Chapter 2
Luke woke up still tired from the journey. At some point during the night, he had made his way out of the kitchen and into the bed. Rolling over, he tried to hold back the emptiness he felt and again wondered what was wrong with him. His situation overwhelmed him at times, and right now the unknown made it even worse. Discipline and structure and the pressure of deadlines, even if his own, all helped him keep his mind off the fact that he was so alone. At least when it came to actual people in his life. A psychic long ago had told him he was loved and cared for in ways he could never know, but as comforting as that was in a spiritual way, it did little to ease the pain and fear and exasperation he was feeling right now.
Reflecting back on his life, Luke was confronted with the friends, lovers, and family who had been sacrificed or fell off because of his lack of grace moving through life’s stages. At times he wished he could just stop and accept a certain lot even though he knew there was more for him to do. But his nature wouldn’t allow that. For some reason he had to keep reaching, striving, growing, looking for that special offering that would best allow him to weave his unique thread into the tapestry of creation. But why did he have to keep losing all those he loved in the process? How could he be halfway through life with no income and few friends and once again be starting over? He had learned to accept people for who they were and to support them in following their dreams, but why were so few people willing to do the same for him? And why couldn’t he find someone in this world who would uplift his heart and make his body respond the way it had when he was younger? Other than occasional relationships lasting no more than a few weeks, he couldn’t seem to find a partner. His one. Yet others seemed able to. Others with much less to offer than he had. Or at least that was what he thought when he succumbed to self–pity.
Tucking into the fetal position, he tried to will himself back to sleep, to escape his thoughts and let reality fade away and his dreams take over. But the peace wouldn’t come, and he had never been able to stay down once awake. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and forced himself to head to the bathroom.
***
Luke stepped out of his room, locked the door behind him, and got his first daylight view of the small apartment complex he had chosen online before coming to Granada. Similar to any other property in Nicaragua where the owner could afford it, the Vista Mombacho Apartments were built like a compound, with towering perimeter walls made of concrete and topped with two rows of razor wire. While Nicaragua was considered one of the safest countries in Central America, poverty was pervasive, and petty theft was a problem. But it also seemed something more had to be wrong if so many people went to such lengths to fortify their homes. And it was not just people with money. Even the poor had iron bars over their doors and windows. His didn’t because they opened into the hallway leading toward the back of the complex and not to the squalor outside. So his only view from inside his room was the concrete wall four feet away.
Wandering through the building, Luke found a small triangular pool outside at the rear of the apartments that was surrounded by a bright blue wall sealing off the back of the property. The mid–morning sun was shining through the leaves of the two rows of plantain trees that separated the pool from the clothesline, giving the area a luminous green glow.
Luke stepped down into the courtyard and took a seat at a small, tile–inlaid table between two hammocks on either side of the pool. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he took out his journal and started to jot down his feelings from the last several days. Already his life as a student for the last twelve years was starting to fade and feel like a dream. He had stayed focused on his studies for forty–eight continuous terms, muscling straight through with no breaks other than the week or ten days between them. Keeping busy and embracing habits, like rising early every morning so he had less downtime in the evening, was how he kept the sadness and fear at bay. When that wasn’t enough, a bottle of wine and a bag of weed saw him through. But while this routine helped him maintain his spot at the top of his class and assimilate an enormous amount of information, some meaningful but a lot not, it had also kept him alone. And Luke had learned that without relationships life loses substance and memories don’t stick.
Hearing flip–flops slap down the steps, Luke looked up and caught the eye of a young man entering the pool area. Luke guessed him to be about twenty–five. He was tanned, stocky, and medium height, with short blond dreads that made him look like he’d be more at home on the beach in his board shorts than he was in the city.
“Hey. I’m Aubrey. You new here?”
“Yeah, got in at midnight. I’m Luke,” he said, slapping hands with Aubrey before sharing a light fist bump.
“Sweet, dude. Where you from?” Aubrey asked.
A woman with red, curly, shoulder–length hair, and who looked to be a good fifteen years older than Aubrey, walked up in a bikini before Luke could answer.
“I’m Claire,” she said, putting her arm around Aubrey, her light skin and additional two inches in height contrasting with him.
“Good to meet you,” Luke said. He got up and exchanged a quick kiss to the cheek, the common informal greeting between men and women throughout Latin America. Then, looking back at Aubrey to answer his question, he said, “That’s complicated. I’ve lived in quite a few places. Little town in northern Montana was the last before I went back to school.”
