To Die in Nicaragua, thoughts on the 30th anniversary of Ben Linder's assassination.

Mural of Ben Linder in Esteli, Nicaragua by Mike Alewitz. Painted in  1989. 

Thirty years ago, on April 28th, a young American was killed in Nicaragua. His name was Ben Linder and he was twenty-seven years old.

Because Ben Linder studied circus arts, he was almost certainly knowledgable about the archetype of the holy fool. While a fool is someone who behaves in ways that invite ridicule, the holy fool is someone who uses foolish behavior  to reveal deeper truths and show a better way. The holy fool has taken many forms in different times and places. In early Christianity fools for Christ, sometimes naked, roamed from town to town testing the populace’s capacity for compassion. Shakespeare's plays are full of fools who make king’s laugh only to realize mid-guffaw that the laugh is on them. The holy fool is prominent in Native American cultures tweaking vanity and self-importance at every turn. Circus clowns come on like buffoons , but by the end of the show the audience realizes they are the smartest ones under the big top.

Ben Linder dressed up as a clown, peddled his unicycle, and juggled in the Nicaraguan countryside  while a US funded war was raging. He was assassinated by Contra troops. The term “assassinated” is the correct one to use. The Contras were funded, trained, and supervised by the CIA in order to overthrow the Sandinista revolution. It strains credibility to think that these mercenaries would have killed a well known American Citizen on their own. You can bet someone gave the nod to take out Ben Linder. 

It is apparent that Linder was also a hell of an engineer, since in the middle of a war, he managed to get a damn constructed that brought electricity to El Cuá, the village where he had settled. However it was his clowning that caught the imagination of people in Nicaragua and the US. He is depicted on murals across Nicaragua and he is always shown on his unicycle, made up, red nose in place, objects flying from his hands into the air. He performed for children during vaccination campaigns, distracting them, making them laugh, filling them with wonder while they waited for their drops and injections. However, as a holy fool, his true audience was the US and the world. He modeled that the US could relate to Nicaragua in a better way. It was possible to be loving, helpful, collaborative, and delightful. Instead of hateful, destructive, imperialistic and brutal. This example was more threatening and enraging to then president Ronald Reagan and his cronies than building damns. 

The CIA set the policy during the Contra war of killing non-combatants who were working to make Nicaragua a better place. They kill teachers, literacy workers, farmers, medical personnel, and a holy fool; a sweet, decent, American kid.

        On the anniversary of Ben Linder's assassination I visited his grave with a group organized by Casa Ben Linder. Several people on the trip had known him well and they shared personal stories. One man told me they had been friends as young men and that his first child had been born two days after Ben's death. Another woman said that he had lived with her family for an extended period. Later, I heard these two people talking and the woman said to the man, I remember you. You use to come over to play pingpong with Ben on my grandfather's table. Many people spoke of Ben in political, anti-imperialistic terms, but what came across more clearly for me was the personal connection that he had with his friends in his adopted country. His grave is in a cemetery on a hillside on the outskirts of Matagalpa. The grave is not easy to find and it is a steep climb to get to it. On this day, there was a large, beautiful arrangement of roses provided by the Sandinistas in recognition of his status as a national hero and martyr.

"He was the sunrise in the smile of the children who saw him in his clown suit, illuminating the future we are constructing together in the new Nicaragua", Daniel Ortega. 

Now it is 2017, and thirty years later, the US continues to meddle in the internal affairs of this tiny, impoverished country. Representatives Ileana Ros-Lehtinen, Republican of Florida and Albio Sires, Democrat of New Jersey, recently introduced, for the second year in a row, the NICA Act. This bill would block international credit to Nicaragua unless it complied with the US’s wishes about how it runs itself. Nicaragua is not perfect. We know this because no country in the world is. However, sovereign states, especially those like Nicaragua who are not a threat to anyone, have the right to struggle with their own imperfections without outside interference.

The anniversary of Ben Linder’s assassination would be an appropriate time for for us to swear off imperialism toward Nicaragua or any other country.

