ISHMAEL HOUSTON-JONES

MANAGUA JOURNAL, Part 1 [In December 1983 I joined a delegation of about 20 North American artists and attended a two week long Festival of Theater in Managua, Nicaragua at the height of the Civil War with the Contras.] 1 Dec 83 At the hotel – outside bench – tropical garden – huge elephant-ear and other ferns. Warm air – moist, scented – that’s a cliché description but real. 10 AM after breakfast of strong coffee, cut up fruits, (bananas, papayas, pineapple, melon), toast. Hotel is actually many bungalows spread out over a hillside with a lot of huge trees for shade. I’m staying in a bungalow with Robbie MacCauley, Colleen MacKay, Mary Gallagher, and Deena Metzler. An actress, a photographer, a writer and a therapist respectively. Each of course is much more than those pinpoint job descriptions. Try to remember yesterday: --- On Tuesday night into Wednesday never went to bed – remember walking down Second Avenue, NYC, cold at 11 P.M. thinking, “this time tomorrow I’ll be in Managua. At 11 P.M. on Wednesday I was drinking shots of rum at a wonderful outdoor restaurant, overlooking a lake where Samoza used to hold mass executions and drop the bodies. I was at a reception given us by Rosario Murillo the Minister of Culture. (NOTE: Rosario was not the Minister of culture; she was the head of the ASTC, the artists’ union.) I was having a weird language-warped conversation with Victor, a 20 year-old attaché with the ASTC. The drunker I got, the more I seemed to understand. (And the faster he spoke). The food was great. A tinny “Latin” band played. The government officials were treating us like we were “muy importante.” (Which we are and we aren’t). So different from anything I might have expected on Tuesday night, Second Avenue, NYC. Now – gardener raking, talking to fellow-worker –warm wind through trees, bird squawk. Yesterday – the usual airplane anxiety, plus $ anxiety, plus terrorist with bomb anxiety, plus “Rocket Downs Plane: 20 U.S. Leftist Artists Killed” N.Y. Post headline anxiety. Arrived after dark so haven’t seen Managua. Looked pretty “feo” – after earthquake and revolution. Low to the ground. Doors to houses open to living rooms with TVs on. Airport urchins, barefoot, grabbing luggage for money. Some macho shit from airport workers toward women, (clucking). Nicaragua Libre! Waking up to the sound of tennis balls. “Spanish” drifts back mostly in infinitives and simple adjectives: “bueno-malo,” “bonito-feo.” And food. Victor pointed to and asked what the English word for tortilla was. Asked if I was in the “militario.” I asked him. He said “Toda la gente son listas,” ("Everyone is ready.") including his mother. Says he has friends in NYC; asked about “Disco Cinquenta y Quatro.” Took several minutes before I figure out he meant Studio 54. “Nico” is the prefix form of things Nicaraguan: Nico-beer, etc. Victor talked about being in the North, about before the Revolution. When I said I’d never been to Studio 54 I described the door policy and that it was mostly for “los Ricos,” he said that before the Revolution there were clubs like that in Managua, but now anyone can go anywhere. A banality, perhaps, but I think it speaks of more. A girl came begging by the table were we sat with the Minister of Culture [See previous NOTE], and several other high government people and no one shooed her away. No one, that I saw, gave her anything either. I’ve been resisting the “rah-rah-venceremos-viva-la-revolucionism” that several of our group display, but it is hard to talk with the people here and not have high respect for what they are trying to do and have done and to not abhor that our government has determined to destroy it. There is another group at the hotel on a tour sponsored by the Militant [Newspaper]. And another of Vietnam Vets opposed to intervention. Good talk with Robbie after breakfast about politics and art. Study Spanish. 2 Dec 83 Quick scribble after breakfast, before another “meeting with Rosario.” These meetings have taken on a Beckett-like quality since they sort of never really happen; or else they get interrupted. Found out last night that Daniel Ortega [Junta leader and future president] is married to her. She rushed us off to a rally yesterday evening – it was a meeting of the full junta making a statement granting full amnesty to the Meskito Indians and others on the Atlantic Coast who had opposed the government and had helped the Contras. [NOTE: The Atlantic Coast is populated by the descendants of runaway slaves from Jamaica. The area is separated from the rest of Nicaragua by thick jungle. The people speak a form of English and consider themselves culturally distinct from the Spanish-speaking majority.] Theatrically it was powerful -–klieg lights, young militia people chanting, guards everywhere on rooftops. The full junta sitting in a line onstage. I, of course, had Sadat assassination anxiety and every outside sound spooked me. Also there is that quality of Jr. High School pep rallies that I can’t stand. Also, too many speeches translated. But it was good theater. Stop to get on the bus. A little later, 11 AM Waiting for Rosario again. Images from yesterday. Feel like I’ve been here a week. Youth – soldiers and official alike all seem to be under 30. Pepe Prego [the head of Circuses] is a real sweetheart. In talking last night we noticed a certain softness in the men and an apparent distance and aloofness in women. Waiting. Walking through a market with Denny, away from the rest of the group. Stopped by an official. Friendly enough. Interesting being a man in a group that is largely lesbian or married women. Late night meeting with Alan Bolt – the artistic director of a theater group here. Talked of what was a history of Nicaragua as seen through its theater. Theater underground during Samoza. Theater as a weapon. Rosario arrives. On the bus 1 P.M. Rosario spoke, (lectured), a while about the function of culture as a weapon. The clandestine underground pre-revolution and how the FSLN has always stressed Nico-culture, especially since Samoza, et. al., had stolen or weakened it by stressing Euro-USA culture over native forms. She emphasized that the ASTC encourages artistic autonomy. That the ASTC is an organization of unions, (Theater, Dance, Writing, Plastic Arts, Music, and Circus), and is not a government agency but works in a co-operative way with the Ministry Of Culture. I really began feeling overwhelmed by the women’s presence in the group, in a kind of admiring way. They bring up issues that men don’t, and insist upon answers. [NOTE: I believe this was in reference to a question asked to Rosario by a woman in our group about the lack of women in positions of power within the FSLN. Rosario answered, using herself as an example, that although no women were members of the junta, there were women in high positions in the government. The questioner then wondered aloud, if there were any women in positions of power who were not married to junta members. Several in the group felt this comment was out of bounds and an argument took place back at the hotel.] 3 Dec 83 On the side of the road that leads away from the hotel. Dirt road, hot, dusty, sunny. Yesterday went to some amateur theater presentations that were critiqued on the spot. And to the opening of the first Dance Festival. We drove a long way to go to a performance in a cement factory that had been canceled. [Our guide] Maria explained again that Nicaragua is a country under siege -- not her word; more like on a constant alert, where things are likely to change at a second’s notice. The phallic-ness of camera lenses. Our bus pulls by something “interesting” – a naked child, a woman with a blanket, a shack with open door, a rocking chair in front of the television – and six, at least, people take aim through the window glass like members of a firing squad. (Sexist note: the 2 people with the biggest lenses are both lesbians.) I haven’t unpacked my little Instamatic. People pass me on this road -- mostly on foot, 1 moped, 1 car, 2 wood gatherers with wooden cart. Some smile, some stare, some intently look away. I hate riding around in our bus provided by the ASTC. I don’t hate it. Without it things would be a huge drag. But I feel so isolated from the “people” and that I am being given only the party line. Also there is, of course, a bus shortage here and lines of people see our half-empty coming and they begin waving expectantly, then angrily as we pass them by. From NYC I know that feeling. Rene is the perfect "third world bus driver" -- a foot on the gas, a foot on the brake, a hand on the horn. Beautiful “gigantas,” -- giant lady puppets, at the Dance Festival. Pepe used the word “queer” to describe the transvestite dancers from Masaya. He corrected himself to say “gay” but when he said “queer" again -– he was very enthusiastic in his description of watching -– being allowed to watch – them dress and make-up. But when he used “queer” again, Victoria nodded him on. Listen, Sister! Pepe spoke with considerable national pride about the best transvestite, who is the son and grandson of the previous “bests.” Sort of an oligarchy of drag queens. 4 Dec 83 Poolside. Skipping brigade-making workshop. Late night argument between Robbie and Mary over the stated aims of the determiners of revolutionary art. Someone had said that all theater being made here was to be collectively created and only “political” themes would be encouraged, (allowed?) Mary feared the demise of the individual artist while Robbie said that new and as yet unthought of forms might emerge. Chant: Cultura es/ Fusil Artistico de la Revolución. Culture is / The artistic rifle of the revolution. Pepe Prego at lunch on the Literacy Campaign: They collected 35,000 tapes to get at the myths, the oral history of Nicaragua. (Interruption by surprise visit at the restaurant by junta member Tomas Borge.) Before, Pepe was saying that regaining their myths was a way of reclaiming their history. That knowing their myths was a way of defining a theater of liberation. (NOTE: in the margins of these pages are the names and addresses of people and the things they needed. A dictionary. Dance books. Dance clothes, leotards, etc.) * * * * * * 5 Dec 83 Overlooking the beautiful “Lagon de Masaya,” in Masaya. Group off craft buying. I bought the Sandinista Vive sticker that is on this book. Exciting morning -– end of Theater Festival, getting addresses, promising to organize a “leotard drive.” One of the scariest nightmares I can remember last night. We -– this group -– were preparing to do a performance in a bullring-like arena. Suddenly Victoria yelled, “the Sandinos have attacked.” Sounds of gunfire, cries of confusion, etc. We were hiding in a little room where I saw some 2 X 4’s and I was going to grab them since “they,” (the ‘Sandinos’ I guess,) were going to break down “our” door. When I woke up I felt the presence of soldiers in uniform with guns in the room. It was still dark -– going into dawn. I kept seeing the soldiers moving in the shadows. I couldn’t hear any of the others (in our group) breathing or snoring so I thought they had all been killed -– throats slit specifically. I decided that I shouldn’t breathe and maybe I wouldn’t be discovered. I finally convinced myself that I was fantasizing this and reached carefully for my flashlight and watch. It was 5:08 AM. I saw that no one else was there and then I heard Mary breathe; but it took me a long time to shake the fear and go back to sleep. Guilt? Was it about guilt? Lack of commitment? Guilty about privilege? No sé. I asked Sergio – one of the dynamic, young (20) actors from Grupo de Cervantes if he was in the Militia. He said “no,” then pointing to his music case he said, “teatro es mi arma.” "Theater is my weapon." Children’s theater group last night in el barrio -– very professional troupe of teen actors did a play -– created al campo –- about a crab who wanted to be a bird. Another group of younger -– mostly girls –performers did a piece about price controls and collaboration with the contras. Less slick but really heartfelt. The first group was the one directed by Alan Bolt. Have to get Peter B. hooked up with him when he comes. I was afraid I was going to scream last night. Lightening bug. Sign on a wall in Masaya: “Libertad en la Patria de Allende y Neruda. Chile vencerá!! PSU” "Liberty in the fatherland of Allende and Neruda. Chile will triumph!!" In a park in Masaya Curse myself for wearing my Bermudas today for the first time since I've been here. Although I doubt if I would be any less conspicuous without them. Un gringo Negrito with new wave-oid haircut and hiking books. But no one has molested me. Group having dinner in a local restaurant all sitting together at tables pushed together. May the day that I walk into anyone’s religious ceremony uninvited and start taking pictures be my last on earth. Photographic imperialism. Zefferelli’s Romeo and Juliet is at the cinè. I can hear the theme music. Seems to be a poor town but the people seem contento, taking their nightly strolls through what could be a tropical Tompkin’s Square -– with flowers instead of garbage and only a couple of sleeping drunks. (One of whom just gave me the old hairy eyeball.) A little boy