“Dude, with that hair?” Aubrey looked at Luke’s ponytail. “Aren’t they pretty redneck up there?”
“Let’s say I had a green thumb that eased the tension.” Luke smiled.
“That’s, like, totally cool,” Claire said. “I so want to go to Montana.”
“We’re going out for lunch after a short swim,” Aubrey said, chuckling as he stepped down into the pool. “You’re totally welcome to join us if you want.”
Luke put off his immediate impulse to say no. He knew if he was going to find a new life he had to open himself to events as they unfolded. “Great. I’d love to. Thanks.”
“No problem, dude. We’ll meet you out front at about twelve thirty,” Aubrey said. He dunked his head in the pool, shook out his dreads, and got out of the pool. “I need a short nap though first. We had a late night,” he said, grinning at Claire as he settled into one of the hammocks.
***
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“So what do you do?” Claire asked as they stood on the porch outside the apartments. Aubrey had brought them each a large Toña before they headed out to lunch. Luke seldom drank beer these days, preferring cheap red table wine instead, but in this heat it was a welcomed change.
“I’ve been a student for the last dozen years or so,” Luke said. “Now I’m looking for a way to put all that stuff to use. But I’m pretty burned out. The plan is to write for the informed public. To get some of what I learned out there for the people. But I’m kind of confused at this point about how to do that. Articles probably. Possibly a book. All nonfiction of course. Maybe some kind of manual or something. I don’t know. I’ve got some ideas in mind, but they haven’t all come together yet.” He took a drink of beer, wondering if he could finish it all before it got hot.
“That’s cool,” Claire said. “Aubrey got his degree in international studies last year. And yeah, he’s, we’re, like, still burned out from school too. Too much information, too fucking much pressure,” she said.
Aubrey snorted and nodded his head in agreement, having trouble swallowing a large gulp of beer.
“What’s your field?” Claire asked.
“My PhD’s in transformative studies,” Luke said, recognizing on Claire’s face the blank look that people usually gave him. “It’s taking a broader approach to research. And there are different ways to do that. In my case I used a form of integral theory.” He saw the question forming on Claire’s face. “At a basic level, it’s just a framework to help us identify as many of the things influencing an event as possible,” he said, getting respectful nods from Claire and Aubrey in return but knowing they weren’t following him. Luke had learned to be patient at these times and to give people the space they needed to make sense of what he was saying in their own way. While many people knew the world was more complicated than Fox News might indicate, they lacked the means to account for the complexity around them. But when the “ah–ha!” moment arrived, which didn’t always happen, almost any amount of explaining he’d had to do was worth it. “And then make sure that they’re all included in the research. Right now most issues have been reduced to either–or arguments. It’s one way or the other. Black or white. At least with public discussion. But that’s ridiculous. Life isn’t that simple. So the goal is to find a way to integrate everything without anyone saying their stuff is more important than anyone else’s.”
“But, dude, that doesn’t make sense,” Aubrey said. “I mean, like, whoa. It sounds like you’re saying everybody’s opinion has a right to be considered. But, dude, what about the Nazis? I mean, like, how can you say their ideas about the Jews have any truth in them? Or that they should even be allowed in the discussion?”
“Wait a minute,” Luke said, welcoming Aubrey’s challenge. He was used to the confusion between beliefs and valid perspectives, a trap that caught most people when they were first introduced to integral theory. “I’m not talking about opinions. I’m saying there are different perspectives, different ways to view a topic, and each holds information about the world.”
“But, dude, like what?” Aubrey demanded. He looked Luke square in the eye standing with his legs spread, the beer in his hand.
“For example, right now each of us has our own personal take on what’s happening at this moment that’s true for us,” Luke said. “And they’re similar because we’re all here right now. But they’re also different because each of us sees the world based on our own unique mix of genetics and personality and experience and knowledge and cultural background, et cetera, et cetera.” Luke turned back and forth between Aubrey and Claire as he spoke, hoping to reduce Aubrey’s defensiveness by not responding directly to his body language. If he put up a mental wall, nothing Luke said would be given consideration. “But there’s also a group thing going on. There’re dynamics happening between each of us as pairs that influence how we see the situation, as well as the space of all three of us interacting together. And that information needs to be included. And then there’s all this stuff around us.” Luke made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “All the things out there making up our world. And all the ways or systems we come up with to structure and make sense of our lives. All of those perspectives also hold their own truth. All of them need to be integrated if we want to have a complete picture of what’s happening.”
