Sandinistas

(I started writing this post while in Nicaragua but couldn't complete it at the time.)

The father of Marfa´s children, El Apache (nickname), asked me last week if I wanted to go to Managua on Saturday, July 19^th, to see the revolution rally. I didn´t know what he was talking about, so he explained the event to me: on July 19^th, 1979, Nicaragua got rid of their dictator, Samoza, so this day has become a national holiday and every year Sandinistas throughout the country flood in caravans to the Plaza in Managua to hear speeches and rally together. I accepted and brought along my friend Jacqueline, who works with me in the tourism office. We went to the basketball stadium, which is where everyone was supposed to meet in order to go to Managua – they provide free transportation for the rally and the majority of buses skip their normal route and take people to the Plaza.

While we were waiting, we both got free hats that say FSLN (the Sandinista National Liberation Front and modern iteration of the Sandinistas) and someone else promised me a bright red FSLN shirt. We ran into El Apache, who was sitting in the back of a white truck that had two giant (4-foot tall) stand-up speakers and a microphone sound system hooked up. Revolutionary music blasted. He invited Jacqueline and me to ride with them in the truck, which would lead the way for the San Ramón caravan to Managua. We were both pretty excited since this meant we would avoid the sticky heat and crowdedness of the bus and instead enjoy the scenery and music of the truck. Jacqueline snagged a Sandinista flag for me, which we both enthusiastically waved until a group of guys standing next to the truck attempted to steal a flag that was attached to the car. Jacqueline immediately hid the flag behind our jackets so that nobody would forcibly take my souvenir.

At around 10 am, Lolo (the man wielding the microphone and apparently responsible for organizing San Ramón’s caravan) addressed the buses, trucks and motorcycles parked behind us, saying it was time to leave for Managua .Thus, the procession began. I discovered how many people were traveling to Managua when we met up with a caravan from anther city. Both in front of us and behind us, all I could see was a line of buses that continued past the horizon. When we drove through towns, clusters of people along the side of the road cheered and waved their Sandinista flags. I learned that the appropriate response to this was to return the cheers and the waving of the flag, and sometimes to include a genial wave of the hand. I felt like a town beauty pageant contestant, waving at my adoring fans from my fortress of a float. I had to remind myself that we were celebrating the demise of a dictator, not a beauty pageant victory. It took us around 4 hours to travel 130 km to the national capital.

Once there, we parked in what looked like the town dump, scenically located next to the Lake of Nicaragua. There were two guys that jumped on the truck with Jacqueline and me, so the four of us separated from the adults and headed off to find Jacqueline and me a bathroom. We stopped at a random house on the main street and asked the teenager who opened the door if we could use their restroom. She hesitated for a second and asked specifically if I needed to use the bathroom, and Jacqueline nodded vigorously, hoping to speed the process along. The girl seemed to like the idea of helping out a foreigner so she let us both through. “The bathroom is through the kitchen. Be sure to close the door and watch out for the pig,” she warned us as we hurried through the house to the back. We opened the back door to discover a large mud puddle, the pig, and their bathroom. The bathroom consisted of a wooden three-walled structure with a hole in the ground and a plastic ‘guiding device’. I was really surprised by the bathroom – I guess I was rather naïve to assume that bathrooms in Managua would have flushing toilets. This was a step down from the toilets I was accustomed to in the countryside, which shocked me.

Jacqueline warned me to watch my bag as we approached a huge fairground, where hundreds of people were selling balloons, jewelry, toys, food and hard liquor. I couldn’t believe how many people were there –red and white, the colors of most people’s t-shirts, consumed the landscape as all I could see were bodies milling around. One site said there were around 400,000 people there, which floors me. I’ve never seen so many people in my life.

It was incredibly surreal being part of this massive crowd of people. I just stood, listening to the layered sounds of revolutionary music, cheering and singing voices, and this creepy, slowed-down recording that rasped, “Viva Sandino” that randomly played. Whenever I heard it, I felt like I was in a horror film. There was a huge stage in front of us, where all the high-and-mighty of Nicaragua stood socializing, talking on their phone, or taking in the view of the crowd. One girl up on stage apparently wasn’t used to being in the limelight since she snapped a picture of herself with the hoard of people in the background, watching her. We saw Daniel Ortega, Nicaragua’s president, at the event. However, when Hugo Chavez appeared on the stage, I was starstruck. Apparently he and Daniel gave speeches that mentioned America’s imperialism, but we left before the speeches began.

After standing and sweating (it was really hot) for about two hours, we left at 6:30 to head back to the truck. It was nearly impossible to squeeze through the crowd – we formed a hand-holding chain so that none of us got lost. We dodged giant mud puddles and slipped by peripheral fist-fights to break out of the crowd. I let out a sigh of relief when we had reached an opening and wiggled my hand free to wipe off the sweat. On the main street, there were still hundreds of people milling around and at least a dozen who had completely passed out on the side of the road, serving as an obstruction to the passers-by. We got to the truck safe and sound, although my friend Frederman came back a little lighter as someone had snatched his wallet during our trek back to the truck.

The drive back was beautiful – I laid down in the truck bed and rested my head on Jacqueline’s stomach while looking up at the stars. Lolo, the guy who wielded the microphone, went a little loco for the Caballo, a type of rum in Nicaragua, so by the end of the night he was trying to grab my feet and tie my shoelaces together.

I really want to go back next year for the 30^th anniversary – it will be phenomenal.