Adios, viejo

This story was written in Spanish and translated into English. It is a children's story for adults about saying goodbye.

Parte 1

En la mañana, cuando el viejo estaba todavía acostado en su cama, llegaron todos sus hijos, nietos y bisnietos para decir adios.

Su hijo mayor le preguntó: ?Papi, a donde vas?

El viejo le respondió: No se.

El bisnieto mas joven le dijo: ?Papi, porque se va?

“Es mi tiempo, mi principe. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy alegre.”

(In the morning, when the old man was still laying in his bed, all his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren came to say goodbye.

His oldest son asked him, "Dad, where are you going?"

The old man responded, "I don't know."

His youngest great grandchild said, "Pop, why are you going?"

"It is my time, my prince. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very happy day.")

Parte 2

Mas tarde en la mañana, cuando el viejo estaba sentado tomando un cafecito en  ropa interior, llegaron todos sus amigos para decir adios.

?Loco, a donde vas? le pregunto Memo.

El viejo le respondió: No se, hermano.

Pancho le dijo: ?Maje, porque te vas?

“Es mi tiempo, mis compadres. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy amistoso.”

(Later in the morning, when the old man was sitting and drinking a cup of coffee in his underware, all his friends arrived to say goodbye.

"Crazy-one, where are you going?" Memo asked him.

The old man responded, "I don't know, brother."

Pancho said to him, "Buddy, why are you leaving?"

"It is my time, my companions. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very friendly day.")

Parte 3

A medio día, cuando el viejo estaba almorzando, vestido con pantalones, llegaron todos sus amantes para decir adios.

La flaquita y la gordita dijeron: ?Desgraciado, a donde vas?

“No se.”

La negrita y la morena le preguntaron: ?Porque se va, maldito?

“Es mi tiempo, mis amores. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy caliente.”

(In the middle of the day, when the old man was eating his lunch, wearing his pants, all his old girlfriends came to say goodbye.

The lithe one and the voluptuous one said, "You wretch, where are you going/"

"I don't know."

The black one and the brown one asked him, "Damn you, why are you going?"

"It is my time, my loves. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very horny day.")

Parte 4

En la tarde, cuando el viejo estaba acostado en su hamaca, vestido en pantalones y camisa, llegaron todos sus enemigos para decir adios.

Chancho le preguntó: ?Hijo de la grand puta, a donde vas?

“No se.”

“?Porque se va, imbecil?”

“Es mi tiempo, hombres. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy indulgente.”

(In the afternoon, when the old man was laying in his hammock, dressed in his pants and shirt, all his enemies showed up to say goodbye.

Piggy asked him, "You son of a whore, where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you going, asshole?"

"It is my time, fellows. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very forgiving day.")

Parte 5

  A noche, cuando el viejo estaba esperando su tiempo, vestido con toda su ropa bonita incluyendo su sombrero elegante, su cinturón de piel de culebra, y su corbata con la piedra de turquesa, llego la señora.

Ella le dijo: Yo se donde vas, mi amor.

“Si.”

“Yo se porque tu se va.”

“Si.”

“Llevamé contigo.”

“Si. Por supuesto! En mi corazón. En mi sangre. En mis huesos. Escuche me, mi vida, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy glorioso.”

El viejo subió volando en el aire, encima del techo, encima de los arboles, encima de los nubes, y se desapareció. 

(At night, when the old man was waiting for his time, dressed in his prettiest clothes, including his elegant hat, his snakeskin belt, and his tie with the turquoise stone, his wife came.

She told him, "I know where you're going."

"Yes"

"I know why you are going."

"Yes"

"Take me with you."

"Yes. Of course! In my heart. In my blood. In my bones. Listen to me, my life, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very glorious day.

The old man flew up into the air, above the roof, above the trees, above the clouds, and disappeared.)

   

Matar El Tigre

Portrait of me by the artist Mario Jarquin Escobar.

 Here is the third short story (flash fiction) I've written in Spanish. You can find the other two earlier in this blog. They all seem to be about relations between men and women in a Nicaraguan context. It is a way for me to try to get deeper into the culture... and into the language.