called me “Pèle.” 6 Dec 83 Poolside, afternoon, sipping rum and pineapple, sun, laps. It’s like auditioning for Peter’s El Salvador play. Part of our delegation at the American Embassy. Morning plans changed as usual. Bus dropped us off at Plaza de la Revolución. Walked around on our own for a couple of hours then back here for lunch. Joe, Judy and I were stopped by a young, upper-middle class man, about 28-35, who had studied in New Orleans (Chemistry) was now working in a British owned chemical plant (ICI -– fertilizers and insecticides.) Said he felt that the Sandinista government had done a lot of good in terms of improving the lives of the poor people; but was guilty of installing itself as the new dictatorship of the junta. He complained about loss of freedom of expression, about bank tellers and secretaries who were taken out of their work to attend rallies they didn’t want to go to. About shortages. About the government’s coming in and taking trucks from the company he works for military purposes, then returning them broken (he implied without compensation.) He invited us up top his office and for a possible outing on his sailboat. We met a young woman from California who was a muralist and was painting the outside of a children’s bookstore. She belonged to an organization called North American Artists in Solidarity with the People of Nicaragua. I spent some nice quiet time in a cathedral that was mostly destroyed in the earthquake. No roof. Finally took my camera out. Talked to Señora Socorro, the directora of the Teatro Popular Ruben Dario. There is an experimental theater there, (250 seat black box.) Didn’t get to see it, as there was no electricity today. One thing that Javier -– the man with the sailboat -– said was in respect to the newspapers: You can always trust Barricada because I will always print the Sandinista line. And you can always trust La Prensa because it will always print the opposition. But Nueva Diario prints on the wind. He also complained that everything -– including the police -– is “Sandinista.” If you don’t address everyone as "compañero" you’re in trouble. And that the proposed elections will only be between the 9 junta members? Think I’ll take a walk down the road. 7 Dec 83 Interesting night, interesting week. The walk down the road was dusty but good to be walking and seeing the things up close that I pass every day on the bus. At the supermercado I got some club soda for Mary, who is sick, and some rum. They charged extra because I didn’t have empties to return. After dinner we were to rehearse the 7-minute “Bread and Puppet Theater” piece that Michael brought down. Colleen left mid-rehearsal because of what she felt was blatantly oppressive heterosexism. Roberta and Sandra returned with her to watch the rehearsal. Afterwards Roberta made a very human plea as a lesbian and a mother that one offending panel of the illustrations of the text be changed. At this moment ... (Interruption.) 7 Dec 83 Late, late evening I think the ending of the last sentence above was ... At this moment, what struck me most was Michael’s total unwillingness to hear what any of the people who were criticizing his piece were feeling and saying. I felt that he was displaying an example of white male ego privilege through dictatorial fascism at its worst. I had no major, major objection to the piece when I first rehearsed it. But having had the heterosexist and sexist and covertly racist aspects pointed out to him – (a piece brought to a multi-ethnic country –- Nicaragua -– from a multi-ethnic country -– U.S.A. -– with murals that only present caricature of Caucasian people). But having had them pointed out to him and having had it pointed out to him that these aspects caused pain and feelings of exclusion on the part of several members of our delegation and that these members did not want these images associated with them -– after all this, Michael refused to even consider any changes in his stupid little 7 minute piece, which wasn’t even really his. (It was Bread and Puppets’.) At present I’m sitting after 11 P.M. by the pool. A rather large bat just swooped down to drink, and given my fear of bats, I’m surprised I still sit here. It’s a big feast day and what I hope are fireworks are going off all around me in the distance. Someone said that they heard that this day would be an ideal time for an invasion since the everyday life is so disrupted by the feast (the conception of the Virgin Maria). Ever since the Bicentennial in Philadelphia, I’ve hated fireworks and these are making me particularly nervous. Early ... (Interruption) ... Victoria, back from Leon where I had been also earlier in a rented car with Lisa and Pol and Colleen driving. Compared notes. Told her that we left because we found out that the parade of the giant ladies (puppets) would not happen ‘til mañana. We immediately decided to leave. Then on our way back, we regretted having left something potentially beautiful, (seeing an authentic celebration of a local holiday), in search of better thrills. Such culture mongers we! Victoria also assured me that the fireworks are, in fact, only fireworks and they have, in fact, quieted down. The bat, (maybe it’s a bird), has swooped down for several more drinks of water however. Tomorrow morning at the U.S. Embassy there will be a vigil. Michael will present the Bread and Puppet piece with only himself, (and Elia translating). He will announce that it is a Bread and Puppet Theater Production. (The bats are making me nervous. I’m instinctively holding my neck.) I want to work on the testimony I might make at the Embassy: “My name is Ishmael Houston-Jones. I am a dancer and actor who lives and works in New York City. I came to Nicaragua as an individual U.S. citizen to attend a Theater Festival. I had little knowledge of Nicaragua, its government, or its people, except what I read in the U.S. press. Being here for over a week, I have met with and shared with fellow theater artists from this country. I have spoken with government officials and I have encountered average citizens of this beautiful country. Nowhere, nowhere have I seen any justification for my government’s covert and overt hostility toward this sovereign nation. As a citizen of the United States and as an artist, I will do that which is in my power to inform my fellow citizens and my government of this: That those same forces within the United States which seek to overthrow the sovereign state of Nicaragua, are those same forces which seek to oppress Blacks, Hispanics, Native-Americans and other people of color inside the United States. Those same forces seek to oppress poor people regardless of color inside the United States. Those same forces seek to oppress women, lesbians and gay men inside the United States. And they are the same forces which seek to repress and destroy the struggle of freedom seeking peoples throughout the world.” Peter B. arrived after I wrote that, with 6 others from the States who will join our delegation. 8 Dec 83 [NOTES: the Catholic Archbishop’s name is Obando y Bravo. “Saumuk Raya – “Semilla Nueva” – record of music by Miskito Indians. 9 Dec 83 Mercado Roberto Huembes Sitting alone in a market; got here by myself on a public bus. Skipped the morning stuff to ward off exhaustion. Easy to get here; hope I hook up with the others. Very inspirational talk yesterday given by Sister Mary Hartman, a nun who has been here for many years. She spoke of the “Church of the Liberation,” and how the Archbishop of Managua does not support the work that she and others like her do. He has ties to a right wing group, (the Heritage Fund), in the U.S. She is on the human rights commission and most of our questions were about that: due process; accusations of (government) abuses by the U.S. and other groups; lesbian and gay rights (skirted); Miskito Indians; the “Amnesty;” prisons. She seemed to say that, yes, there were individual abuses but that they were taken care of when discovered. The U.S. press tended to take isolated incidences and to call them the general rule. The fact that members of the commission are allowed to exist and carry out their work without harassment is unique in Central America. I’m in ”love” with a kid I saw at the market the last time I was here. Just bought a trinket from him. Yesterday began very early with a vigil at the gate of the U.S. Embassy. I read a version of my testimony. Several of us performed Robbie’s song. (Robbie, Sandra, Roberta, Mary, Lisa and I.) At the end of the song Lisa read a brief statement which began “The United States is fighting a war against children. Over 50% of the population of Nicaragua are under the age of 15.” The words to Robbie’s song: “O, daughter dear / We’re fighting something fierce out here / I may have to turn into an ocean / And you will have many mothers.” “O, hija mia / Luchamos con furia aquí / Me convertiré en el océano / Y tu tendras muchas madres.” Look for el grupo. Haven’t found them. (Interrupt to speak to a small truck driver. (That is, he’s a driver of a small truck.) He has 2 brothers in Washington. Started the conversation by asking if the book I have (Spanish in Pictures) was poetry or politics. (I don’t know which.) Asked if I liked the pretty woman who walked by. I thought I saw the bus. Just ran into Noel (Our official guide and baby sitter) (1:15 P.M.) They were supposed to be here at 11:30 A.M. He greeted me (I think I was looking lost) with a slightly chastising "“Having fun?” Then added with a tone that was a tad sinister, “Have you met any friends here?” Hmmm. Anyway, he went off, after directing me to the handicrafts. He told me lunch would be at 10 to 2. A man just walked by wearing an USMC West Point T-shirt, pushing a mechanical duck. Looked up in my Spanish book how to tell time since people are always asking. Haven’t had an orgasm since I’ve been here. I like being here without the group now that I know I’m in the right place. No one, (police, soldier-types), has stopped me today. I’m not sure what people perceive me as, (nationally, racially), but they seem to be surprised that I don’t speak español and especially that I’m a North American. I think that they think it odd that I’ve been sitting in the sun writing. I wonder if “myself” will ever not be my favorite subject. Why aren’t these children in school? Has there been a recess during the coffee harvest? 11 Dec 83 Poolside again, back at the hotel. Yesterday -- day trip north to Matagalpa where most of the group stayed to finally join (?) with the cultural brigades. They won't return 'til Friday and my plane is Wednesday and I didn't want to chance missing it. Sad, sad good-byes. I was really torn. I wanted to stay -- what they're going to do is what I originally came down here for. And being in Matagalpa finally felt like "being in Nicaragua." Provincial capital in the mountains -- plaza, hotel, church, bodega-like general stores, (or were they general store-like bodegas?). Open air restaurant that sold either rice and beans and "meat," or rice and beans and eggs. Coffee or Pepsi. And totillas. Beautiful town. Alan Bolt was more relaxed in his hometown. Answered questions about the Sandinista theory of art and culture and theater. Peter B. asked a lot about work with children. [3 Cuban walruses are splashing in this pool.] Alan criticized the woman at the Comedia Nacionál who wants to do Chekov, Molliere and Shakespeare. He says, of course, she is allowed to but he calls "that kind" of theater in the context of Latin America, wearing "the white mask of the oppressor." He says that Nicaragua is recapturing old forms -- Representational Theater, for example, which deals not with characters' psychological motivation, but uses characters to represent facets of the social structure. Alan is very doctrinaire -- Peter implied messianic -- about this. He told of cultural brigades who will go into a community and engage the people in discussions about problems they may have and then encourage them to make plays that address those issues. He stressed that the brigades did not take on a directorial or teacher's role, but only acted as a catalyst between the people and their own creativity. (On a very crowded old bus with wooden seats. Rocky is playing at the cine. Phyllis and Martha and their friend Jan, a nun from Milwaukee, Wisconsin.) [Must have been interrupted.] 