“But that’s still not making sense,” Claire said. “I mean, not all information about something is as important as everything else. It sounds like you’re totally throwing everything together and expecting it to result in the truth. But that doesn’t work any more than using the same amount of every ingredient, and then coming out with a chocolate cake,” she said, her voice rising.
“But wait,” Luke said, smiling. He loved it when things started to click for someone, and Claire, at least, almost had the point he was making. “Everything I just mentioned takes place in the present moment. And it’s the context of what’s happening in that moving bubble in time that determines how we weigh the importance of one perspective relative to another—or how much of it gets included in the recipe, if you want. Everything is always evolving, and each moment in time is different than the last, if for no other reason than it’s one second older.” Luke kept his attention focused on Claire. He sensed she was open to his ideas, and if she came around, it would be easier for Aubrey to also.
“But how do we know what information’s correct?” Aubrey asked, gesturing with his beer bottle. “You can find someone taking any side of an argument you want, and everyone thinks they’re right.” He looked at Claire, shrugging his shoulders.
“Each way of viewing the world has people who study the specific disciplines related to it,” Luke said. “For example, natural scientists study all the physical things out there. Psychologists study all the things in here”—Luke pointed to his head—”and cultural anthropologists study how we live together, and political science types look at how we structure our governments, and on and on.” Luke paused and took a long drink of beer. He knew he was talking too much again. “Anyway, the point is it’s the experts in these fields who determine if any information related to them is valid. If it is, then it needs to be included in the discussion. If not, then we get rid of it.”
“And what did you use this for?” Claire asked. “I mean, like, how’d you apply it?”
“I used it to answer some of the debates about nonviolent conflict.”
“Nonviolence? You mean like Gandhi and that kind of stuff?” Claire asked. “That’s totally cool.”
“In a way, but not quite,” Luke said. He felt himself tightening his stomach muscles to keep the frustration at bay. When it came to this topic, it was harder for him to remain patient. He wished he could just get rid of the word “nonviolence.” It was ambiguous and had little meaning. Nonviolent conflict entailed so much more than simply not using violence to achieve change. “Gandhi’s only one of many people who used nonviolent methods. The problem is that many people still associate nonviolent action with a spiritual leader like him or Martin Luther King, and they assume the folks who followed those guys had some kind of religious belief against violence. But in reality, most of the people in those struggles weren’t committed to nonviolence as a way of life, even if they did rise to that level to participate in those campaigns.”
“Then, dude, why’d they do it?” Aubrey asked. His tone was hard, and the look on his face skeptical. Luke could tell the wall was up, and little he said was going to get through. “It’s crazy to let someone beat you up or mow you down with machine guns or run you over with a bulldozer like the Israelis killed Rachel Corrie. I’d rather be out there fighting back. Fuck, dude, if I was a Palestinian living in a refugee camp, I’d pick up a gun too.” He gulped the last of his beer and bent over to put the bottle on the porch by the door before taking Claire’s and Luke’s empties and doing the same. “The doorman will collect these for the deposit as soon as we walk away.” He put his arm around Claire before they stepped out into the street, Luke following.
“Well, Aubrey,” Luke said, “one of the main reasons people choose a nonviolent approach is because it works. It’s more effective than violence. Or at least it can be.” Aubrey didn’t say anything, but Luke could tell he wasn’t convinced by the slight shake of his head. He decided to let the conversation rest until Aubrey brought it back up again, if he did.
As they walked down the street, Luke took in his new surroundings. Two chickens with string tied to their ankles were staked out in the weeds on the side of the road next to Hilda’s Pulperia, a little store set up in the woman’s living room where she sold everything from cold beer and cigarettes to basic food items through the bars of the iron security gate locked across the front entrance. Luke remembered researching Nicaragua and reading about a schoolteacher in Granada who had to quit his job to do the same in his house because the pay for teachers was so low. Not a good sign for the Nicas, Luke thought. Keeping the education system substandard so the people remained uneducated was one way dictators were able to pass off their lies and limit the people’s ability to question their government, much less improve it.
Aubrey steered them into the middle of the street to walk around an old wooden cart hitched to a small, unkept, emaciated horse, its head hanging no more than a foot from the ground as if the weight of the blinders was too much for the animal to bear.
“How can you say that?” Aubrey said, looking back at Luke and returning to their earlier conversation. It was more a statement than a question. “I mean, dude, I got a gun, you don’t. I’m going to like totally win.”