 Matar el Tigre

El artista viejo fue a la inauguración de una exposición de un artista cuarenta años mas joven que el, quien se llamo Mario. El conoció al joven anteriormente y tuvo todo respeto para su talento. También tuvo celos porque Mario estuvo empezando su camino y el viejo estuvo terminando suyo. 

El exposición fue en La Galería Cristal en El Teatro Nacional Ruben Darío, un evento elegante en un espacio elegante. Había palabras de alabanza por el director cultural del gobierno y palabras de gracias por el artista. Al final había un rifa por los patronatos de la exposición, Flor de Caña y Arte Sur. Todos los asistentes tuvieron papelitos con números. 

El director sacó un numero y dijo, “120!” 

Una mujer tocó el brazo del artista viejo y le dijo, “Ando sin mis lenses! No puedo leer mi numero.” 

El le dijo a ella, “Lo siento, señora. Usted no ganó. Tiene el 88.” 

Ella le dijo, “?Y usted, mi amor? Ganó?” 

“Tampoco. Yo tengo el 50.” 

Se rieron. 

El empezó a salir, pero otra vez ella tocó su brazo y le dijo, “Mi amor, soy soltera sin compromisos y estoy buscando.”

El artista viejo miró a la mujer. Ella no era joven, pero el tampoco. Sus ojos eran grandes. Sus labios eran rojos. Tuvo un cuerpo amplio y sensual.

“Amiga,” le dijo. “Ha hecho esta noche muy interesante, pero no tengo interesa. Tengo mi señora.”

“Caballero, a mi no me importa.”

“Pero a mi, si.  Me importa mucho. Muy buenas noches.”

El besó su mejilla y salió. 

El artista viejo fue a su carro y manejo a la casa. Cuando entró a la cocina sintió un hambre grande en su estómago. Fue al refrigerador y sacó huevos, cebollas, ajo, tomate, jalapeños, queso, y aceite de olivas para hacer una omelette. Encendió el radio para oír música ranchero. Cocinó y bailo y cantó. La comida olio rica y le dio mucho apetito.

Por primera vez en mas de un año no pensó en dolor, no pensó en sangre, no pensó en noches sin dormir, no pensó en cancer, no pensó en la manera en que su esposa morió. Solamente pensó, “Estoy viviendo y tengo mucho hambre. Es la hora de matar el tigre!” 

To Kill The Tiger

The old artist went to an exhibition of an artist forty years younger than him named Mario. He had met the young artist before and had a lot of respect for his talent. Also he was jealous of him because Mario was starting his career and the old artist was at the end of his.

The exhibition was in the Crystal Gallery of the Ruben Darío National Theater, an elegant event in an elegant space. There were words of appreciation from the culture director of the government and works of thanks from the artist. Finally there was a raffle put on by the sponsors of the event, Flor de Caña and Arte Sur. All those in attendance had little slips of paper with numbers.

The director pulled a number and said, “120!”

A woman touched the old artist’s arm and said to him, “I don’t have my glasses! I can’t read my number.”

He told her, “I’m sorry. You didn’t win. You have 88.”

She said to him, “And you, my love? Did you win?”

“Not me either. I have 50.”

They laughed.

He started to leave, but again she touched his arm and said, “My love, I’m single. I don’t have any commitments and I’m looking.”

The old artist looked at the woman. She wasn’t young, but neither was he. Her eyes were big. Her lips were red. She had an ample, sensual body.

“Friend,” He said to her. “You have made tonight vey interesting, but I’m not interested. I have a wife.”

“Gentleman, to me that doesn’t matter.”

“But to me it does. It matters a lot. Good night.”

He kissed her cheek and left.

The old artist went to his car and drove home. When he entered the kitchen, he felt a huge hunger in his stomach. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out eggs, onions, garlic, tomato, jalapeños, and olive oil to make an omelette. He turned on the radio to hear ranchero music. He cooked and danced and sang. The food smelled great and gave him a big appetite.