12 Dec 83 After breakfast, poolside Stephanie (Robinson, Black woman from the States now living on the Atlantic Coast) just called for Robbie. First time I've spoken on a phone in almost 2 weeks. Our bus stop came yesterday mid-sentence and I had no more time to write. Wonderful day, wandering around with the 3 of them. They gave me an "At the Foot of the Mountain" T-shirt. (Their theater company in Minneapolis.) They knew the North American muralists who are painting the Children's Library so we stopped back there. They've gotten further along. They explained that when they arrived, it was shortly after the Grenada invasion and everyone in Nicaragua felt an invasion here was imminent. The North American women asked about the correctness or sense of painting a mural on a wall of a city that was about to be bombed. (Their paints were hung up at the airport and their first 2 weeks were spent helping to dig trenches anyway.) But the vice-minister of culture told them that now, more than ever, strong shows of solidarity from the people of North America are important. And although the country is in a state of pre-war alert still, there is a strong sense that life must continue. We went back to the cathedral where Jan led us up stairs to the top outside where we had a beautiful vista of the city. There are still small pieces of broken stained glass all around the balcony and we collected some. We went into what used to be and what is still called the National Palace. They collected cameras but we were allowed to wander freely. It was Sunday and almost no one was around. On the surface, I am getting used to seeing soldiers with rifles everywhere. Partly -- I think -- because this is truly a people's army that is supported by the vast majority of the population so that soldiers and non-soldiers react completely normally to having them around. (Like Israel, when I was there.) Yesterday at the park near the Palace, there was a soldier in curlers with her baby. I've seen soldiers in maternity fatigues as well. Later, however, I'll write about last night's dreams. After this sight seeing, we went to the barrio where Jan is staying with 3 other nuns, (or religious workers). She's on sabbatical for 6 months so she'll be here for a month, then Costa Rica, Guatemala, Mexico, and she hopes El Salvador. She hopes but is extremely nervous. She took us to a Creole Mass in the barrio -- Iglesia Santa Maria de Los Angeles. I think it's in Barrio Remirez. It's definitely a church of the Liberation. Great music: guitars, marimbas, maracas, bass and bongo drum, accordions. Great singers. There were murals all around. The one on the altar was of 2 Roman Soldiers struck down and naked and dead before the resurrected Christ -- kind of Daliesque. Another famous one is of Christ the Campesino. Others depicted FSLN members and Sandino at the Cross. The woman for whom AMLAE (the women's organization) is named. Rifles. Bombs marked U.S.A. falling on the Virgin. Jan was critical of the priest's vestments and his giving of the sacrament in the traditional way -- the people get the Wafers given to them, he gets the wine. I didn't take communion. Felt strangely pulled about this in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Probably explains how Roy Laciura wound up in my dream last night. The bus driver for the delegation of the weird Californians wouldn't come in. He said the government had put pressure on the church to add the murals. But listening to the priest (Jan translated) and the prayers and the testimony from the people all give evidence that this is the kind of church that the people want. I, again, was torn about whether or not to offer a prayer. I didn't. Stop for a swim. After Mass we returned to the hotel. Deena had arranged a meeting with a Nicaraguan -– raised in El Salvador -– poet, Claribel Alegría, to come and speak with us. So she and her husband, Bud, came out. She cannot go back to Salvador because of things that she has written, but spoke hopefully of the struggle there. Although she predicts that it will be long -– another Vietnam -– she says that we will win. She read to us a letter she has just written to “Fiction Magazine.” They asked her to comment upon the role of politics and art. Through a personal history of politicization, she makes a strong condemnation of those who would try to create art in a closed room “in these times.” She is the first person here to ask me directly what am I going to do? Faced with that question on the spot, I explained that I know that for me to get involved, I must be able to feel personally involved in the struggle. I know that being a part of the Theater Festival and meeting with the different Nicaraguan groups and seeing their work has helped to gather my resolve to work on trying to stop U.S. intervention here. I have promised to get materials for several of the groups and individuals. And when Caron Atlas and I do our drive for dance materials, I will talk directly with people in the NYC dance community about the importance of the struggle here. Stop for lunch. At the dining hall. I feel like I’m the only transient guest here today. Richard -– the pig owner -- was supposed to fly out this morning on the same flight as Phyllis and Martha and the weird delegation from California. But I saw him and he said the flight was canceled. I better go confirm mine. “Little Drummer Boy” in Spanish on the radio. Tired old tinsel strung throughout the dining hall. Changed the $20 Peter lent me so I can buy little presents and live for the 2 days to come. My Spanish is getting better. Better get out of here. 13 Dec 83 Last day here (?) At breakfast. There’s a question mark above because when I made my way over to the ASTC office by bus yesterday, Phyllis and Martha and the weirdo Californians were all camped out on the lawn and they were to be put up an leave on a special flight this morning. Enjoy the independence that traveling by (public) bus gives. Breakfast arrives. Poolside after breakfast. Jeanette Jarquín called and wants me to come see a rehearsal of the new Grupo Cervantes piece at 2 -– will meet at the ASTC office. Sort of hung out with the weird Californians because Maria-Esther (one of our guides) had arranged for them to visit the Literacy Museum. Very impressive work. In a very short time, shortly after the war of liberation, brigades of volunteers went throughout the country, attacking illiteracy like an army attacks an enemy during war. One room was for heroes and martyrs of the campaign. The heroes had died simply of disease, drowning, or auto accidents -– about 60. The martyrs had been killed by Contras. About 9. Although one heroine had been “brutally hacked with a machete," if my Spanish is correct. Their 8 X 10’s were on the wall and cases of random artifacts (love letter, sneakers, school I.D.) lined the wall in that particularly Latin morbid way. As soon as the Californian, whom Deena has nicknamed “Unitarian-Marine” (entered this room) he began to cry. I mean his face absolutely contorted and reddened and tears began rolling down. I wonder if he ever napalmed a Vietnamese village? Anyway, I made my way back here in time for supper and spent the majority of the evening reading a two weeks old Village Voice. This time tomorrow I’ll be back in New York (maybe?), and probably not awake yet. Those dreams the night before. I knew I should have written them earlier. There was a series and I think I awoke between each one. In the first, Managua had been invaded. Endless lines of soldiers were leading us out of the hotel grounds. The soldiers looked Nicaraguan, but were hard faced and almost identical. They lined both sides of the dirt road and they were leading us into the back of a large truck. Rifles everywhere. I have a sense that most of our delegation was there but I have a strong sense of Deena in her fancy silver threaded blouse, and her dress sandals. And Colleen, trying to break rank. Just as our group got to the truck, we were ordered to about-face and head back to the hotel. For some reason this really frightened me. Woke up. In the second dream I was baking bran muffins. Don’t remember exactly where. Somewhere in the States. Just remember the contentment of taking the muffin tin from the oven. Splitting the muffin open and watching the butter melt inside. I remember taking this muffin to my mouth but I woke up before I tasted it. In the next dream someone was knocking on my door and ordering me to give them my passport. In either English or German. It was dawning out (for real) and this dream was probably triggered by sounds of people and vehicles preparing to leave for Matagalpa or the airport. I awoke answering-screaming “Yes?” to whoever was knocking on the door. Somewhere in the midst of all this I dreamt of Roy Laciura [best friend from freshman year at college, 1969]. I probably haven’t thought of him more than 5 times in the 10 years since I’ve seen him. In the dream there was the sense that I had finally made some kind of peace with him. Sitting on a couch, holding hands. Actually I had heard his name a few months ago when Bill Kelly [another college friend] got in touch with me from Boston. He couldn’t remember Roy’s last name – asked if I’d ever heard from him. (Which I hadn’t.) 10th anniversary of the death of Wil this year. [First boyfriend; drowned while in the Peace Corps in Africa.] His birthday was marked by TV specials on the 20th anniversary of the death of Kennedy. While Claribel Alegría urged us to be sure to do whatever we could to educate the U.S. public about the realities of Nicaragua, she took special care to salute our bravery in coming here at this time. She especially warned Jan about going to El Salvador. “They hate nuns and religious people there because they are on the side of the poor.” She -– like everyone else I’ve talked to here –- feels that an invasion is just around the corner. The government has been decentralized; art treasures put underground, etc. One scenario that the sub-comandante at the ministry of defense outlined was that the Contras would be sent in from the north and south; take over a few villages or a provincial capital, enough to call itself a government. Then, under prior treaty arrangements, ask for help from other American states, (i.e.: the USA). So far the Contras have been so inept at this that the new fear is that Reagan must up the ante, which people now see as a landing by U.S. Marines. Also, the Sandinistas have been very careful not to follow the Contras into either Honduras or Costa Rica, thus allowing for a claim of invasion by them. They have also made diplomatic concession: Miskito Indians, prison paroles, election plans. Also, a lot of popular support has been gotten in South America over the last few weeks. But, the elimination of the Sandinistas, (as well as Cuba), is high on the Reagan agenda. The invasion of Grenada was a dress rehearsal for this and a testing of U.S. public opinion. But all Nicaraguan people and officials point out that Nicaragua is not Grenada. Even with rationing and shortages – largely brought about through U.S. economic intervention -- morale and popular support for the Sandinistas is high. The people are armed. I hear planes in the distance. So we have the Vietnam possibility of a long protracted guerilla war that will probably be unwinnable (?) by the U.S. The morale of the Contras and the puppet Honduran army has been proven so low that it is almost inevitable that it will have to be the U.S. Marines who do the job. Or there is the Lebanon possibility; a puppet president installed in the capital with warring factions holding onto every other part of the country. Peter pointed out that in truth, Gemayel is only the President of East Beirut. When I’m, making my way around Managua at night, I feel just like Sissy Spacek in the movie “Missing.” When we were talking with Alan Bolt in Matagalpa –- after we had a break -– Victoria asked Peter if he felt he had a calling here. Peter pointed out that that was of course the temptation, but that he was having enough trouble making theater through workshops with Black, Chicano, and Oriental kids in East L.A. whose histories and lives he could at least somehow relate to. Alan had told us of children who had seen their parents dropped from helicopters; little 10 year old girls sold into prostitution by their families and branded so they couldn’t get away; children whose homes had been bombed; teachers raped, etc., etc. Alan sees his mission, through theater, to get these people to understand the root of their oppression and to understand that they have the strength to fight it. These issues, of course, throw my own life, my own art, and my own politics into turmoil. Why is it easier to arrange to collect dance clothes for a group in Nicaragua than to do the same for a group in Harlem, the South Bronx, the Lower East Side? Why have I already planned to write letters to Congress people about Central America but not about issues closer to home? How come I can be so impressed by the Literacy Campaign but have done nothing to register Black or minority voters in New York City? Will Jesse Jackson’s campaign actually politicize the Democrats and force them to come out on issues? Reagan must be defeated. And what of “Cowboys, Dreams and Ladders?” Can I now make an “apolitical” piece? Do I now or did I ever want to? It is no accident that there is a structuralist/formalist push in theater now. Away from any politics. What does get published or funded? Will I become just another grant junkie? Last week I dreamt there was an earthquake. It was a purely kinesthetic dream. When I awoke I was still shaking. Detected some vaguely hostile vibes from passengers on busses yesterday. But I hadn’t seen a newspaper. A headline from last week, “E.U. Boycoten La Paz.” "The U.S. boycotts peace." At a stop on my way back saw a man who was at the Mass. He looked like a dark-haired Tim Miller. Turns out to be American -– studying at the language school. Thought he was too tall to be Nicaraguan. Better eat lunch then go meet Jeanette. Sat with a man from (change from black ink to red) Bulgaria. It's evening. How