class is but one of a number of initiatives they’ve masterminded.

There are no maps of this university online, and none posted. A few signposts dot the occasional corner, but the auditoria I need is not listed. I have the name of the auditorium on a piece of paper. My routine is to approach one of the students and say, perdon, senor/senora, donde es la auditoria and then hold up the piece of paper. The first has never heard of it; the second leads me astray as far as the parking lots. The third tells me to go west, pointing north. The fourth literally walks me to the front door of the auditorium and pushes me up the stairs.

Room locked and chained; I’m fifteen minutes early. A student is sitting on the only bench and has her lunch all over it, so I stand on a little breezeway to cool. In another ten minutes a lady arrives with a bag of martial arts pads; I follow her into the impromptu dojo, and help stack fifty or sixty chairs and line them against the walls. The sensei arrives shortly thereafter, and I try to ask him if he’s teaching the lesson Tu es la professor por la lecion por las mujeres? He stares uncomprehending. Yo soy un voluntario. At which point, he calls for the organizer, Leda, who has a handle on English and can facilitate.

Along with the sensei there are three young men dressed in traditional karate garb: the gi. The housecoat-looking thing with the belt that signifies rank. The sensei is a black belt, mid-forties, maybe, and the rest are student-age, two greens and a yellow. Tall, wiry, fast. While the lads practice kicks and banter, the sensei stands imperious with his arms across his chest. We’re well past the start time but this is normal.

Eventually several women arrive, probably early twenties. There are four in total. Looking at the sensei and karate kids, I worry I won’t get a chance to help. But when the girls and ninjas start circling their arms and necks Leda nudges me – go warm up with them. We jog around the room a few times, hopping over small pylons the sensei set up. Then he lines up the training dummies: the two green belts, one yellow belt, and me in my gym clothes. The four girls cycle through, pausing at each of us to punch us twice in our bellies. http://daleclicnica.com/mujeres-aprenden-defenderse/

There is a shyness about doing violence to people which I think most non-psychopaths possess. Lots of people work through the shyness or have the shyness worked through for them. But not these four. They were giggles at the start, unwilling to hurt us. The sensei had to encourage them, muy fuerte! One of the girls looked frail but punched like a brick. And this actually goes on for some time, and I think it’s smart. Get the students used to the idea of actually hitting someone. And at the same time figure out that if you ever need to hurt a man it’s best if you try really hard.

From here, each dummy is paired with a girl. I don’t think my new friend is particularly happy about this as she is petite; I’m about four times her size. The sensei gets one of the green belts to grab his arm, and practices wrenching his hand free. Then the men/women pairs practice the newly-learned move over and over. We follow this pattern for dodging punches, chokes, bear hugs, and disarming an assailant with a gun.

I worry I am discouraging my partner. It is extremely difficult for her to wrench her hand from mine. I am not easy to trip. Pushing is ineffectual. Many many times in that two hour lesson the sensei came by as we were practicing and got me to grab his neck, or squeeze him in a bear hug, or throw a punch at him, so that he could nimbly dodge, twist my hand behind my back, kick the legs out from under me, wrench the gun from my hand. Yes, he is strong, but you can beat him. Make sure to strike fast and don’t let him take a swing at you. After you strike, run. Ojos y genitales. Eyes and genitals.

But she is still discouraged. During the choking drill I place my hands around her neck and her eyes widen. She yells out, in English, “I will die!” and the sensei swaps her with another lady, who elbows me very enthusiastically during the bearhug escapes, and trips me onto my back a few times, laughing at me.

At the end of the lesson the sensei calls us all to the centre of the dojo and speaks. He says these strategies are for desperate situations only, that it is best to avoid confrontation and run. He tells the women the importance of fast strikes, of hitting vulnerable areas, of surprise. He says even a backpack or laptop can be used to deflect a knife. No man is invincible. Ojos y genitales.

After, Leda asks me, did you understand when the sensei thanked you? He said it was important to know that men can be very strong and to know what to do. I said that was why I was there; there are many men who are much stronger than me and some are predators: A horrifying thought.

The next day, at an anti-harassment photography exhibit where Kate and I were volunteering, I showed her my war wounds. A few scrapes on my hands from having the wooden gun torn out of my hand and my fingers bent back. Kate puts a band-aid on my finger and asks me to show her the moves I learned. As the gallery is closing we spar with the photos watching. When we practice the bearhug she squirms a bit to the side and swings her fist down like a club and strikes me square in the beanbag. Coughing, gagging, hunched-over, limping. Cramps running through lower intestine. Trying to walk it off despite the swelling. “You’re a natural, Kate!” I croak. 

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On Fighting

When I came home from Afghanistan, I swore my fighting days were over. But if you flew over Managua in a helicopter two days ago, you might have seen a strange, bearded, white guy on the corner of a busy street in Managua, holding a sign that read, “El acoso callejero no enamora” or “street harassment is not love”. Darting among the cars stopped at the traffic lights, myself and the other volunteers pressed the palms of drivers and pedestrians with anti-harassment flyers.

It was a local initiative – started small at the University of Central America; a grassroots movements among students, intellectuals, artists. Kate discovered the group advertising and roped me in, along with our friends Paul and Jody. The day in question, if you’re still hovering above, is a rally centred around the creation of anti-harassment graffiti by a  spray paint artist; I can tell he’s passionate because not only does he paint murals, his whole body is inked, as if he ran out of canvas.

Fighting is never tidy, at least when it matters. In Afghanistan we couldn’t even say if we won or lost, or if it was worth it. And when Jody arrived at the rally, she noticed the entire complement was Kate, myself, two organizers, the sound guy, and Tattoo. “Hell, it’d be better if they had more locals – fewer white people”. While more locals eventually arrived, of course she was right. There’s a certain colonial presumption built into a bunch of white people going to Nicaragua and then rallying to change the culture, especially after North America’s many interventions in the struggling country.

But if not us, who? Many people immersed in the culture are too terrified to speak out on this issue. Half of the hundreds of people we engaged that day were young women and men who smiled at our signs, gave us the thumbs up, and yelled encouragement. The other half were men who glared stonily at me. One older gent with three boys in the back seat saw my “it’s not a compliment” sign, and let out a long, appreciative whistle. Three men in the cab of a transport truck stopped next to me to yell abuse; I responded by dancing. My how my weapons have changed in five years.

My comrades have changed, too. I can still see Paul – the ultimate sign post – standing in the median with his sign upraised as cars whizzed by. I can see Jody pulling the rolling paintbrush from Tattoo’s hands so she could help whitewash the mural. Paul and Jody are warriors of the word, the former a writer, the latter, journalist; I am proud to know them.

In Canada a “Masculine Feminist” isn’t a title that takes you very far, but in Nicaragua the role is key. I was happy to be a deterrent for any violence that might be leveled against the volunteers. My Spanish is graceful as a mudslide but I can still speak truth to men and be listened to because of how I look. This Thursday I’m volunteering at the women’s self-defence class and might become a training dummy. From all angles I have broken my oath to myself to lead a life of peace, and I’m dancing about it.

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