For the first time in more than a year he didn’t think about pain. He didn’t think about blood. He didn’t think about sleepless nights. He didn’t think about cancer. He didn’t think about the way his wife died. He only thought, “I’m living and I’m very hungry. It is time to kill off that hunger.

Multi-generational Global Citizenship

This post is part of Blogging Abroad's 2017 New Years Blog Challenge, week one: Global Citizenship.

When I was thirteen in 1958 I went to Havana with my father for a long weekend. We lived in Miami at the time and he worked as a baggage handler for Pan American Airlines. The trip, including a couple of nights at the Hotel Nacional, was essentially free. A father-son trip like this was out of character for my dad and me. I was very affiliated with my mother and he and I didn’t have much to say to each other. I would guess there was some unspoken reason for the trip; some instigation on my mother’s part, some crises in their very stormy relationship. Who knows? But there I was in Havana at the height of the “gangsterismo” era, with the corrupt, murderous dictator Batista just hanging on by his finger tips. However, still enjoying the full support of the US government and still profiting massively from Mafia kickbacks for gambling, prostitution, and drugs. At the time, I knew nothing about this nor about the looming revolution. It is possible that bombs were going off in Havana, possible that revolutionaries were being hauled off to be tortured and murdered.

My father hit the casinos and I hit the streets. My memories are 58 years old and, of course, not to be fully trusted, but I think I was pretty much on my own. If I did anything with my father other than sleep in the same hotel room, I don’t remember it. I do remember wandering along the Malecón and watching boys about my age swimming and fishing naked from the sea wall. I remember walking along broad avenues, back streets, and wide plazas where it seemed every surface was covered in intricately patterned ceramic tile. I remember music in the parks, on the street corners and blasting from the bars. Everything had a sexual charge. I was 13, of course everything had a sexual charge.

As near as I can reconstruct it, I was in Cuba for between 48 and 72 hours. The family history is that my father lost all his money and we flew home early. As with many events in my family, this could either be accurate or it could be the version of the events that made the best story.

I believe this brief vacation was the start of my concept of myself as a global citizen; as someone who looks at the world with a broader perspective than can be provided by citizenship in only one country. The trip was on the eve of the triumph of the revolution. Within months, maybe within weeks, Batista would flee and a victorious Castro would enter Havana. The timing primed me to pay attention to everything that happened afterwards and substantially contributed to my left-wing, radical thinking in terms of politics, economics, history and culture.

Flash forward 58 years and I’m 71 years old and a Peace Corps volunteer living and working with my wife Deborah Drew in Chinanadega, Nicaragua, acknowledged by everyone to be the hottest city in a very hot country. 

I am also the oldest volunteer currently serving in Nicaragua. A big majority of Peace Corps volunteers are in their early to mid twenties. 

Just before Christmas, my step daughter, Helen Devol, my wife’s daughter, comes to visit with her family; her husband Dave and their three kids, Sammy 17, Simon 14, and Tess 11. They are amazing kids! OK. So I’m their grandfather and not objective. So sue me. I know exceptional when I see it. I’m going to focus here on Simon, the fourteen year old.

In addition to being smart, funny, and good looking, he is also the most kinetic kid I’ve ever known. I don’t mean hyperactive or ADD. He is perfectly capable of sitting still and concentrating for extended periods when its called for, but his default setting is physical play. Any object he encounters in the environment is an invitation to climb, run, jump, bounce, flip, balance, etc. He carries an iPhone 7 with him and documents all his antics in photos and videos. He is a fireworks fanatic, a fascination he shares with his dad. They both love blowing shit up.

The point, besides how wonderful Simon is, is that he is a global citizen. Since he was 10 he has been going to the international children’s camps, LPC (Luethi-Peterson Camps). He spends four to six weeks every summer with a group of campers from all over the world and he has attended camps in Spain and Italy. Now he has had this experience of traveling around Nicaragua for two weeks. I am hoping it will have some of the same effect on him that my time in Cuba, at the same age, had on me. I see in him a desire for new experiences, a willingness to engage with whatever comes his way, a non-judging openness that is rare in US teenagers. 