significant that I lost the black pen that Deena gave me on the word "Bulgaria." We made our way through lunch in Spanish. I spoke almost all day in Spanish. I'm mas mejor, much better. Getting over my nervousness about speaking it. Need to work on my verb conjugations and build vocabulary, but the basic workings of the language I have. "The Look of Love" on the dining room radio. Thought about Nelson Zayas today. Was humming "Femme Fatale" today and suddenly realized it's a Lou Reed song. Nelson sang it so sweetly at the Pyramid. "Born Free" on now. Dinner here. Later. I have to pack and it's almost 10. Have to be up at 5 to leave at 5:30. Hopefully there will be a flight at 9:30. So far this group is batting 0 for 2 when it comes to getting out of here. Spent a wonderful day with Jeanette and the actors from Grupo Cervantes. I became much more confident in español and had what approached normal conversation with them. She took me to a place where we watched a video of the group. Actually it's a show for niños cero al cien. (Children from 0 to 100.) Sergio is an excellent Chaplinesque caveman. It's a funny tale about collectivism as opposed to going it alone -- especially if attacked from the outside -- in this case by a dinosaur. It's amazing that the entire video was shot in Managua and it really looks like a prehistoric setting. (Like Logan's Run was the Future set in present-day Houston.) I don't think that I've mentioned that there are farm animals roaming city streets and everyone accepts this as normal. Not only are there chickens in every other vacant lot (and Managua is mostly vacant lots), but it is not unusual to see pigs, goats and even cows grazing or crossing city streets. I did a mini-performance for the Cervantes group and tried to demonstrate and talk about the ideas of Contact Improvisation. I talked to the actors -- 18-20 year olds -- about how they make pieces and the techniques they use. Again I heard the theory of the "practica." From the life of the people making it. No Stanislavski; no Method; no psychological characterization. My problem with this -- even as I have a "natural" affinity toward it -- is that it seems to leave theater in the revolutionary context in the position of always being socially representational at best, and blatantly propagandistic at worst. But the "caveman" video gave me hope. It was funny, simple, had a political line. (Despite what they say, can theater here not have a political line?) And its characters were really well acted, especially Sergio's caveman. Jeanette and I got into a long talk about the ASTC, Alan Bolt, and favoritism. As we got more into it, she suddenly realized that we were speaking loudly. She shhhed me and went to see if anyone in the next room could hear. Even Sandinistas have Big Brothers. Her main complaint was that she'd wanted members of our delegation who cared to, to work, teach, exchange with her group and others in the festival. She repeatedly asked the ASTC people for this time; it was always mañana. I added that many of us wanted to work with the groups and we were frustrated because when we asked the ASTC they always said there was no time because we were off seeing clinics and markets and foreign ministries and ministries of defense and civil defense groups, etc. As theater people we would have found, (and those now in Matagalpa are probably finding), this more meaningful. I told her that originally we were supposed to go to the northern border area for only one day, then return to Managua. But the ASTC got a call from Alan Bolt saying that we should come to Matagalpa to be with his group, (an Indian word I can't remember or pronounce). Then Jeanette said, "ahh, Alan Bolt." Seems he used to be the head of all theaters in Nicaragua -- I think for the Ministry of Culture, but maybe for the ASTC. Because he is very intelligent and intellectual and speaks well, (English and Spanish. -- Jeanette did not add this), people listen to him. Seems that he has bumped Cervantes from festivals and programs a few times as not being "professional." That his group, the name I can't remember, is "much" older --4 years -- and they all live together and get an allowance and go out on brigades together. Jeanette used to be their director. As Cervantes is just starting out and they are good, she feels they need even more support, especially when it comes to getting seen and known. She founded Cervantes while she had a job with one of the ministries. She started with 2 boys -- I think she said in January of 1980, but that would make them 4 years old -- maybe she was talking about Alan's group. Anyway, all of her actors have problems. Victor has run away from home, lives with José's family but they can't really afford to keep him. Sergio got a scholarship to study in (I suppose East) Germany. But the scholarship was only for engineering and he only wanted to study theater so he stayed here to go to the Univercidad here. His mother hated that decision. Even though they were one of the best groups in the Festival, she says that Alan did not speak to the actors and he didn't choose them to be in the International Theater Festival that will be here soon. She said when all the groups from Managua met to decide which group(s) would represent Managua they were all excited and saying "Cervantes, Cervantes." But then Alan spoke; he cooled their excitement with talk of professionalism etc. and they chose 3 other groups, including the Comedia that Sra. Socorro directs that does Moliere and heroes of the revolution high school pageants but better stuff that our Salvador [one of our guides] was in. I told her that that kind of influencing happens a lot in the States. She said, in the States, "sí, pero aquí es un gran problema." My heart really went out to her and them. She wants me to teach here when I come back. When will I come back? When will I be able to? What will be here to come back to? She also said Alan tried to remove her as the director of the group because she had another full-time job. So she quit her job. She says she's not in theater for the dinero, but because she loves theater. Almost 11. Start packing. [NOTE: Jeanette Jarquín was killed in a car crash about 6 months later.] [NOTE: on the last page is written the name Mika Seeger followed by her address in upstate New York. She was an American woman who I sat next to on the plane. I borrowed $20 from her to get home from the airport that I never sent her. Much later I found out that she's the daughter of legendary Folk Singer, Pete Seeger.]

Managua Journal, part 2 [NOTE: Nine months after coming home from my first visit to Nicaragua where I was part of a delegation who observed a theater festival as guests of the government, I boarded a plane for Managua on my own, with $400 and very few concrete plans. In the intervening months I had participated in demonstrations against U.S. intervention in Central America and I had made several performance pieces which were informed by my experiences in Nicaragua. A notable one, a speaking dancing improvisation, I made shortly after my return during the “Artists Call” events. It was highly criticized because in my text I questioned the real value of “us” going down there, being seduced by the sexiness of a tropical revolution when there was so much more “we” could be doing here. The night before I left on my second trip I received, with Fred Holland, a New York Dance and Performance “Bessie” Award for our piece Cowboys, Dreams and Ladders, which dealt with the invisibility of the Black Cowboy in the history of the American West.] 14 Sept 84 Miami Airport [Passport # at top of page.] So I've made it this far with 2 hours to spare. Watching Miami B-boys breaking and popping for change on the carpeted concourse to a KISS FM tape. There are a lot of religious sect people and although it's an exceptionally clean/sterile airport, no one seems to chase the riff-raff away. Slept a little on the plane, in fact was nodding out at JFK but essentially I've been awake for 29 hours. Have no idea what landing in Managua will be like since we were so pampered on our last trip. I should list my options now: [What followed was a list of ten names and addresses given me by friends in New York.] And… Cheap hotels: Drive past the front of the Intercontinental, take a right, take (I think) a left to a street with a tree in the middle. Lona [Foote] stayed at both La Mesa (or Meza?) and Las Santas. I have a photo for a girl there. [There are also the names of people who I have messages for and presents. One message is about film distribution rights and another is about forming a construction brigade. I am also carrying medical supplies for a Dr. Karen Brundy and some videotapes from X-Change TV.] Group of what looks like sleazy Christians exchanging the address of their host in Managua. Midwestern NAMBLA types. Darren, a pro ball player from Bluefields went to look for a phone. I'm understanding Spanish around me, but I loved the Caribbean rhythms of his English. Crying children. Wave of apprehension awhile ago. Over nothing. Over unknowns. One of the sleazy Christians is Reading Stranger in a Strange Land. Lots of rolls of toilet paper in [other people's] bags. 17 Sept 1984 11 AM at the entrance of UCA (Universidad Centro America) an hour early for my appointment to meet Ezra to deliver tapes from X-Change TV. Left the house at 10. [I was staying with Claudia G a friend of my friend Eva Gasteazora.] Thought it would take much longer, which I'm sure it could have. Took a very crowded camionetta down La Carreterra de Sur to Siete Sur. [The Southern highway to Seven South.] [Camionettas are pickup trucks with canvass covered beds that are used for public transportation outside the city. They are usually very crowded and one often has to stand on a bumper and hang on for dear life. You bang on the sides when you want to get off.] Then a bus to Centro Civico to the office where [Dr.] Karen Brundy works. Left the medical supplies there as she would not be there 'til la una [1 P.M.]. Then got a bus (#103) to here. All that took 1 hour and 5 cordabas (15¢). Ezra says that he knows of a cheap place to stay near here that he can show me, which is also near the Dance School. Got through to him by speaking Spanish at 2 numbers. I'm getting better, still too shy about speaking. Spent the weekend traveling around, smoking and drinking and eating with Claudia and friends. We went to Diriama, where her friend Claudio lives, both Saturday and Sunday. On Sunday we went to Jinotepe also. Claudio changed $ for me at some incredible rate – 250:1. (The official rate is 28:1.) [Since Claudia lives on the outskirts of the city, I didn’t know how easy it would be to find a bank. So I asked Claudio if he could change $100. He looked a little surprised and went away for a long time. When he came back he had a shoe box full of Cordabas. Being ignorant of the Black Market, I was expecting $C2,800. Instead he gave me $C26,000. It was like winning the lottery.] So now I have more money in cordabas than I intended to bring with me and I still have $300 left. Can't figure out the politics of this, or the economics, but it will definitely make staying here easier and more comfortable. There's a Euro-gringo looking man sitting on the bench beside me, writing. The sleazy Christians were a group of Franciscans here to attend the ordination of a Franciscan Bishop on the Atlantic Coast. One had lived here for 20 years but had left right before the earthquake and has not been here since the revolution. While standing in line, then being told to change lines, he said it didn't look like things had changed much. Noticed that I made the assumption that any Norte Americanos – especially religious people – coming here would be on "our" side. Then realized that, in fact, he was quite conservative and a little condescending. The blond Father managed to feel me up while in line. My trunk was broken (either dropped, or something heavy was put on it) but everything was there and intact. Ezra's here. 3 PM So I gave him the tapes. We went to lunch at an outdoor student cafeteria at UCA. He took me to the place where he stayed before. The woman wanted $C300 a day since I would have the room alone. But Ezra said that he could find a room in a house in the neighborhood of his wife's grandmother. The neighborhood was called Colonia Centro America. I met his wife and in-laws. Ezra y Kenya had a disagreement over where I should stay. She has a friend with a room who wanted $5 a day, but in dollars. Ezra, being the proper gringo leftist said it is "immoral" to support the black market. Since this was all taking place in Spanish, I had to rely upon my spotty knowledge of the language and his selective translation. [Map of Managua drawn by Ezra on the next 2 pages. Has bus route numbers. Includes an "X" marking "your casa" and an arrow to "where they sell veggies." There are 2 McDonald's on the map, but now I have no recollection of ever having seen them.] Ezra was really pushing for one house a few blocks away. (He's 21. His mother is a filmmaker.) Kenya (who's pregnant.) was pushing for dollars for her friend. We found "his" place. It's rather dreary but the woman's nice and she will also wash and iron