In my small dark room in Managua, I imagined humans thousands of years ago reacting to their first eclipse of the sun by dropping to their knees in awe and praying fervently for their only source of light and heat to reemerge; and then, the sun returning and everyone feeling relieved and grateful. As I thought about it, I realized how satisfying it must have been to pray for something that actually happened. After a few more comparable experiences, it would have made good sense to establish prayer as part of their daily ritual. Of course, there must have been a handful of people on the sidelines who guessed there was no connection between the praying and the thing that happened, rational skeptics who knew nothing about science but nevertheless resisted the easiest and most hopeful explanation. If they were smart, however, they kept their thoughts to themselves and their mouths shut. Why rain on anyone else’s parade?
It was hard to leave Sonia, but I promised I’d see her again before I left the country. The night before, I’d stashed twenty-five dollars in her bureau. Not such a paltry amount that it wouldn’t be of use, but not so much that she’d be angry or ashamed when she found it. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I knew I shouldn’t leave anything—I’d paid for my room and board—but I justified it as a tip for special service. After all, how many innkeepers prayed for the welfare of their guests?
I was packed and ready to leave by seven. Sonia walked me to the community center as if it were my first day of school. But instead of reminding me to play nice with the other children, or to eat my sandwich before my snowball cupcake, she warned me not to take chances, and to hide if I heard any gunfire. I knew that before the Sandinistas triumphed in July 1979, Sonia had hidden in her bathroom for forty days without lights or running water while the National Guard roamed the streets of Managua in a last desperate attempt to squelch the revolution.
“That was the worst time,” she’d told me. We were standing side by side on the patio drinking lemonade. It was almost four in the morning, one of the many nights when neither of us had been able to sleep. A million insects were chirping their hearts out. Something—maybe the lateness of the hour and the shared feeling of being the only two people in the city who were still awake—had triggered her memories. When she began recounting them, I mostly just nodded and let her talk.
“One evening,” she said, “the Guard broke into my house looking for Sandinista collaborators. I was hiding in the shower but of course they found me. My heart was beating so fast, I thought I’d have a heart attack.”
“No wonder,” I said.
She sighed and shook her head. “They searched the house and ate the rest of my food. Then they questioned me about my friends and neighbors. They promised if I told them the truth, they wouldn’t hurt me.”
“What did you do?”
She grinned. “I could tell they were in a hurry, so I told them that everyone I knew, including all my relatives, had died in the earthquake.”
I nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Did they believe you?”
She grinned again. “They must have because they left without harming me.” She paused. “Before the Sandinistas finally triumphed, I’d lost more than fifteen pounds. I’ve never looked so good in my life.”
We both laughed.
“A lousy way to lose weight, though,” I said.
By the time Sonia and I arrived at the center, most of the group was standing outside, their luggage piled next to the curb where the bus should have already been waiting for us.
It was time to say goodbye. Suddenly, I felt shy and awkward. I didn’t really know my host, but I knew some important things about her. We’d had a brief but genuine connection, two passengers thrown together for the length of a ride that would be over in a matter of seconds. “Thank you for your kindness and hospitality,” I told her. “It was a pleasure to have met you.”
“Likewise,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you any vitamins.”
She waved my words away. “It’s not important. Take care of yourself.”
We hugged and she turned to go, then turned back again. “If you see Jorge,” she said, “tell him to write.”
“I will.”
“
Adiós mi amiga
,” she said, and started walking back to her house.
“
Adiós
.” For just a moment as I watched her walk away, I felt ridiculously bereft, the way I’d felt when my mother first left me in front of the Charles Logue elementary school in Boston. I’d comforted myself back then by starting up a conversation with another little girl who looked as if she felt even worse than I did. As soon as Sonia disappeared from view, I tapped Tina on the shoulder and asked her where the bus was.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “I thought we were supposed to meet at six. When I got here, the center was deserted. I didn’t know what to do. I thought the brigade had left without me.” Her eyes were still red from the experience.
“That must have been awful,” I said, feeling better already.
