Moments of Nicaragua (pt. 2)

This story isn’t about me, but is one I promised to tell when José Alí Rueda asked it of me in Managua, Nicaragua.

The heat seems to bake us inside the concrete-box of a building that a small neighborhood of bananeros uses for their gatherings.  Four of the people living there agree to meet with a group of students from a far off university, although we’re not the first.  I strain to understand the Nicaraguan accent of José Alí as Dr. Patrick Van Inwegen, another student, and I inquire of his story.  It goes like this:

 

                José Alí began working for Dole Food Company, examining the quality of bananas, when he was sixteen.  He inspected the size and overall appearance of the bananas to make sure they were up to par for this international company.  Then began the use of the product Nemagon, whose main ingredient, dibromochloropropane, is known to cause sterility in some male mammals and has hideous effects on humans.  Due to these side effects the chemical was banned in the United States in 1979, but was used afterwards in countries such as Nicaragua and the Philippines.  

                He recounted that the chemical was first put into the irrigation water and the order was given to spray it only when there was no wind and the workers weren’t present.  The poison was spread over  the banana fields at night, when supposedly it was less windy.  José Alí was unaware of the new chemical’s effects on human health, and was completely unaware that when he drank the “clear and fresh” water he was ingesting a toxin that would later cause him to have chronic urinary infections, cancerous boils on his skin, and gastric complications.  He stated that the companies knew, but decided not to tell the workers of Nemagon’s hazardous nature.  

                At first the workers didn’t feel any different, but over time headaches and unexplained vomiting became frequent.  In addition, boils from within the body began to show themselves on the exterior of their leathery skin.  Nemagon was literally eating José Alí and his compañeros alive.  

                Upon realizing the destruction that simultaneously affected multiple banana fields in Nicaragua, between 3,000 and 7,000 (7,000 was the number given to me by José Alí, while Dole claims 3,000) bananeros had to make a choice:  Do we continue to work and possibly get compensation or do we leave our jobs and fight for reparation?  Many chose the latter.  He recalled the intense 342 kilometer march from his home in Chinandega to Managua.  This journey took eleven days, said José Alí, but people along the road took pity on the banana workers and let them stay in their homes overnight.  

                Upon arrival in Managua the workers sought political help from the powers that were in place, but received little and were forced to settle in champas, clusters of tents used for temporary housing.  It was not until Daniel Ortega quite recently took office that the people received concrete houses, potable water, and electricity.  These people are not economically poor, they claimed, but have been incapacitated due to continual health conditions and believe they’ve been wronged.

                In order to further their cause, the bananeros hired attorneys from the U.S. to fight Dole in the United States.   However, they felt as if their lawyers, charging around $300 per hour, did very little to further their case.  This could be due to greed or busyness, but after trying several lawyers and many years the workers found their pockets empty and their problems persisting.  The justice system seemed futile. 

                A similar story can be found of the faith the workers had in film crews bent on making emotion-igniting documentaries of injustice.  However, after interviews and chilling stories, these film-makers were not heard from again.  Perhaps they struggled to break even or made off with the profit.  The remorse felt by the workers continues.

~

                I forget about the heat and a chill runs down my spine as José Alí discusses the afterlife.  It’s apparent that his faith is the only thing carrying him through this one.  Counting himself as a dead man, his wrinkled face brightens as he speaks of death, when he’ll leave his terrestrial body and join his Father in Heaven.

                His mood changes alarmingly, though, as he considers out loud the consequences of his death.  He looks away from me as he speaks of his wife and daughter he would leave behind.  He has fought for his children ever since the Nemagon crisis, so that they might have a better life and receive some sort of solitude from Dole Food Company.  Our eyes meet again.  They remain fixed as I focus in order to correctly translate what he’s telling me.  After feeling cheated by so many for so long, the thought of dying and leaving his daughter causes his eyes to fill and his lip to quiver.  As a tear rolls down his cheek I’m unsure—Is it his tear?  Is it my tear?—maybe we share it.  

                I ask him what a few chele students from the U.S. could possibly do to help their situation.  The response brings me abrupt frustration:  they already see themselves as dead men and women, and all I can do is relay this story and make their afflictions heard.  Here I pass it on to you all, as promised; so that you know someone suffered and continues suffering because of corporate greed and unrealistic customer demands, many of which came from the United States.  The story of José Alí is not one of violence or bullets, but he has fought and his scars remain.  In a globalizing world it can seem like some actions have no consequences.  However, this man opened my eyes to the fact that even if the consequences are nonexistent or hidden within the U.S. they are felt by another.  We’ve inherited a world that is every day more interconnected, but with this comes responsibility to educate ourselves and own our actions.  

I would like to say thank you to José Alí Rueda for his openness on this subject despite the personal and collective pain he lives with.

-Austin Vander Wel

Moments of Nicaragua (pt. 1)

          As a couple of you might know, I went to Nicaragua on an eight-day trip full of challenging interviews and sights, of which I’m still not sure how to feel.  However, in writing about these instances I hope to form clearer ideas. Each paragraph is a different moment of something I experienced:

I zoom down the street in a bus, Ticabus to be exact. Through the window I see a more arid landscape, scattered with casitas.  The walls surrounding the houses are not of concrete, as in Costa Rica, but rather incorporate wire, zinc, and wood.  An unfamiliar sight catches my eye and takes hold of my neck as we fly past the horse-drawn cart carrying bundles of wood along the busy street.  Through the other window I see a billboard colored with magenta, mustard yellow, baby blue, and a portrait of Daniel Ortega holding up the peace sign.  It reads, “¡Vamos por más victorias!”