all for $C1500 a month. I talked her into letting me pay per week. I gave her $C500 and told her I'd be back. Right now I'm sitting on a porch of a restaurant having my shoes shined by a 12-year-old 4th grader who's asking me about the Mafia and the atomic bomb and dollars. His friends sell Nueva Diario. I actually was happy to not be served but he told me when he was finished that they didn't serve outside, but inside was air conditioned, so here I am with a beer and feeling better. I got off the bus accidentally but was going crazy anyway being squeezed, worse than cattle. Don't know if I'll go back to that woman's house. The prospect of the #119 every day might depress me too much. And since I have used the black market, I might want to take advantage of my newfound fortune. My shoes are shined to a ridiculous brilliance. He was a sweet kid – a real "hustler" and $C15 = either 53¢ or 6¢ [for the shoe shine] depending on which exchange rate I use. The 500 cordabas I gave the woman is either $17 or $2 so if I don't go back I'll just let her have it. It's almost 4. The busses will probably be worse. Maybe it's taxi time, or time to get to the ASTC. If those little hotels (hosterias) only cost $5 in dollars, I only have 20 days left so at most I'd pay a hundred dollars or the $C300 place would be $C6000 or $24 or $214 depending on exchange rate. I need another beer before facing the #119 again. Ezra is a perfect 21 year old leftist. I think marrying and impregnating a Nicaraguan woman is a little bit over-achieving but he is very sincere and earnest (?) I think the beer is bringing me down from the sugar rush I've been experiencing since I've been here. I'd forgotten the Nicaraguan love for sugar.) So, am I going to rough it? Or mid-way it at the other house – which is near the dance school. Or will I "internacionalista" it out at the little hotels at the foot of the Intercontinental. For political and survival reasons, I'd like to stay at the house in Ezra's grandmother-in-law's nabe, but it [might] be too much of a drag living the existence of a real Nicaraguan and I might not ever teach. The first house we went to seems like a nice compromise. Unfortunately I'm getting used to this air conditioning; I'm glad Carlos told me about it. The beer is calming. The 3 schoolgirls at the next table are making fun of me behind my back, in a flirtatious kind of way. Kenya – Ezra's wife – has a good point. Since there is no lock to my room, (there is no door really, just a curtain) I should probably take valuables with me all the time. Maybe I should stop by the first place and secure the room. I know there's a telephone there, and it's walking distance to the Escuela de Danza. Got the cuenta (bill), 2 beers here were $C60, which is very expensive. 18 Sept 1984 Every time I stop writing about 50 very different things happen to me before I get to write again. Sitting at the café next to the dance school drinking a beer listening to Tina Turner on my Walkman. Up-down-up-down. The room that I want to move into is occupied until at least tomorrow. So I can go to the other for tonight or back to Claudia's or Lona's hosteria or "no sé." The up part of today was teaching an improv class at the school – a mixture of beginning contact and "improv 101." It was fun and not much resistance. I got a ride from Claudia's neighbor at 8 in the morning and thus avoided the dreaded caminonetta. Got to school for my 10 AM class at 8:30. Used the time to type my curriculum and warm up. I delivered the leotards [donated by dancers in New York], kept the green tank form Group Motion for myself. Another beer, although what I wanted was a Coke. After the sweetened Nicaraguan frescos, Cokes taste almost refreshingly tart! Last night tried to hitch from Siete Sur but it was impossible. Finally negotiated a taxi for $C200. Claudia wasn't home so I waited in a hammock on her porch 'til she got home. She heated up some food and we ate and I told her what I'd done today. Including walking into the dance school and telling them I wanted to teach "talleres" (workshops). With a little hassle it was arranged that I would start today and so I did. The students are great (about 12 of them). Una Americana, Esther, is teaching there and took my class and helped translate. They mostly do Graham-Jazz-Ballet in a grueling schedule (for this heat) that starts at 8 in the morning. My class reminded me a little of "Fame," but that's OK. And all right, Guillermo is cute and flirtsy but so are most of the women. (What does that mean?) Anyway, they're good kids and the theater kids want classes "tambien." If I could only workout where to live. Think I'll poke my head in at the Escuela. 4:02 UCA So I poked my head into the school and offered to teach a 2-hour seminar, "Movement Improvisation for Actors" at 8 AM. I gave a very detailed description of what I planned to do to Christina Flores, the directora. So Thursday 20th and next Friday 28th at 8 AM. Also the teacher of directing wants me to work with 2 of his students. I'm showing my videotapes Saturday 29th. God, I hope this place is still here in 20 years. It's near bursting with potential, both cultural and political. 8:30 Colonia Centro America So 4 hours after I decided to go find a nice bourgie hosteria near the intercontinental I'm in this room sitting on a sagging iron cot, a bare light bulb in the ceiling, a bathroom with no toilet paper. And the only things on the wall are a wooden plaque with the sun peeking over pointy mountains smiling, a tile with a rooster, a bill from a "fumigadora specializada" from 18 Feb 83 for $C230 which is paper clipped to a torn 1982 calendar. Septiembre/Octubre has a picture of what looks to be a Norwegian glacier and there are plugs for "Locorten Vioformo – crema y pasta. El tratamento eficaz, seguro y simple en eccemas piodemias." And for another "loción y crema." The torn month before looks like autumn in a Swiss village in a valley. To this I've added today's funky shirt. The curtain, which serves as a door to this room, has faded Little Red Riding Hoods, Kings, Clowns and Ginger Bread Houses. Oh, and there's a neurotic, pink-eyed pet rabbit that wants to do nothing but run perfect circles around my feet. Gets upset if I sit down or stand too close to the wall and his pattern gets altered. Somehow, I could not be happier anywhere else right now. Yeah Ron, bomb the be-Jesus out of this scene. Yeah Ishmael, let him. God a rooster just crowed in the courtyard behind my head – no trouble getting up tomorrow I guess. So, aside from the four hours (at least 3 spent walking and scared, but not really) the whole trip here cost only $C3 or 9¢ using the official exchange rate. Everybody wants dollars. A little boy who led me on a wild goose chase for a hotel and I helped push his wooden cart asked me. Guillermo at la escuela asked 'cause he's going to Cuba next month. (The folkloric group leaves for Russia Monday.) Actually as it got later, people got friendlier. When I finally got to the right barrio, I saw a woman who looked like Mom. She was making sure a little girl got home and inside a door. She brought me here. The owner, Zulema, gave me water and put a clean sheet over the two foam pads on this sagging cot. When at 4:30 I took a wrong bus I wound up in one of the poorest barrios. Most houses had electricity and of course there's bus service and a couple of TV antennas. But there were lots of naked kids and people who seemed to be just hanging out. (Old women mostly.) There was a hustle and bustle in the barrio and not the defeatism that seems to be prevalent in, say, the Loisaida. Probably the absence of drugs. It amazed me how unafraid and unmolested I was walking around – an obvious outsider. Except to ask the time, no one said anything except a few children begging and one old drunk, but he was near the Intercon. 9:15 PM I think I'll turn in. Oh since my budget is $C1000 a day and today I've spent 3 X $C44 for beer, $C70 for room I'm $C883 over [meaning I have $C883 left over.] And I got a free meal for teaching. [On the next page I drew a calendar for my remaining 3 weeks. It showed daily classes in the Dance school plus classes for the folkloric group, a group in Tipitapa. “Leave” with a question mark is written at the end of week 3.] 19 Sept 1984 Escuela de Danza Evening (watch broke) Great clouds. Evagelina just told me that I’m scheduled to teach every day at 10. Yay!!! So I better stretch out my material. It’s amazing how much improved they are in only one class. I bet Guillermo has a girlfriend tucked away somewhere. Actually he’s probably too in love with himself to take anyone else seriously. What are you writing, Jones? Anyway, it keeps shocking me, the ability to get ideas across in another language. It is possible. And even deeper concepts. Had a long political conversation with Guillermo, he took $30 from me to change to 6,000 cordabas. Began to touch upon “release” ideas in class. My class is “bien popular.” I’ve been asked to teach workshops for two folkloric groups and I’ll teach 2 seminars to the actors. I’m so excited. 9:30 A casa (At home) Realized that I could get the time from the radio. Went out to dinner with Esther and Patricia and kept up my end of the conversation in Español although Patricia did say I needed to practice. Interesting today to note how people (dancers) are interested in N.Y. but really regard Moscow and Habana as the centers or where they aspire to go and study or work – kind of refreshing. I’m so pessimistic about the possibility (probability) of Reagan being re-elected. Hung out at the school all day, good day. Bought 2 Cokes for $C20 + 4 bus trips (2 by mistake) for $C5. Lent Esther $C10 but she bought dinner. So I spent $C335 of my $C1000 allowance. Lot’s of souvenirs. 20 Sept 1984 10:30 PM New Casa Well, I’ve just been called a nigger who has no respect for himself at the end of a near-perfect day. Got a single room at the house near the school. Got to school in the morning by hanging onto the outside of the #119 while it slowly went uphill. Squeezed myself inside before it picked up speed going down. Got to Claudia’s with little hassle – first cab I hailed stopped and took me for $C50, which is less than $2 on the official rate. Taught an OK massage class and a good class to the actors though they are being trained for the classics (Brecht). Asked them to bring stories with strong emotional content next week. Watched a rehearsal of the folkloric group. (Mas o menos.) They leave for Moscow on Monday where they’ll be a hit. (Women don’t have today in folk dances?) Guillermo, who missed the massage class, did a great imitation of my eyes that was pure cruising, (oops). Had some smoke at Claudia’s. And then went to the sort of health food restaurant near here where we ate last night. Because I was alone I sat at the bar and this U.S. trained Nic (drunk) began telling me how Niggers don’t respect themselves. Turns out that he assumed I worked for the U.S. Embassy. I was amazed by the way I diffused him since he was going to “kick your ass mother fucker.” I laughed when he asked if I worked for the Embassy. Told him I didn’t need to have my ass kicked by him or anyone. That I had had enough practice in the States and that I was here to learn and testify. By the end of my meal (tacos) we were buying each other beers and shaking hands, to the relief of the women working at the place and the other customers. Yes Ish, you handled it well and yes, it’s been a good day. Tomorrow I teach at 10 and after returning from lunch I’m being picked up to teach 2 mime students of the theater group. It’s good to have my stuff. Other jeans and books mostly. People love looking at the photo book of “The Lower East Side.” And Toiletries at last. – This place comes with soap, a towel (no more drying off with my bandanna), a good mattress on a captain’s bed, soap, a toilet seat, toilet paper and no #119 in the morning. Breakfast is at 7, better sign off. Money $C 3 bus 50 taxi 22 beer 155 tacos and 3 beers $C230 + 300 not paid room $C530 22 Sept 84 8:30 AM After breakfast of coffee & melon & pancakes, taught two good classes. First to the dance students – finally got them to just improvise but with concentration and focus. Then Baltazar took me to his house to work with 3 actors in his theater group. Actually Baltazar, Mario and Orlando are Salvadorian émigrés. The other guy, whose name I think is Antonio, is Basque. (Real different accent.) They were much more receptive to the contact (improv) concepts than the dance students. Afterwards we talked for a long time, then drank a bottle of Habana Club Rum, then ate, then drank a bottle of Nico rum. Checca, a dance student, came over. Her family is from La Costa Atlantica. She and I did some grinding raggae dancing. I have Tina Turner, Private Dancer, on the phones. Great album. There’s a man in a hospital bed here in the house who moans a lot. And an English-speaking family with child. The señora’s daughter and her toddler (Maria Alejandra) and I think her husband. If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve brought King Sonny Adé to Nicaragua. Gloria wants to use it on her radio show. I agreed to work with the (theater) guys again at 2 this afternoon. Good to have