“Not really,” Luke said. He stepped up so they were walking three abreast down the road, Claire in the middle. Luke focused on keeping his voice calm. He didn’t want this to turn into an argument. “The world’s shifted. Just having the most or the biggest guns doesn’t work anymore, at least not all of the time. Over the last hundred years or so, nonviolent campaigns against violent oppression have been almost twice as successful as efforts using violence. And religion had very little to do with it. People can be atheists and still win using a nonviolent strategy.”
“But the religions are violent!” Claire said, her voice rising again. “Look at all of the Christians back home who think Islam is so evil that we have to kill all the Muslims. Or all the Muslims who want to wipe out the Jews. Or the Jews who want to eradicate the Palestinians. Hell, every once in a while Buddhist fucking monks go crazy and massacre Hindus! Or vice versa. It goes totally fucking on and on and on. It’s people and their fucking religions that keep us at war, and that won’t ever end.” She grabbed her hair with her free hand, elbow high like she wanted to pull it out, and looked up into the sky.
“But that’s not really true,” Luke said. “There are people in all of those religions that don’t support using violence. It’s more about how the person views the world than it is the religion they believe in.”
“So why isn’t it working in Egypt?” Claire insisted, turning to look at Luke. “Nonviolent conflict, that is. They got rid of Mubarak, but now the generals are back in charge, killing people again. It’s totally as bad as it was.”
“I’m not sure,” Luke said. “It’s hard to know what’s happening because corporate news can’t be trusted. It’s biased toward the status quo. It’s propaganda, not a critical reporting of events.” He had to be cautious making those statements because if someone did rely on national news for all of their information, he just implied they were brainwashed. Not a good way to make friends or influence people.
Luke continued. “And while we know some of the things that are necessary to succeed when using nonviolent conflict, none of them guarantee it.” He knew there was no set formula. Every situation was different, constantly in flux, and each one would take different tactics and strategies. “But an important factor in almost all nonviolent campaigns to transform a society is that the people need to know who and what’s going to replace the old order before they ever begin the fight. Otherwise, they risk someone else coming along and taking over before they can make the changes they hoped to.”
“And that’s what happened!” Claire said, taking Aubrey’s arm from around her waist and walking sideways down the road to better confront Luke. “The people got rid of Mubarak and held free elections and made Morsi president, and then he started acting like a dictator too. So what the fuck? What’s it matter if the people get democracy if they’re just going to elect another dickhead!” She backhanded Luke’s upper arm to make her point before turning to again walk straight down the street.
Luke glanced over at Aubrey, wondering just how physical Claire could get, and he got the message that the conversation was getting more heated than Aubrey wanted. “You’re right,” Luke said, trying to defuse the situation. “They did hold free elections and they elected Morsi. And yes, Morsi started grabbing power and acting like a dictator and trying to force everyone in the country to live under the Muslim Brotherhood’s particular brand of religious fanaticism. And of course many of the people rebelled, which gave the generals the excuse they needed to hold a coup and regain power.” Just take her through it point by point, Luke thought. “But a democracy isn’t defined just by free elections—it’s created around things like constitutions and bills of rights that state no matter who is elected they have to abide by certain laws and principles ensuring specific rights for everyone in the country regardless of their political or religious stance. It’s those documents that need to reflect our highest ideals of fairness, equality, tolerance, and inclusiveness. They’re the essence of democracy, not just free elections, and without them the whole idea falls apart.” He was starting to lecture, and he wanted to move the conversation to another topic, but it was too important not to see it through. At least to him. “And like I said, if the people try to transform their society before that democratic framework is in place, then they set themselves up for someone else to grab power and try to impose their will. Just like Morsi did.”
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Our government mouths off about democracy, but they don’t give a shit about people’s freedom. All they care about is running the world. And democracy gets in the way of that. Hell, they’re the ones that kept Mubarak in power in the first place!” She shook her head and glared, looking straight down the street. “I just think you’re totally oversimplifying things saying that nonviolent action can work by itself, especially if it goes against our interests.”