By nine o’clock, the group was getting worried. Tim and Estelle had left over an hour ago to call the driver. The street seemed strangely deserted. No cars in sight and no one hurrying to get anywhere. Not even a pile of burning garbage.
“This can’t be happening,” Veronica said. She’d washed her hair and was wearing a pink sleeveless blouse that looked brand new. She was pacing back and forth, occasionally kicking pebbles into the street, a disappointed teenager who’d obviously been stood up.
Lenny, who was standing next to me, shook his head and sighed.
“It is a bit frustrating,” Richard acknowledged. Sometime in the last two weeks, he’d stopped stroking his beard and had begun tugging at it instead. It’s the stress, Vickie would have whispered if she were standing next to me.
“Then lower your expectations,” Susan advised him.
Richard stared at her for a long moment, his face a bit redder than usual. “That’s not very helpful,” he finally said, then sat down on the sidewalk next to the luggage.
“I’ve never hit a woman in my life,” Lenny whispered in my ear, “but if I was Richard, I would have slugged her.”
“And I would have defended you for free,” I said.
At ten thirty, Allen announced, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather be shot at than wait all afternoon for the bus. I’m heading north today, even if I have to walk.”
We all nodded. Instantly, I envisioned us marching up the Pan American Highway dragging our suitcases and duffel bags, a line of well-meaning North American refugees fleeing Managua for a chance to be helpful up north.
About an hour later, a large funky pickup with a canvas awning over the bed lumbered up the street and stopped in front of the center. A man we’d never seen before was behind the wheel, smoking a cigar. Tim and Estelle jumped out, looking very pleased with themselves. Finding an available truck in Nicaragua was akin to winning the national spelling bee in the United States, but probably harder. Amazed, we all crowded around them.
“Where did you get it?” Liz asked.
Tim and Estelle exchanged a private look. “Well, it’s kind of a long story,” Estelle said, “but I once sort of dated this government official. Until I found out he was married. Anyway, I called and told him he owed me a favor.” She hesitated. “I may have also agreed to go out with him again, but I guess I’ll just deal with that later.” She grinned. “So, any other questions? If not, hop in.”
We swarmed to the back of the truck and tossed our bags inside. There were two rows of seats facing each other built into the bed. We all squeezed in and a few minutes later, we were heading out of Managua.
Soon, we were climbing into the hills and passing long stretches of empty countryside. The sun was hot, but the awning overhead provided enough shade to keep us comfortable. Now and then, we passed
campesinos
walking along the road carrying heavy-looking sacks slung across their shoulders, or balancing baskets filled with fruit and vegetables on their heads.
“It’s just like in the movies,” Allen murmured. It sounded idiotic although it was the same thing I’d been thinking but was too smart to say out loud. The difference, I guessed, between being twenty-four and thirty-six.
As we drove steadily north, we saw hillsides planted with coffee and tobacco, as well as smaller plots of land being worked by single families. Men on horseback wearing large sombreros nodded and sometimes waved as we passed them. Every few miles, we’d see a shack made out of tin and plywood, with naked little kids playing outside in the dirt. There were lines of laundry blowing in the wind, and skinny brown dogs dozing under shade trees.
Allen had fallen asleep, lulled by the back-and-forth rhythm, his head resting on my shoulder. Liz, perched on the other side of Allen, looked over and grinned at me. The wind on my face felt wonderful and I grinned back at her. My doubts had miraculously vanished and the world seemed once more navigable. A delicious sense of well-being flooded through me. This is called joy, I told myself. I glanced at the sunburned faces of my colleagues and felt an odd sensation of unconditional love for every one of them, even Susan. I was part of a group, and the group was part of a movement, which was part of something even larger, an international community of like-minded men and women working together to improve conditions for the current and future inhabitants of the planet.
Don’t start getting starry-eyed, I warned, but for once, nothing I told myself could chip away at the unfamiliar feeling of happiness that was washing over me. It didn’t matter that it wouldn’t last, or that I might never be this happy again. For at least ninety minutes on the Pan American Highway, June 1986, sitting among my compatriots in the back of an old pickup driving past acres of unfamiliar countryside, I was content.