a day off but I’m a little lost. Think I dreamt in “Spanish last night. It bothers me how everyone refers to “servants” as “la muchacha” or “el muchacho.” Just like Jewish ladies or Southerners in the States. “What’s love got to do with it?” Bye, John??? [A reference to my friend John Bernd in NYC.] Miss everybody, but could see being here for a long time – how long? – why? – what to do? 10:50 AM Made my way by foot (with very little unintended detour) to the Plaza de la Revolución. Tranquil Saturday morning. There are platforms over the steps of the Cathedral, probably left over from a parade celebrating the 5th Anniversary. The Palacio Nacional is as shabby as ever. And the Rueben Dario Theater is still closed because they cannot repair the air conditioning. The traffic signals (semafores) are turned off at night to preserve the bulbs, which are scarce, but also because the cherry picker ladders cannot be obtained making changing the bulbs very difficult if not impossible. ? This from Deborah, Baltazar’s gringa novia de California. She’s nice, has been in Latin America for 10 years. Several lovers here in the park; fathers with children; trio of gringo tourists with giant cameras. I’ve been trying to isolate smells. (Old lady jus tasked the time.) (Gardeners with long machetes – one just asked the time – once y trece (11:13.) Anyway the odors. A lot of it is the heavy wet green plant smell of the south in the States. A lot like Mississippi. Plus the perfumes of flowers I don’t know. And food cooking on charcoal and wood grills. (At the first house I was staying at I realized that many people like her used grills for cooking because they don’t have gas.) Then there’s a constant sweet smell of cheap petroleum. There’s no telling what grade of cheap gasoline some of these vehicles are burning but they belch out smoke so black that you can barely see for a minute after they pass. There’s also the subtle smell of dust. If this is the rainy season, the dry season must be insufferably dusty. 8:30 PM at the Natural Restaurant At the end of the last sentence a kind of drunk (I think) man who had come from the Costa Atlantica sat down and began talking to me. Linguistically it was interesting because we both kept slipping from Spanish to English quite freely. (I’m drinking draft beer here, I just realized.) He began by offering to be my guide and started telling me about the capture of the national Palace – Eden Pastoria, Dora Maria Tellez et. al. I kept pressing him for more personal details. (Enchilada arrives.) (Good meal, think I’ll dessert.) Anyway, it was a situation that I didn’t use my tape recorder and should have. He took me down to see the lake where there are trucks taking large cement crosses to Puerto Sandino. He said to build a secret airport. Said he worked as a crane operator (I think) and he did seem too know the workers down there. Said he came to Managua after the earthquake. I didn’t catch why. Said there had been no fighting on the Costa Atlantica. When asked if the “situation” was better or worse now or before he said he couldn’t tell because (I think) that the Costa has been traditionally separated. But when I said that Reagan calls this a police state and that people don’t support the Sandinista government, he strongly disagreed. He said people had consciousness and criticism but that the police have never bothered him. He showed me his social security card and said that when one lived too far away one might sleep on a park bench and the police might wake them and ask to see I.D. but wouldn’t do more. Had a long political discussion. He asked me about Jesse Jackson and Mondale. I told him that Reagan was crazy and might do anything. He assured me that Nicaragua will not be a Grenada. That the people are ready to fight. I drank some water out of a spigot which I was sure would kill me. Especially since he told me that the garbage of the city is dumped there. (Did I mention the smell of burning grass earlier in my list of odors – it’s very prevalent.) He picked a very under ripe mango from a tree for me. When I said I had to go teach a class he asked for money for the tour – which I expected. But when I gave him $C50 he asked for $C100. The conversation shifted to all Spanish. I refused. He did a guilt plea. He’d told me that he lived in one of the despues de terramoto (after the earthquake) buildings with his family. I realized later that the $C50 I gave me (oops) him was worth less than 25¢ at the rate I exchanged money, less than $2 at the official rate. He took the bus, the 109, and paid for me – asked if he could speak with me again. He rode a little bit with me. Then got off. 23 Sept 1984 Sunday, in my room, it’s 1:30 in the afternoon, radio thru earphones. Fuck off day. Missed the directions to Tipitapa to teach Marvin’s folkloric group – didn’t really want to go. Feel just a little sick but I took the 114 to the end but it didn’t go to the town. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Anyway, came back here and hand washed some things – mostly dance stuff. Try to read. At breakfast today – which was really good – huevos rancheros, and pinto gaya (or is it gaya pinto?) — I met the other English speaking borders. The guy next door with the 2 brats (5 and 7 I think) is a nurse from Philadelphia. He came here to work but he’s been caught up in red tape while they check his political affiliations. The other guy, Josh, is a journalist (I think Hispanic) from Santa Cruz, California. Among other things, he’s writing a story for Sierra Club about environmental policy here, which he says for a developing country are excellent. He’s also writing a story for Pacifica and a Latin American news agency that is out of Lima, Peru. The other man, Vince, is from Ireland. He lives in London and NYC and has been picking potatoes up north – hurt his neck. Said he heard mortar fire and the 2 Black Cubans who run the school had to be evacuated. ("Y Los Yanquis se va Correr” {And the Yankees Will Run Away} on the radio.) He said he was picking with children about 10 years old but each day they would take a break for 2-2 _ hours to study with the Cubans, except at peak picking weeks. (Little Eva or Dee Dee Sharp “Give Me Gravy” on Radio Sandino now.) Vince said the head of the farm cooperative where he was working had been a man who was completely illiterate before insurrection. (Must remember “the revolution” is still in progress.) Now he’s running the whole cooperative, doing the books, etc. Enough about today, my clothes are being rained upon. Oh, one more thing. Josh says he’s been following Daniel Ortega around for a story he’s writing. Said last night he spoke in a high school auditorium full of draft age kids who were very vocal in their opposition to the draft. But that Ortega was firm and articulate in explaining that camposino kids on the frontiers were risking their lives every day so that city kids could eat and live in relative comfort and that it is immoral for the city kids to be parasites to the camposinos. (Willie Nelson singing “To ALL the Girls I Loved” with Julio Iglesias.) Yesterday’s workout with Grupo Roqué Dalton (Baltazar’s group) was wonderful. I went over the contact principles – table, standing table, finger point – plus fantasy language, Skinner Releasing lines of energy, back shakes, leg shakes, plus Silent story telling to rap music. They loved the music and class. They’re having a party Friday. Had a long talk with Mario about the situation in Salvador, Roqué Dalton, and the work of the group, etc. Real worthwhile day. 23 Sept 1984 5:30 PM Spent a lot of this afternoon in my room listening to radio thru headphones and studying verb forms and expressions. Understanding more on the radio, even the songs. At certain times it’s impossible to not hear an USA made song on any of the Sandino stations. So now I sit on the patio of Los Antojitos Mexican Restaurant right across from the Intercontinental. Servile/formal waiters, plenty of blond, lobster colored gringos in linen. Didn’t see Yerba Buena (a store someone had recommended) and I should have passed it on my way here. Maybe closed on Sundays. There are huge parrots squawking, a forest of plants, Mexican music on the intercom. Bourgie Nics. You can just see the bomb being hurled from the street. I happened upon here partly by accident. Took the #102 to where I think the Statue of Montoya is – at any rate there’s a really nice park there and sort of figured out where the Intercon, etc. would be. I discovered one problem of orientation to here is that there’s a pretty high hill that hides this area from where I live. Also there’s the Lagoon (or is it Lake Tiscapa?) that one has to get around. (Cute Latin boy writing in his notebook at the next table. His food just arrived.) This place is expensive, extremely so by Nico-standards. So I’m getting more oriented. Didn’t see the ASTC, if that park is in fact the Montoya Park. But I seem to remember wandering near there in December. (It’s a really rico area by standards here – lots and lots of “fotcopia” places, and the East German and Belgian Embassies. A kid on roller-skates chatting up a girl by a car, one obscene house with Ionic columns and grand staircase. Eat. 24 Sept 1984 [On this page I drew 2 stick figure skeletons (back and front views) with the Spanish names for bones, joints and body parts. Also there is a list of directions (rise, bend, balance, etc.) and images (waterfall, anchor, and balloon) all with Spanish translations. I believe Esther helped me with this.] 24 Sept 1984 11:20 PM Quick note. Tired, didn’t feel well again today but just noticed that my sore throat is gone. Rainy Monday. Low energy at the school. Also there was some meeting so that there were only 4 students – Gloria, Esther, Checca, and Ligia. Did shoulder and neck with them. Last night went out with Josh and Vince from the house. Josh is smart, has traveled around Latin America – just got back from Cuba. Vince is kind of a Negrophile British twit. Keeps bringing up raggae to me. Lives in the East Village while in New York. Talked a lot about Cuba with Josh. Homosexuals. Jews in Nicaragua. The mood of the country here – still prepared but war-weary. Drank some Habana Club Rum in their room. Talked about his meeting with the PLO Ambassador in Cuba. Israel, the war merchant. Vince kept chirping in with English inanities. He reminds me of Robin F without the sexiness or wit. It’s still raining steadily. This A.M. Esther whispered that she had to talk with me. Seems that Patricia told her that “it is known” that I have smoked [marijuana] while in Nicaragua. Strange, I don’t remember mentioning it to anyone here since Claudio was adamant that it should be kept quiet. Vince, Josh and I were talking about smoke at the restaurant last night but I can’t imagine anyone from the school could have been there and I not notice. I might have talked about drugs in a general way with the Salvadorians or maybe with Guillermo, (called Memo), but at any rate it made me feel sufficiently creepy and spied upon. Tonight went out to dinner with the guys. We all decided that Ken, the nurse with the kids, is a real fucked up individual. Probably abuses his kids and should probably go home. It was Josh’s 21st birthday. Tomorrow afternoon I work with Gloria’s group, Thursday with Mauricio’s. Dinner with Dr. Karen? Next Saturday Tipitapa. AMLAE Rally Friday and Salvadorian party. Embassy vigils still happening on Thursday A.M.'S. Good night, Ish. 25 Sept 1984 Copy of letter to Maia Kikerpill (roommate in NYC) Dear Maia (and John & Fred & Mom – please call her for me.), This English guy was staying at the same rooming house and he said he lived in the E. Village and since making calls outside the country is a little complicated I decided to write you. Please call Pauline [my mother] & tell her I’m OK, which I am. I feel safer here, generally, than I do in NYC. The weather until 2 days ago was great; we now have a rain that doesn’t look like it’s going to let up. Since 2 days after I arrived I’ve been teaching everyday at 10 AM to students at the Escuela de Danza Nacional. They’ve already had a grueling Graham class and another technique – which I sometimes take at 8 AM before [my class]. I’m teaching basic Improv, Contact, Releasing, Massage, etc. which they really need. In addition, I’ve taught special workshops to students at the Theater School, and to a group of 4 actors in a professional theater group. I’ve been invited to teach workshops at 3 other folkloric or theater groups. So far, working with the actors – 3 from Salvador, 1 Basque – has been most rewarding. So my major accomplishments have been to introduce Contact Improv, Sonny Adé, and Rap Music to the country. Radio sucks in an interesting way. A minute of anti-imperalismo slogans and a revolutionary song like “And the Yankees will All Leave Running,” followed by Frank Sinatra and “Extranjeros en la Noche,” Doo-Bee, Doo-Bee, Doo. For an anti-imperialist country, they’ve taken on the worse of USA culture. But it’s also interesting that the dancers and actors, while curious about NYC, really look to Cuba or Moscow as to where they want to go. 24 members of the folkloric group left for a tour of the USSR yesterday and 4 of my students