“You’re right,” Luke said. “A nonviolent campaign usually needs the support of other countries in the world.” He was starting to feel overwhelmed by the conversation. There were so many dynamics that had to be understood in these types of struggles, and so much misinformation clouding the discussion, that at times he questioned his sanity thinking he could shift people’s opinions. “There are a lot of forces outside of Egypt trying to influence who comes to power. But remember, even though our government supported Mubarak, eventually it had to side with the Egyptian people. They managed to undermine his regime enough that it couldn’t function even with our support, so that meant we had to cut him in the clear and find a way to influence whoever got in charge next. So in that sense the nonviolent campaign worked, and the people won.” He sensed the energy between the three of them had calmed down and most of the contention was gone. “But now things have changed. The generals are in power, and they don’t need us, the United States. They’re getting most of their help and money from the kingdoms in the Middle East.” And the last thing those sheiks want, Luke thought, is democracy. “So in a way the Egyptian people are screwed. There’s no one outside of Egypt willing to support them who has the influence to pressure the generals to create a true democracy. That means the people are on their own. And they will be until they can unify to the point where they shut down the country regardless of who’s supporting the generals.” And at that point, Luke knew, the equation shifts.
“Sweet,” Aubrey said, jumping into the conversation before Claire could reply. “So is that why you’re here? Did you come to help the people overthrow Ortega? There’s some graffiti down on the PPQ Bridge about him being a dictator. I hear he gives chickens away to the poor people so they’ll vote for him.”
“No,” Luke said, shaking his head. “The people living in the country have to be the ones that transform their society. They need to lead their own campaigns. Come up with their own reasons and their own ideas for how they want to live.” He was glad Aubrey shifted the conversation. “If we get involved, all the dictator has to do is claim that we’re spies for the CIA. Then he can justify using violence by saying he’s putting down a coup. That’s one reason why NGOs promoting democracy have a hard time in some counties. Other governments see them as efforts by the US to undermine their control, and sometimes they’re right.”
“So what’s your plan?” Aubrey asked.
“Somehow my job’s to help more people understand that violence is no longer the ultimate weapon—the ultimate force,” Luke said. “And that clarification alone gives us hope for a more peaceful world. It means we can engage and win against violence without killing each other or destroying our planet. That’s a huge step.” Luke was energized again. No matter how besieged he felt at times, even the remote possibility that his visions of a more compassionate world could come true made the difficulties he encountered seem trivial. “And there’re a few other things that people think are true but are not—misbeliefs that are being used to support this state of perpetual war—that need to be addressed. I want to help people know that what’s happening in the world is not preordained by God or nature. And I needed some place outside of the states to write about this. A different atmosphere. My life’s wide open at this point. It seems I’m starting over again.”
“That’s totally exciting,” Claire said, no longer angry. “I bet a lot of people wish they could start over.”
Luke looked down at the road as they walked and decided not to comment. Learning to be careful about what he wished for had been one of life’s more painful lessons, and that included starting over.
“You’re going to love Jo,” Claire went on, smiling at Luke like she had a secret she wanted to tell.
“She lives right around the corner from us,” Aubrey said. “But, dude, she practically lives at our place because of the pool. We gave her a key so she could work in our apartment and cool off whenever she wants to. She pretty much comes and goes as she pleases.”
“I think she wants to start over too,” Claire said. “And she’s so gorgeous. She’s even taller than me. I can’t wait to introduce you guys.” They stopped walking. “We’re here.” Claire led them up the three steps to Café Isabella’s long patio, which overlooked the street.
***
The patio floor was covered in large well–worn red and gray tiles. Old square white plastic tables with faded purple–and–white–checkered tablecloths were set up in a line down the middle. Claire walked over to the nearest end table, and Luke took a seat so he could see the road and the others at the restaurant. A white picket fence surrounded the deck, and five evenly spaced white ornate pillars held up the patio’s decaying bamboo roof.
A young Nica man wearing black pants, a T–shirt, and flip–flops brought them each a menu and silverware wrapped in a napkin. Aubrey ordered them three Toñas to start.
Luke was staring at the people at the far end of the patio. The last two tables each had several older men hunched over their beers, watching the people walk by on the sidewalk below.
“They’re the DOMs,” Claire said.
Luke didn’t understand the word she used for them and went back to watching the people. The table next to the DOMs had several extra chairs pulled up, with three couples and a few kids sitting around it. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. The guys were all older white men well into retirement, and their partners were all Nica women in their early to mid–twenties wearing colorful, tight–fitting short skirts. As Luke took in the scene, a new Toyota four–door half–bed pickup truck pulled up and parked in front of the restaurant. Another older guy with belted cargo shorts riding high on his hips, a tucked–in T–shirt, and running shoes got out of the rig and led two young boys by their hands over to their friends’ table, where one of the women set up more chairs for them.
“What do you mean?” Luke asked, looking back at Claire, still confused by the word she used.