We spend New Years Eve with our neighbors in Chinandega, eating roast pork, drinking rum, translating back and fourth between English and Spanish, and setting off fireworks. A little after midnight a “torro” emerges from the car wash down the street. It is a large cardboard construction in the general shape of a bull that has been loaded with fireworks of every size and description. The young men of the neighborhood get inside it (where they are relatively protected), light the fuse, and chase people up and down the street while the bull shoots rockets in all directions. Simon takes one look at the contraption and can’t believe his luck at being in this place at this time. With a huge smile he says, “Oh my god! This is really dangerous! My goal is to touch it while it is exploding.” He achieves his goal more than once.

 

http://www.hotelnacionaldecuba.com/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malec%C3%B3n,_Havana

https://luethipetersoncamps.org/

Vamos a volver a esta conversación en diez años

      I went to a writing workshop sponsored by Sociedad de Escritores Ramon Romero with the Nicaraguan writer Ulises Juárez Polanco. I wrote my second short-short story in Spanish. You can read the first one in the previous post.

      This is the way these stories have come about: I have a conversation with someone and hear something that seems universal to me - experiencing the frailty of old age, coming to terms with the loss of a father, the ways men can mess up relationships even when they are important to them - but, the context seems specifically Nicaraguan and I wonder if I really understand what is going on for the person. Then, in two cases at least, I write fiction based on the conversation and my understanding of it. It seems to me that if I can write a story that rings true I am at least on my way to a deeper understanding of the culture.

     So here is the story as written in Spanish and translated into English:

Vamos a volver a esta conversación en diez años

Después de la clase de Ingles, los dos amigos, Memo y Chema, fueron a tomar a El Refugio. Memo era mas joven que Chema por diez años. Tuvo veinte años y Chema tuvo treinta.

En el bar, hablaron sobre varias cosas; sobre como el Ingles es un idioma loco, sobre beisbol y el inicio de los juegos de los Tigres, sobre cual chica de la clase de Ingles era la mas caliente, sobre si vale la pena ir a EEUU para trabajar.

La mesera era una mujer gordita y guapa. Cuando ella llegó con las Toñas, pasó tiempo en la mesa platicando y sonriendo. Siempre tocó el hombro de Chema y le preguntó, “?Que quiere, mi amor? ?Algo mas, mi amor?”

A las seis de la tarde, había doce botellas de Toña vacías en la mesa. Chema miró su celular y dijo a su amigo, “Tengo que salir pronto. Mi esposa me busca. Ya esta enojada conmigo.” Los amigos tomaron en silencio un rato. Luego, Memo le dijo lo siguiente a Chema:

“No voy a votar. Se que Daniel va a ser presidente, pero el no me gusta. No creó trabajo en Nicaragua. Cuando no hay trabajo, los hombre tienen que salir a buscar otras oportunidades. Mi papá fue a Los Estados Unidos cuando yo tuve ocho años. Fue para ayudar a la familia, pero el nos olvidó. Olvidó a mi mama, a mi hermanito, y a mi. Ahora tiene otra familia. No he hablado con el por ocho años. Cuando tuve quince años fue muy duro. Tuve que ayudar bastante a mi mamá. Ahora soy hombre y me  vale verga. Es mejor. Aprendi. Se que tipo de hombre quiero ser. Cuando este con mi pareja y mis hijos, siempre me quedaré con ellos. Voy a trabajar y cuidar de ellos. Nunca voy a olvidar a mi familia.”  

La mesera volvió. Ella presionó su cadera contra el hombro de Chema. Ella le preguntó, “?Algo mas, mi amor?” El puso su mano en la de ella y le respondió, “?Como no, guapa? Traigame una Toña bien fría y una orden de alitas bien picante.”

Chema  le dijo a su amigo joven, “Cuando tuve su edad, pensé lo mismo que me acaba de contar, pero con tiempo las cosas cambiaron. Vamos a  volver a esta conversación otra vez en diez años. Vos habla conmigo cuando tengas treinta años y cuando estés casado por diez años.” 

We’re going to return to this conversation again in ten years.