have scholarships to study in Havana this fall. In fact, it was great to come to a country of 3 million people not one of whom knew what a “Bessie (Award)” was. (Note to John B. Guillermo – called Memo – is a Hispanic cross between Helge, Stony, & Joseph P. and you know what that means). Also I delivered the medicine and will have dinner with Karen, the doctor, on Thursday. This house is great = $10 with huge breakfast and toilet paper!! But best of all it’s close to the school and I can avoid the busses, which cost 3¢ and are always packed like the Lex at rush hour. If you don’t push to the back door by the time your stop comes, you don’t get off. Oh well, it’s 8:30 and I should get going. Still planning to return 7 Oct but would like to stay longer. In absolute emergency Tele 75-430 and my name is pronounced “is-mah-Él.” My passport # is – -. Don’t think you’ll need this though. Love, Ish 6:30 PM So it’s the evening now. Others here at the house are eating dinner; I’m not hungry. And will probably eat later at a nearby outdoor café. A North American woman who’s working for the U.N. says that her boss told her that there are travel restrictions on N.A.’s and the only places we can travel without permission are the major cities. When I got to the school today everyone was buzzing with the news that 8 mothers were killed on their way North to visit their sons on the front. (I’m playing peek-a-boo with Maria Alejandra, the one year old grand-daughter of our land lady.) I taught a good class to (the music of) Sonny Adé anyway. Watched a rehearsal. Then Gloria Bacon (who’s from the Atlantic Coast and thus speaks English and is Black. Except that today she’s in reserves and came to class in fatigues and boots—she changed to pink leotards and tights, she could be any pretty black woman on the streets of NYC.) Anyway, Gloria took me to the TV station where she works to teach Improvisación Contacto to the show dancers there. Great class to 10 people who had never seen or heard of Contact before. On Friday there’s a big demonstration by AMLAE – the Women’s org. I’m sure the death of the mothers will highly charge the situation. I’m planning to go. The Salvadorians are having a party later that night. It’s strange, the rain has slowed but I don’t feel nearly as hopeful as I did this morning. All for now, Ishmael 27 Sept 1984 9PM at the neighborhood café. Good strange day. (Menu and cerveza. What to have?) This place has had great food so I think I’ll order blind. Must tell people who are coming down the “no hay”[there isn’t any, we’re out] is an expression they should get used to hearing. They didn’t have the first 2 things I ordered but since I didn’t know what they were I order 2 other unknowns. Was here at the earlier part of last night with Marvin to buy him a birthday beer which turned into 5 apiece and the beginning of a long night that was fun/weird and I don’t think that want to go into just yet. Well, as I’d say at the shrink’s, I do want to go into it, just don’t know if I can. Saved by the arrival of the food. After eating. If this place were in NYC there’d be lines around the block. Don’t know what it was, but it sure was good. There are mixed groups and couples here, but you can still see the Latin tradition of men going out together and leaving the wives at home. I’ve decided to move my flight up a couple of days. I need one more weekend here at least. Went with Gloria, who I like a lot, to teach her group at the television station and over lunch, which she insisted upon buying, I began to express the desire/fear that I could wind up here for an extended time. She asked what exactly I would do and said that I probably wouldn’t be able to work for money. I didn’t explain to her that if I were to change $300 on the black market I could probably live here very comfortably for a year. And I’m loving teaching (except the 4th year dance students at the school). I think that’s one reason why I’m in such a good mood tonight – they had a presentation today in a going away ceremony for members (I think) of ASTC or some other artsy types who are starting their military service. Lot’s of speeches about how culture fights imperialism. They (the 4th year students) really fucked up the “Bamba” the dance they just finished learning. But the “Farimundo” was at least performed well. I then taught Gloria’s group and then the folkloric group that Maurcio is a part of at the ASTC. There was no electricity so I taught outside with no tape so I dredged up all kinds of Terry Fox (improvisation collaborator from Philadelphia) and Group Motion (first company I danced with, also in Philadelphia) sounding exercises along with beginning contact counter balances. They really, really appreciated and liked and learned from the class. I was touched. They want me back next week. I just feel that the 4th year students at the school are really caught up in Dance Magazine images of what a dance “should look like.” Whereas the theater and folkloric groups are really able to get into the movement and the improvisations. Anyway, I’m a hit with some people and mildly tolerated by others. But it’s been good – great – for me to be here. How to stop Reagan???!!! The English/Irish twit who was staying at the house said that when he was staying – working – up in Estelli he had to take his turn standing vigilance with an automatic rifle. I feel that there is ultimately lacking in me that I don’t even know how to shoot to protect what is important to me. But Ghandi and M.L. King are still hovering in the corner of my consciousness. I still fear the romance of the gun. What if the twit had seen me – given up on hitchhiking, heading toward the light of the cooperative? Would he (would I) have really blown me away? Third beer talking. And I still haven’t gotten into last night. 10 beers, two dinners, French kissing, taxi to Tipitapa. 2 pair of underwear from Mama a Marvin [for his birthday]and a bottle of Intensive Care from his brother. Dirt street, poor town. Iron cot. “Ghetto blaster.” Sex on a mat on the floor. A pig grunting outside. Roosters crowing. A dog licking my toes. Pictures of the Virgin, Sandino and a (boy) friend on the wall. Packed bus ride back to Managua in the morning. Our bus broke down. Live rabbit being taken to market. He’s in the reserves. Great sky tonight. 30 Sept 84 9:30 Sunday night. Strange couple of days. “One hundred years of Solitude” images everywhere. Tonight I was describing the house where I live and now write this to some quite wealthy Nics and realized how bizarre it all actually is. Then when I got home I found out that actually most of the people living here are related by “blood or semen” and then there’s the assortment of Norte-Americanos living here. The weirdest being Ken and his 2 kids. Everyone’s going to bed now. My Spanish is getting more solid. The plastic tablecloth on this (dining room) table has a Mogen David and Hebrew letters. So, this household as I understand it so far. Lolita is la dueña [landlady], which I knew. And Teadora is an employee, maid/cook. Iliana is Lolita’s daughter, which I also knew and the one-year-old Maria Alejandra is hers – no sé donde está el papá. The two men who share the back room are [Lolita’s] sons, which I didn’t know. One studies zoology at UCA, the other is a soldier. The retarded man is another son who 2 years ago was having an argument with a “friend” who shot him in the head. So now he can’t walk or speak and makes infantile moans when he needs anything. And the old guy who walks with the walker is Lolita’s husband and their father who is also speechless since he had a stroke 2 years ago. Then there’s us. Me, Josh, Scott who’s a translator from Canada, his Salvadorian girlfriend Anna – they now have my old room which is actually his old room. And Ken, the weird nurse from Philadelphia who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish and his 2 Children of the Damned kids. !Qué casa! Yesterday, Sat, 29 Sept, I made my way by myself by way of the Mercado Oriental, to Tipitapa to teach the members of Marvin’s folkloric group. He led a warm-up before and he is really a beautiful mover. There’s another queen in the group (Jorge) who didn’t take the class but hung out with us afterwards. It seems that Marvin had a whole evening mapped out, but I got cranky and needed to get back to Managua. But there were really strange and wonderful images in Tipitapa. The town is really poor, with only one paved street. At the home of Marvin’s uncle, where we’d slept before, there is a pig and some scrawny chickens in the yard. People were getting drunk. The sky was incredible. For the first time I felt it was not cool to be a Gringo in this country. (Even a Gringo-Negro.) Marvin introduced me as an “Internacionalista.” People were challenging me about policy. One boyfriend of a cousin changed into his uniform when I arrived. I explained, of course, that I oppose the U.S. policy, but it seemed harder to convince these people. But I felt no lack of support for the FSLN. In fact, it seemed more genuine and strong than in Managua. We went to a local discotheque to watch a Disco Dance competition but it was so packed that we couldn’t see a thing. I met Marvin’s mother who gave me food and found a Managua bound bus for me and I hopped it – Marvin had told me the last one had left at 8. Got back here and went to the Restaurant for a _ bottle of rum. The night before that Josh and I went to the manifestación marking the seventh anniversary of AMLAE at the Plaza de la Revolución. I wore my red and black striped T-shirt. It looked like every gringo leftist in town was there. The dance school got bumped from the program because the event was supposed to have turned into a solemn memorial for the mothers killed last week. But it was actually quite a lively celebration. People spontaneously building human pyramids, tossing women into the air, dancing. The popular group Pancasan sang and played. Lots of chants. Ortega spoke. Afterwards went to Grupo Roqué Dalton’s Party at Baltazar’s house. Missed all of the presentations except his Kafka monologue. Took Josh, (with whom I now share a double room since Vince left). Had a great time getting drunk and talking afterwards. Noticed that even when there would be 3 North Americans talking together, conversations usually remained in Spanish. A woman from Massachusetts who teaches in the Language School in Estelli says that the situation there is very grave. That there are helicopters always flying overhead and that they are surrounded by bands of Contras. She said people are getting sick simply from lack of sleep. Josh wants to go there next weekend. Today was spent with Eva (G’s) friend Roberto and his friend Luis. Beautiful house on a finca where he was born. That his parents own. South of where Claudia lives. Squawking parrots, lush palm trees, paintings on the walls, radio tuned to the classical station. He works for IBM but is an amateur painter. Admittedly of the bourgeois class. Critical of the FSLN – at various times told me not to quote him directly as he could be arrested. He and Luis (a former engineer now a free-lance simultaneous interpreter making 2 times the $) said that on July 19, 1979 when the FSLN triumphed, they had the support of practically everyone in the country. They said, in fact, the FSLN could not have won without the help of religious people, the bourgeoisie, workers, camposinos, etc. They promised a broad coalition. But now they have so closely modeled themselves after Cuba that they have locked out all others. The others, particularly the bourgeoisie who gave up much (those who remained) deserve a voice in the government. Luis intimated that the problem wasn’t the U.S. giving $ to the Contras por que there would be no Contras if the FSLN had not insisted upon taking all the power for themselves. He made the incredible statement that 80 % of the Contras were former Sandinistas who left the country to fight what was a dictatorship of the left. He actually said that the Contras were the ones who had courage and that those, like him, who only stayed and complained lacked the courage of their convictions. Roberto said his family had a cattle finca confiscated because they were called “absentee landlords.” Luis and I went to the house of Nicol(as), a German who has lived here for 18 years. He makes special German soups every Sunday and invites people over, (today goulash and a clear oxtail). His Nic-born L.A. educated girlfriend’s name is Patsy. The house had hot and cold faucets – I tried, the hot in the kitchen and it was warm. In the bathroom was “Scope, Lysol, Colgate, Wella Balsam,” etc. At Roberto’s house he drank Miller Beer. They also had Stolichnya and Cointreau, but I stuck to Flor de Caña, [the local rum], ice, water and lime. All of them used as an argument against the FSLN that the Revolution has hurt most the very people whom it set out to help. (Actually Roberto didn’t say this.) But Luis says he is living very much the way he lived before. He says his salary is _ and he can’t find meat for his 2 Dobermans but he can always leave the country to get things he wants whereas the poor, the workers, cannot even buy the things they need because ”no hay.” He challenged me to me ask any poor person on the street if they are better off now than before. He said he had, and that the camposinos say that before the were not “free” in the way in which they are now told that they are free; but if they wanted to blow a week’s salary on something special they could because it existed in the marketplace. Now there are weeks when there is no rice or beans, or toilet paper, or toothpaste, or sugar, etc. Another criticism they had was that these goods, which are rationed, are now available in the “Super Mercados” at black market prices leading to the accusation that the shortages were always false. (Josh says that there was/is hoarding of staples in anticipation of an invasion and that releasing the goods now is basically to compete with and thus destroy the black market.) Luis also said it was mainly the sons of the poor who are being used as cannon fodder. (Of course most of the country is poor so…) They [Luis et. al.] feel locked out of the elections. Apparently at the AMLAE rally on Friday Daniel made a very inflammatory remark saying that when the war comes, it will not only be a war against the Contras and the Yanquis; but also a class war against the bourgeoisie. ? Daniel once belonged to the bourgeoisie and Luis hinted that he has never overcome his inferiority complex at not being upper class. I didn’t agree or disagree – simply listened politely and wondered how much time is left for these people. Well it’s 11:00 and everyone else is snoring. 