“Jo and her girlfriends call this the DOM hangout. You know, like in dirty old men. The guys at the far end of the patio sit there all day—every day—drinking beer and watching the girls walk by. And the other men are the guys with their pretty young Nica wives and their kids. That group pretty much sticks to itself. The rest of the expat community around here kind of shuns them, or at least the women do, but they don’t seem to mind.”
“Which is totally a lot of bullshit!” Aubrey said to Luke with enough intensity to give him the impression this topic had come up before. “I came down and drank some beers with these guys a few weeks ago. The ones sitting at the end are just old and tired and broke. They’re not watching the babes. They’re staring into space because they don’t have anything else they can do. They all got wiped out when the economy crashed in the states a couple of years ago.” Aubrey turned from Luke and looked down the patio at the men. “See the guy on the end? His wife, like, committed suicide when they lost their home and all of their retirement savings. Fucking hard, dude. Like, what a way to end life when you did everything they say you should, and you still lose it all. Those guys got enough money to buy their brewskies every day and keep themselves fed, but nothing else. Not much of an existence, but they say it beats the dog shit out of trying to live back home on the Social Security they get. They’d be in food lines and living by the river. At least here they have some kind of life. And a little self–respect. I wish Jo would, like, talk to these guys before dissing them all of the time. She can be so fucking cynical.”
“I just have a totally hard time with the old guys and their young wives,” Claire said, shaking her head in disgust. The waiter came over with their beers and to take their orders.
Luke stared at his menu and held back a slight smile. He was pretty sure a lot of people wondered about herrelationship with Aubrey, and the difference in their ages.
After the waiter left, Aubrey turned and glared at Claire. “But what the fuck, dude!” he said. The way she pinched her mouth gave Luke the impression she wasn’t too happy being called “dude.”
“Do you see any other Nicas up here eating?” Aubrey continued. “No! And you never do. This fucking beer costs half a day’s wages for some of them. And look at the women’s clothes. And their kids’ clothes. They’re new. And they’re all getting to drive around in new trucks. And the kids all go to good schools, and the women have maids doing their housework. So what if some old guy comes down here to find himself a hottie? At least he’s pulling a couple of people out of poverty. And who in the fuck has the right to say something’s dirty? You’d be clapping if it was older women coming down here marrying young dudes.”
These two were pretty opinionated, Luke thought. While he was impressed with their passion, he also hoped he’d never have to witness one of their fights.
“I had a guy on the plane say something about having a young Nicaraguan girlfriend,” Luke said before Claire could respond to Aubrey. “He was a real creep. I got the impression he’d been playing with her younger daughter. And it sure sounded like he was okay with guys coming down here to sexually abuse kids. I thought about thumping the bastard right there on the plane.” Luke shook his head, realizing he didn’t want to bring up the memories of his old self.
“Now that’s totally fucked,” Aubrey said. “We hear there’s a lot of it down here, but we haven’t seen any of it. Or at least we haven’t known it if we have. At first I thought it was these dudes.” He pointed his chin toward the old guys with the young wives down the patio. I’d see them walking down the road holding a kid’s hand or driving by with a kid in their new truck, or I’d see them sitting together at a café down on the Calzada. But it’s not them. These are their wife’s or girlfriend’s children, and they’re just taking care of them. That other shit’s not only illegal, but the locals will cut your throat if they catch you messing with their kids.”
As they probably should, Luke thought.
“So even here those sickos have to hide their stuff,” Aubrey said.
“Why the reaction when I mentioned starting over earlier?” Claire asked Luke, changing the conversation.
“I’m just tired of it,” Luke said. “Starting over, that is. Too much gets lost in the process.”
Aubrey and Claire nodded in response. Claire might have an idea of what he meant, Luke thought, but Aubrey still had some years to live before he would.
The server brought their food to the table, and Luke inspected his meal. “I think they brought me the wrong plate. I ordered the filet mignon,” he said before looking around for the waiter.
“No,” Aubrey said. “That’s what you get, at least here. Somewhere else it might be pork, you never know. The food here isn’t great, and I don’t mean here.” Aubrey pointed to the table. “I mean in Nicaragua in general.” He looked at the flat piece of overcooked beefsteak on Luke’s plate and grunted. “And don’t even think about the type of oil they use or the quality of anything else in the kitchen. They’re too poor to worry about how healthy the food is. Especially the street vendors. Hell, they use plastic grocery bags to light their charcoal, so there’s usually a petroleum taste to most of the food. If it’s good enough to make a turd, it’s totally good enough to eat.”