 

                Walking through the Managuan mercado I see sights very different from the ones back home.  To my left a woman is vending shoes, making sure that everyone within an ear-shot knows that hers are top notch and the cheapest around.  I walk past a man seated on the ground in the middle of the market; he’s selling pirated videos at about $1.50 a disc—our guía recommends them.  To my right is a large piece of carne hanging from a stand, free of any plastic wrap.  Below the meat is a huge pot, steaming despite the already oven-like heat of the eatery.  I walk past iguanas tied and muzzled.  They average the length of my forearm and are ready to be cooked for a meal. 

                I’m standing above the central plaza of León, looking at a museum designated to the Nicaraguan Revolution carried out by the Frente Sandinista de la Liberación Nacional (FSLN).  Red and black decorate the building and slogans commemorate the movement.  I look at the words scrawled on the outside walls in spray-paint.  They read, “BUSH GENOSIDE / ENEMIGO DE LA HUMANIDAD / MUERTE AL INVASOR (Bush genocide / enemy of humanity / death to the invader).”  On top of the museum we overlook the city square.  On a backdrop of volcanoes I see the legacy of a recent revolución.  I begin speaking with our tour guide.  He tells me openly that he lost many friends in the civil war.  I ask him if it was worth it, all the violence, all the death.  The unexpected “Sí” is hard to comprehend.  He recalls that even though his generation had to die or suffer with psychological consequences, it was necessary so that his children and the following generations could live a free life.  He only received psychological help four years ago, he says, but he has learned to live despite the past.  He asks me if I could understand 45 years of authoritarianism.  I cannot.  We then take a picture and he throws up the peace sign and a smile.  As I leave he waves and says, “¡Bienvenidos a la tierra de Sandino!” (Welcome to the land of Sandino!).  I wave and exit the museum perplexed.  Never before had I heard someone talk so comfortably about both violence and peace. 

               
          We board our bus once again, but this time with a visitor.  The students all know who he is, we’ve been instructed beforehand, but don’t hurry him with questions.  We return with this stone-faced man to our hostel outside the city.  He tells us that he was a fighter for the Nicaraguan Resistance against the Sandinista Movement (depending on what side one is on the term “Contra” of “Resistencia Nicaragüense” applies, I choose to call him part of the Nicaraguan resistance because it’s what shows most respect towards his position).  The sun is setting as his story is being told, which seems to symbolize soldiers forced into hiding after continuing years of civil war with deep international ties (Iran-Contra Scandal) His accent is thick and he sounds to be from a very rural area.  Perhaps most interesting is what he doesn’t say.  His gaze is elsewhere as he describes a period of time, but never specific details or personal memories.  He’s the third asked to talk to us about the unspoken events, the other two declined.  No pictures. No first-hand accounts. No laughter.  Words are essential for chronicles; silence, for recovery.  I leave with a surreal qualm in my chest. This stuff is real here.

Well, that's enough for now.  I hope you can see it was a lot to process.  It was difficult, but good.

Como siempre, gracias por leer,

-Austin Vander Wel 

The Internship

          It’s time to tell you all about what I do on Mondays.  Whitworth encourages us to do an internship related to our majors during our time at the CRC.  In my case, I receive credit for my Spanish major by working at Musmanni Panadería (Masmanni homepage, Spanish only.).  “Panadería” means bakery in Spanish, but Musmanni is different than we might understand in the U.S. because they receive the dough already made and then have to ferment, decorate, and bake it.  We make everything from cinnamon rolls to French bread, empanadas to the Musmanni equivalent of a pizza bagel bite.  In addition, Musmanni offers queque, cakes baked and decorated here.  

                The idea of an internship every Monday is usually a point of confusion in Costa Rica, since the word we use for internship, pasantía, is often in reference to a year after studying where one gains experience in what they studied the preceding years.  A better translation of pasantía in English might be “apprenticeship,” because it is much less about the required credit hours and more about the application of learned knowledge.  Regardless, the unpaid assistance around the bakery is received quite warmly, and I’ve felt that I’ve been able to be an asset rather than a burden to my coworkers.  

                The bakery is exactly the kind of internship I was hoping for.  In addition to preparing bread, I chose this internship because of the opportunities to speak purely Spanish throughout the day.  Thankfully, I’ve learned how to work with bread, but have also learned an immense amount of slang and am now able to keep up with the rhythm of Costa Rican Spanish.  

                Here’s a picture of me suited up for a nine-hour day working with pan.  I work from 7:00-4:00, but receive two 15 minute breaks where we drink café and rest up.  Also, the employees receive an optional 30 minute unpaid lunch break, which my boss Mauricio encourages me to take since I’m unpaid anyways.  

The picture below shows the back area where I spend the majority of my time.  This is where all the fun happens. Sprinkles, ajonjoli,  pizza sauce, fruta congelada—you name it, we prepare it.  In the mornings, I often work here with Carlos, a nicaragüense jokester who currently lives and works in Costa Rica.  Once the morning shift is over, Luis (pictured below) replaces Carlos for the night shift.  Luis is 24, about to be a father, and is my language buddy.  My interest in Spanish and his in English lead to some funny and puzzling talks as we try to translate slang phrases and other dichos for each other.

I'm very blessed by this internship, but don’t let the positivity fool you! I’m working hard and by the end of the day I’m dead tired both physically (who would have thought bread would be physically demanding) and mentally (a second language will do that to you).  

Well, thanks again for reading these notes, I appreciate it!  This Saturday we leave for eight days in Nicaragua, which is different than Costa Rica in many ways. I’m sure I’ll have a lot to write afterwards. Que Dios les bendiga, God bless.

-Austin Vander Wel