3 classes tomorrow. Hope things are OK with Marvin. 1 Oct 1984 Just had a brochette and 2 cervezas at the Margarita Natural – the less good of the 2 cafes nearby. Since yesterday have become more class conscious and have come to realize that this nabe and these places (cafes) are really middle class enclaves. No wonder I fit in so well. It’s interesting how repugnant the people I visited yesterday seemed to me, vis-à-vis “the average Nicaraguan.” Their preoccupation with U.S.A. consumerism trips to Europe, Charmin and Scope. Speaking in tongues. Having cars and not picking up hitchhikers. Great quote for Peter Brosius’ play from Luis, -- “I don’t mind becoming a vegetarian for a week or 2 when there’s no meat, but I have 2 Doberman’s and they can’t exist on rice and beans!” And Patsy, the girlfriend of the German soup maker looked and acted like the perfect ”Stepford Wife.” Not buying a new car because they are “expecting (hoping for) an invasion.” Or the situation to become worse. They feel that they have given up enough and now they want a return to a status quo that no longer exist. Any way today was good if rather wasted. Taught a workshop to a group of soldiers – 4 women and 2 men who have a folkloric group. Was done by 9:30 AM and actually I could have left because my class to the 4th year students was cancelled because of a meeting. And the woman who was supposed to show in the afternoon didn’t. But when I went home to siesta I asked Teadora if the washerwoman could do my things and she said of course. So if it ever gets dry enough, I’ll have clean clothes. I spent the afternoon playing with Gabriel – the toddler son of Evangelina [director of the dance school]. Great kid, great mover. He can say “agua,” “mama,” and “pipi.” Danced with him. Talked with Memo – he asked if I wanted to change more money. I told him I wanted to go to a disco in Managua. He said he has 3 Novias (girlfriends/fiancées) and several women. He asked if I’ve smoked marijuana in Nicaragua. I denied it making a joke that it was impossible to obtain without a ration card. Marvin seemed fine, if distant. Made sure I told him I enjoyed meeting his family, which I really did. Having a piña pastel and a tamarindo refresco. (Pineapple cake and tamarind soft drink.) Every #119 that has passed by here tonight has been packed. I haven’t ridden a bus in 2 days. Have a rather full schedule coming up – Martes Morning class, Gloria’s class, help choreograph at the TV studio. Maybe pop in at Roqué Dalton. Miercoles 8 AM military group, morning class, teach instructors 4-5, Radio Mil Jueves Morning class, Gloria’s group, Instructors 4-5 at the school, Roqué Dalton, Mauricio’s group at ASTC, 8 PM dinner with Karen Viernes Morning group, Instructors 4-5 Sabado Tipitapa otra vez? 2 Oct 84 10 PM at the better of the 2 nabe cafes. Plato Tipico, (fried rice, beans, meat, cheese, bananas and that unidentified veg which is like an unsweet starchy banana.) And beer. One of my folkloric kids was here. Guess my Spanish wasn’t good enough ‘cause I asked him if he was meeting someone as a way of offering him a seat but he just left. I’ll see him Jueves. The waitress and several customers recognize me as a regular. “Otra cerveza, por Favor.” So this is what would happen if I won the lottery. I’d get drunk and pig out every night and go home alone. Hmmm! Last night had strange dissociation dreams. – Lost in the L.A. airport – people or strange forms in my room. Pain in the side. Taught a good “releasing” class to the 4th year students today. Memo didn’t take it. I don’t care what he says, he’s been in a heavy mood the last few days. The TV kids were fun. Used Group Motion “directing the orchestra exercise.” Then I helped with the choreography of a play. Then Gloria wanted to interview me for her radio program, but there was a problem at the studio. But I got to meet her boyfriend (Jazz musician from San Francisco). The more I meet North Americans here, the more it seems possible. Esther from the school has decided to stay. Probably accounts for my dissociation dreams. The whole household (except Josh who’s away interviewing someone, and Ken who went the Costa Rica with the kids so they can renew their visas) watched Daniel Ortega address the U.N. I caught about 75% of it with dictionary in hand. I hope the world hears him. Curious about the elections. Really depressed about being back there next week. 4 Oct 1984 Back at the better restaurant. Waitress loves me. Must be the tip I leave on top of the service charge. How to describe the last couple of days? If I hadn’t convinced myself that I would be of more help to this country Stateside than here, I’m sure I’d be having more than second thoughts about leaving. As it is I’m already planning to return. I said so on the radio. So Patricia’s husband is the (a) chief of police. I knew there was a reason she intimidated me. Before classes in the afternoon, she gave a synopsis of Daniel’s speech before the U.N. and told them if they wanted, they should check out the text in “Barricada.” Gloria said that this used to happen more often. It wasn’t heavy – just a “For Your Information.” I taught a class to the soldiers who have a folkloric group. I took a photo of them. But when I told them I wanted a photo of them in their uniforms they told me it was forbidden. I taught a short class [to the 4th years?] after Evangelina insisted. They wanted to rehearse “Bamba” because they were going to have a presentation today. I taught a short class using the “orchestra improvisation” then let them rehearse. My “vigrón” arrives. Strange combo of cracklin’ and a weird starchy vegetable slaw. My taco seems to be all pure beef, no queso, ni chili. She forgot. Oh well, no importa, I’m stuffed. My old waitress just asked where I’m from and what I’m doing. I can’t believe I’m leaving this place on Sunday. Told her I’ll be back in Febrero. It’s amazing, I’m at the point of tears. Asked the waitress the name of the strange vegetable. “Yucca.” Asked if I didn’t like it. Mas o Menos. Memo and I have a date to go to the disco tomorrow night. Last night Josh returned from watching sea turtles lay their eggs. He had more mosquito bites than I’ve ever seen on one person. He pointed out the supreme irony of a country at war trying to protect the eggs of sea turtles from people who rob their nests on the beach to sell the eggs at market. It’s cool tonight. I almost passed out from walking in the heat today. Stood up again by Dr. Brundy. A Chilean friend of Margaret’s had just arrived. At the television class today I arrived late and drenched from a downpour and tired from the heat. Taught primarily yoga – sun salute, alternate nostril breathing – plus a little group improv to Keith Jarret. Afterwards they presented me with presents – a hat, some posters ? great because I couldn’t find them anywhere. We made speeches, had Cokes. I came back [to the School] to teach a good class – similar – to the instructors. Just ordered my fourth cerveza. New waitress asked questions also. Asked if I was writing to mi novia – No – but how to explain these “reflexiones?” The folkloric group cancelled because they had a presentation tonight. So I wound up talking to 3 students from the class of instructors for about 1 _ hours. And with David, a 14 year old student who’s really quite incredible. Real bright, real sharp and a good mover. Wants to dance like Michael Jackson. Found out that “chaon” is the local pejorative for “faggot.” Did a little consciousness raising without taking the step of being really personal. Francisco “Chico” definitely will be when he grows up. He’s 17. And Dennis, I’m sure is. Raquel is a real hot sexy number, but in talking to her tonight, I saw a sharp-as-tacks sensibility toward work and her desire to be an actress. Nicaraguans all have either horrible “tercer mundo” teeth or incredibly perfect ones. Hanging off the back of camionettas, sodas from plastic bags, boys selling boxes of gum, matches, cigarettes in restaurants like this one. Women with parasols. Ate lunch at a good Chinese Restaurant today. Found, with Josh, the Evangelical store that sells postcards and tapes, but they were closed for lunch. Stopped by Casa Nicaragua de Español and had a small ego trip because I spoke better than the gringa who works there. There are signs everywhere saying that “aquí solo hablamos Español” and she came over and asked “and where do you come from?” and I continued the conversation in Español. Turns out that for 2 years she lived across the street from me [in NYC]. Pigs and cows in the streets. Josh thinks he has malaria and I think I have hepatitis . He got clucked at for wearing shorts and swore at the ones who did the clucking. Heard myself on the radio. Signing off. [This is the last entry. The spiral notebook is filled with Spanish vocabulary and verb conjugations. Also people’s names and addresses. There is also a draft of the narrative of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. And drafts of letters to my Senators and Congressman opposing U.S. involvement in Nicaragua.] The following night My last Friday. This all comes through the filter of 15 years. More presents and gifts and speeches and cake form the students and teachers at the school. Memo and I had a date to go to a Managua discotheque. I took him and Marvin out to one of the nearby cafes for dinner and a lot of rum, ice and lime. I recall that Memo said something really suggestive at dinner using one of the napkins as a prop. We went back to the house. Marvin had to change out of his fatigues because they didn’t let soldiers in uniform into the disco. I remember the strange sound of a frog croaking in the street. In my room, Josh was out of town again, Marvin changed. He must have had civvies in his bag. At some point Memo took my Instamatic and opened his pants and took snapped a photo of his penis. He did the international “eye thing” for “do you want …” We went into my bathroom where we had sex while Marvin waited on Josh’s bed. I’m sure this had all been worked out before. The 3 of us went off to the disco. I remember thinking how ironic it was to be in a country where there was a civil sponsored by the USA and I was dancing in to the Village People singing “YMCA.” Memo and Marvin came back to the house for their stuff. Because Marvin lived in Tipitapa (don’t know where Memo lived but it was far) they needed to stay at the house. This made me nervous as I was sure Lolita wouldn’t approve. Marvin slept on my bed and Memo and I slept on Josh’s. I tried to initiate some making out but he stopped me saying “despues.” Later. They got up early in the morning and I hurried them out. There was an awkward moment when Memo wanted to take my shaving cream and other toiletries and I didn’t let him. I’m not sure why. Maybe it felt too much like payment for services rendered. I felt bad about that immediately after. They left and the only person to see them was Lolita’s husband. But he’s silent because of his stroke. When Josh got back later that day, he teased me saying “and who’s been sleeping in my bed.” Had to go back up to Claudia’s one last time to say good-bye and thanks and to pick-up some thing’s I’d left there. I still haven’t returned. [A few updates: Sometime later I ran into Gloria Bacon coming out of Tower Records on Broadway in NYC. A student of mine at the American Dance Festival when hearing that I’d been in Nicaragua asked if I knew Dr. Marvin F. He had been a visiting professor of dance at Williams College. I hear Memo is doing very well in stage design. I never met Dr. Karen Brundy. Evangelina had to move back to Mexico (I don’t think I realized that she was Mexican when I was there.) Her little boy, Gabriel drowned in a pool. To this day, I’ve never gone back.] December 1999