“Okay,” Luke said as he started sawing through the tough meat. “What about you guys? What’re you doing here?”
“We’ve been in Nicaragua about a month,” Aubrey said. “But before that we were hanging out in Ecuador.” He broke into a big grin, and Luke could see the longing to go back on his face. “Mostly surf towns on the coast. Places like Canoa and Ayampe and Montañita. The waves were, like, totally awesome, dude. That’s where we met Jo. She was down there getting her certification to teach English as a second language. We were only planning on staying for ninety days after I graduated. But we loved Ecuador so much we sold our car back in the states and extended our visa another six months. But that ran out, so we decided to check out Nicaragua. Mostly we’re kind of just bumming around until we’re ready to deal with the rat race back home.”
“Unless we figure out how to make some money online so we can keep traveling,” Claire said. “At least, that’s what we’re supposed to be doing.” She gave Aubrey a look that indicated he hadn’t been as involved as she wanted.
“But I don’t know about Nicaragua,” Aubrey continued. “I’m not sure if I like it here. I mean, on the coast in Ecuador, I felt safe. Everyone was totally friendly, and we didn’t have to worry about leaving our stuff on the beach when we went surfing. Things like that. Hell, in Montañita, my buds told me they don’t even lock their doors at night, though that’s starting to change. But here if you take your eye off your things for a minute they’re gone. I lost my cell phone the other day because I forgot it was on the table when I turned around to talk to someone. I think it got lifted by one of the street kids. And the fucking noise here never ends. Between the trucks and buses and everybody honking their horns, sometimes I just want to go crazy.”
***
After lunch, Aubrey and Claire made sure Luke knew how to get back to the apartments without them before they headed to the town square to buy more saldo, or minutes, for their cell phones. Walking back to his room, Luke continued to absorb his new surroundings. The safety margins were a lot less than in the states, and he made a mental note to take a bit more care for the first several days. Pedestrians walked through the traffic at will. Cars slowed down at intersections, but no one actually stopped unless they had to. Bicycles with two, three, and four people, often with one of the riders carrying a propane tank or something else equally large, weaved in and out between the cars. Young men on small motorcycles raced from corner to corner, their helmets worn high above their ears and cocked back on their heads like some kind of bizarre mating ritual to get attention, guaranteeing no protection if they got in a wreck. At times it seemed like everyone was playing a game of chicken, seeing who would be the first to give way. Large, deep, open holes that would snap a person’s leg above the ankle if they stepped into them unawares were scattered along the streets and sidewalks, and small groups of Nicaraguan men hanging out in the shade were leering and hissing at the women walking by. Most of the gringas tried to ignore them by looking away or crossing the street, but some of the Nica gals seemed to enjoy giving back the harassment.
And it was hot. Even though December was supposed to be one of the cooler and dryer months of the year, a breeze was nonexistent, and the ninety–degree temperature was stifling for Luke. His T–shirt was soaked, and he was already regretting his decision not to wear shorts or tank tops in Granada. From what he had read before coming down, the Nicaraguans tended to be conservative in their dress and shied away from the casual attire worn by a lot of the expats, and he had wanted to do his part to fit in with the culture. But while that sounded like a good idea in the states, it didn’t now. Cultural respect is important, but it has to go both ways. Neither side has greater privilege. Both the visitor and the host have an equal obligation to show patience and tolerance for the other person’s ways. In this case, the Nicas might have to deal with him wearing his beach clothes. And he would draw the line at going bare–chested. But somehow he needed a compromise; otherwise, he would be changing shirts five times a day.
***
Walking east on Calle Libertad, Aubrey and Claire made their way to Granada’s central square. When they reached the corner where the Movistar phone tent was set up, they found Jo was already there buying minutes for her phone.
“Hey, guys,” Jo said. She exchanged a kiss to the cheek with both of them. “What’s up?”
“Need saldo,” Aubrey said. He walked over to another young sales rep texting on her phone and waited.
“Hey, guess what, Jo?” Claire’s tone indicated she had something juicy to tell. “We just met this totally cool and handsome guy and he’s your age and you’re going to love him! And he just moved into the apartments.”
“Oh, sweetie, I don’t need a man in my life,” Jo said. She paid and thanked the lady sitting behind the folding table under the tent before turning back to Claire. “It’s been ten years since the last one, and I’m doing just fine. They’re too much fucking work. Besides, I already committed to taking that volunteer work down the Amazon to teach English. I’m leaving in less than two weeks.”