***
Since our truck’s top speed was only thirty-five miles per hour, it took almost two and a half hours to reach Esteli where Tim and Estelle had arranged for us to have lunch. We parked near the main square in a neighborhood that had been heavily bombed by the National Guard. Most of the houses within a two-block radius had been leveled. On the way to the restaurant, we took a quick tour of the cathedral, which had also sustained heavy damage. Tim told us that one of the last major assaults against the Guard occurred on July 16, 1979 in Esteli, and that on the following day, Somoza and his family fled to Miami.
The restaurant was set up in the front room of a pink adobe house. Other than six mismatched tables and chairs and a large silver cross on one of the walls, the space was empty. There were no other customers. Estelle introduced us to Carlos Jimenez, the owner of the house, who told us to sit wherever we wanted. Allen, Liz and I chose a rickety table in the corner. Everyone ordered beer; after two weeks in Nicaragua, no one could stand the taste of Coca-Cola anymore. Within fifteen minutes, Carlos’s wife brought us homemade tortillas, beans and rice, fried cheese and a stew with chunks of pork in it. Everyone looked happy and relaxed. Although we should have known better—this was, after all, Nicaragua—it was impossible to resist feeling hopeful and even optimistic.
Halfway through our meal, two men wearing bright yellow bandanas around their throats entered the restaurant. Each man carried a huge metal canister with a long plunger. The men nodded to us, and then began spraying.
“Jesus,” Liz yelled, “cover your food!”
We all dived over our plates, protecting them with our hands and forearms. The spraying lasted at least five seconds and then without a word, the men left. The room stank of chemicals, and a fine mist of whatever they’d sprayed hovered in the air above our heads and shoulders. Tina was already beginning to wheeze.
“You don’t think that was DDT, do you?” Allen asked the group.
“I sure hope not,” Lenny said.
“Maybe it was some kind of strong mosquito repellent,” Estelle suggested.
“It’s possible,” I said, “although I haven’t noticed any mosquitoes around here, have you?”
“Not really,” Estelle said.
“You know, I think I’ll wait outside,” Tina announced, scraping her chair back.
“Good idea,” Liz said to Tina. “You’re starting to take care of yourself.”
“Maybe we should all go?” Allen asked.
Susan snorted. “God, you’re acting like a bunch of paranoid North Americans. Get used to it.” She shook her head, then picked up her fork and started eating.
Allen and I looked down at our food, trying to decide whether to dig in again like Susan. “What do you think, Liz?” I asked.
Liz hesitated. “I don’t know. In a way, Susan’s right. We
should
get used to it.”
I considered the idea. “Kind of like a smallpox injection or polio vaccine.”
“Exactly,” Liz said. “It’s the principle behind homeopathy. In minute doses, like cures like.”
“So we
should
eat this?” Allen asked, looking back and forth at each of us.
“I suppose so,” I said, “but I’m not going to.”
“Neither am I,” Liz said.
Allen laughed and grabbed us both around the shoulders. “God, you guys. What would I do here without you? I’d be a dead duck, that’s what.”
I squeezed his hand. “You wouldn’t be a dead duck. You just wouldn’t have as much fun.”
Liz looked pensive. “It
is
fun having you both here with me. It’ll be different when everyone leaves. I’ll have to adjust.” She picked up a can of beer and drained it.
Allen looked surprised. “Who said we’re leaving?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Who said we’re leaving?”
“Please,” Liz said, “neither of you is suited to a long-term commitment here.”
“Why not?” Allen asked. “I don’t want to live in the United States anymore. I hate my government. Besides, I’d have to go to law school. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
“And I’ve already been one,” I said.
Liz shook her head at us as if we were silly children. “Okay, fine. Let’s see how you both feel in a month.”
As soon as Susan finished eating, we all left the restaurant and walked back to the truck. After everyone climbed in, I noticed we were all sitting exactly where we’d sat before. How funny, I thought, the things we do, consciously or unconsciously, to ward off evil and make ourselves feel safe. In my lawyer days, I’d worn the same necklace (the one my mother sent me) during every trial for twelve years. After a while, it seemed less neurotic to wear it than to try not to.