After their English class, the two friends, Memo y Chema, went to get something to drink at The Refuge. Memo was younger than Chema by ten years. He was twenty and Chema was thirty.

In the bar they talked about this and that; about how English was a crazy language, about baseball and the start of the Tiger’s season, about which girl in the English class was the hottest, about if it would be worth it to go the United States to work. 

The waitress was a plump, good looking woman. When she arrived with their Toñas, she spent time at the table, chatting and smiling. She always touched Chema’s shoulder and asked, “What do you want, my love? Can I get you anything else, my love?”

By six o’clock, there were twelve empty Toña bottles on their table. Chema looked at his cell phone and said to his friend. “I got to go soon. My wife is looking for me. She’s already pissed at me.” The friends drank in silence for a bit. Then Memo said the following to Chema:

“I’m not going to vote. I know Daniel will be president, but I don’t like him. He hasn’t created jobs in Nicaragua. When there are no jobs the men have to leave to look for other opportunities. My father went to the United States when I was eight. He went to help the family, but then he forgot about us. He forgot about my mom, my little brother, and me. Now he’s got another family. I haven't spoken to him in eight years. When I was fifteen it was very hard. I had to help my mom a lot. Now I’m a man and I don’t give a fuck. It is better. I learned. I know what kind of man I want to be. When I’ve got a wife and kids I’m going to stick with them. I’m going to working take care of them. I’ll never forget about them.”

The waitress returned. She pressed her hip against Chema’s shoulder. She asked him, “Anything else, mi love?” He put his hand in hers and said, “Why not, good looking? Bring me a real cold Toña and an order of real spicy wings.”

Chema said to his younger friend. “When I was your age I thought the same thing that you just told me, but with time things changed. We’re going to  return to this conversation again in ten years. Talk to me when you’re thirty and you’ve been married for ten years.”

100 Maneras En Que Un Viejo Puede Morir

I went to a writing workshop given by a Nicaraguan writer named Arquímedes González Torres. I wrote a short-short story in Spanish! This is a new use of Spanish for me. Usual I speak functional, day to day Spanish. It was exciting and challenging to try to use my second language to convey something more evocative and suggestive. Here it is with a translation.

100 Maneras en que un Viejo Puede Morir

Había un hombre viejo sentado en una silla plástica en el patio tomando un cafecito. El estaba pensando sobre una flaquita morena que conoció por tiempo corto cuando tuvo diez y ocho años. No la había visto a ella por cincuenta años, pero no había una semana durante todos los años  en que el no tenia la imagen de ella en su mente.

El miró a la planta de pitaya. Había fruta madura.  Hace cuarenta años un murciélago cagó en la parte superior de la pared y la planta creció. El viejo ha estado comiendo fruta deliciosa de esta planta para medio de su vida. El trajo su escalera de madera y su machete. Subió para cortar la fruta. 

La esposa gritó, “?Viejo, que estas haciendo?  ?Estas loco? No tiene veinte años. A su edad, cada día, hay cien maneras en que usted puede morir.”

El viejo bajó y presentó la fruta a la esposa. “Aqui tienes, mi corazón,” le dijo, “por favor hazme fresco.” Regresó a tomando su cafecito negro, fuerte y dulce. El nieto estaba dibujando con tiza en el piso. La esposa estaba cantando en la cocina un canción sobre flores y pájaros. Así es la vida del viejo, pero también el tuvo una vida de memoria donde una chica flaca, sin zapatos, esta besando sus labias y el corazón de este hombre todavía tiene diez y ocho años. 

100 Ways An Old Man Can Die

There was an old man seated in a plastic chair in his patio drinking a cup of coffee. He was thinking about a skinny, dark skinned girl he knew briefly when he was eighteen years old. He hasn't seen her in fifty years, but during all those years there hasn’t been a week when he hasn't had the image of her in his mind.

He looked at his pitaya plant. There were ripe fruit. Forty years ago a bat shit on the top of the wall and the plant grew. The old man has been eating delicious fruit from the plant for half his life. He got his wooden ladder and his machete. He climbed up to cut the fruit.

His wife yelled, “Old man, what are you doing? Are you crazy? At your age, everyday, there are a hundred ways you could die!”

The old man came down and presented the fruit to his wife. “Here you go, my heart,” he said to her. “Please make me juice.” He went back to drinking his black, strong, sweet coffee. His grandson was drawing with chalk on the floor. His wife was singing in the kitchen a song about flowers and birds. This is what the old man’s life was like, but also he had a life of memory where a skinny, barefoot girl is kissing his lips and where his heart is still eighteen years old.  

(The illustration is an old drawing I made about ten years ago.)

There is a close of service date coming up.

There is a small patio area in back of our house. Soon after we arrived here in Chinandega, I was walking through the market and saw some pants for sale. I decided I’d buy a couple to plant by the fence that separates our back yard from our neighbor's. I enquired about the plants and was told that one would produce white flowers. I took it home and borrowed a shovel to dig a hole for it. My neighbour, Carolina, said, “You know that plant is going to get very big.” I said, “In two years I’m going to leave, and it will be your problem.” Fortunately, Carolina thinks all my jokes are funny, or maybe she thinks it is funny that I try to make jokes in Spanish. Anyway, she laughed and repeated it to her grandmother who also laughed.

It has been touch and go for that plant. At first it withered down to a twig and a couple of dried out leaves. Then it came back and was looking quite robust, but ants got at it and whittled it back down. With the start of the rains this year, it got very healthy, grew to a waist high bush and is flowering profusely. The neighbors admire it. I admire it every morning when Deb and I sit out there to have our morning coffee and play cribbage. I take photos of the blossoms. These are my thoughts about that plant: the both of us, me and the plant, are putting down roots in Nicaragua. However, I know that my time in Nicaragua has an expiration date. It may be in June of 2017. It may be later, but eventually I’m going to uproot myself and go back home. The plant is going to stay. The neighbors are going to stay. What I leave behind is going to be somebody else's problem.

It is an interesting aspect of being a Peace Corps volunteer that an essential part of the service is community integration. We live as a member of the community and have strong ties of friendship and family. However, we are clearly extranjeros, foreigners. And it is also clear that we are not immigrating permanently. From time to time, someone will say to me, “John, with your US money you are a rich man here. You could live here like a king.” I reply, “I think about it, but I miss my family and friends too much. That is why I have to go back.” That is reasoning that Nicaraguans understand and respect. Everyone has a father or brother or son who is living as a foreigner in the US or Costa Rica or Spain. They are there for economic reasons, but the longing for home is pretty universal.

Therefore, I think one of the challenges Peace Corps presents is how to live with intensity and authenticity as a member of the community while knowing you are extranjero and that there is a close of service date coming up. I really fit in in Chinandega. I have friends and a host family that looks out for me. I’m part of the community health system and I’m part of the cultural life of the city. I introduce people to each other and they say, “Oh, you know John, too? Small world.” I don’t hold back on getting involved. However, I maintain as part of my consciousness that my presence here is temporary. I have conversations about leaving when it comes up. People ask me, “When you go home will you come back to visit?” I say, “Yes but only as a vacation. I won’t be living here.” One buddy says all the time, ”John, in 2017, I’m going. I’m going North.” I say, “Wait till June then you can come and visit me.” He says, “OK. June 2017, I’m going.” Of course, everyone will be fine without me. They were fine before I showed up. I think I’ll be missed, and life in Chinandega will go on. People tell fond stories about volunteers who have come and gone. They’ll tell fond stories about me. “John, buena gente.”

The thought that is coming up next, may be more weighty than the bush with the white flowers can support, but así es. (…so it is.) All of this is related metaphorically to mortality, at least it is when you're seventy. Go back in the paragraph above to the sentence that says, “I don’t hold back on getting involved.” Read to the end of the paragraph, but imagine it is about somebody at the end of their life thinking about the inevitable. It all fits, right? And how about this one: “…the challenge… is how to live with intensity and authenticity… while knowing… that there is a close of service date coming up.”