“He’s totally hot,” Claire said. She smiled and shook her head. “You might be missing out. We can set it up and introduce you if you want.”
“Not interested,” Jo said in a firmer tone. “I’m leaving. And I’ve got a shitload of work to do before I go. I don’t have enough time as it is. I’m not looking for any more complications in my life. And men are nothing if not complications. Besides, I’ve pretty much resigned myself to living alone, and I’m okay with that. Gotta run. Yoga in half an hour. See you later, okay, kids? Ciao, ciao.” She turned and left before Claire could reply.
***
Walking to the yoga studio, Jo struggled with her feelings. Other than a couple of months in Ecuador, she’d been in Granada for over three years building a new life. And while she had filled it with activities and volunteering and becoming one of the expat socialites, it was still hollow. Life had taken on a forced quality. More like she was going through each day checking off a list instead of living, or at least living with passion. So when she had heard about the volunteer position to teach English at an indigenous village down the Amazon, she figured it was time to give Granada a break for a while.
Walking out of the town square and west down Calle Libertad, she saw her friend Megan ahead and hollered for her to wait up.
“Hey, love. You heading to yoga too?” Jo asked after a quick embrace and light kiss on the lips.
“Yeah, at three. But Lucy’s teaching and I really don’t want to go,” Megan said. “She’s been getting on my nerves lately. I’d rather have a glass of wine instead.”
“Oh that bitch,” Jo said, looking off into the distance, her mouth pressed tight. “She’s supposed to be on fucking vacation. I can’t stand her anymore. I’ve had it with the way she screws the locals down here.”
At one time, Jo didn’t have a problem with gringos buying up Nica homes at prices well below what they were worth and turning them over. Hell, she’d done it back in the states several times herself. That was business. But the Nicaraguans were poor and had few options. And Lucy was taking advantage of their situation by waiting for someone to fall on hard times and then flashing more cash than they’d ever seen. Then she’d remodel the place and sell it at a huge profit to another gringo looking to take advantage of the country’s poverty. At first Jo bought into the justification that this type of business was helping the economy, but now she saw it differently. It wasn’t helping the people, just the few of them in a position to benefit from it. The status quo between the rich and the poor remained the same, or got worse. Saying otherwise was just a tired excuse to make gringos feel better. Somehow living here had shifted her belief in the trickle–down economics so embraced by her parents and their country–club friends. No matter how someone rationalized these things, it was still gringos making money off another country’s poor. The more she thought about it, the more disgusted she got. And at this point in her life, she had little hope anything would ever change.
“Let’s skip yoga and go to the Alhambra and drink Malbec,” Jo said.
“Damn, we’re, like, absolutely the worst yoga students ever,” Megan said as they turned around and headed back into the square.
The Hotel Alhambra is a large colonial–style hotel fronting the western side of the central park. White tile steps running the length of the property led up to a large open–air restaurant interspersed with white pillars. Heavy white linen tablecloths and small vases with single red roses, the common decor for the better restaurants in Granada, adorned the tables. The place was empty except for the waiter in black and whites seated at one of the tables in the back.
“Mario, how have you been?” Jo yelled over to the waiter in broken Spanish. “We need two glasses of Malbec. And an ashtray. Please.” She and Megan took one of the front tables overlooking the street and park filled with vendors. After lighting a cigarette, Jo handed the lighter to Megan for hers. Looking out on the scene below, Jo felt a twinge of unease. It was becoming harder for her to enjoy the privileges of her life in front of those without them. Yes, she had worked hard for all she had, and yes, life was unfair, but still something just didn’t feel right.
Jo turned to Megan and told her about her meeting with Aubrey and Claire earlier. “And now they’re trying to set me up with some guy that just moved into the apartments,” Jo said, shaking her head. “Just what the fuck I need right now. Kids playing matchmakers. Do I really look like I want a man in my life?” Jo locked eyes with Megan, knowing the question was more rhetorical than not.
“I don’t know,” Megan said. “It might take some of the edge off. It’s been a long time for you, girl. A stiff cock can satisfy a lot that your fingers can’t. Or mine.” She smiled as she reached over and squeezed Jo’s arm. “And it doesn’t have to always be about love. At least that’s what I used to tell my clients.”
***
After getting directions from the doorman, Luke took a left out of the Vista Mombacho Apartments and started walking toward the two supermarkets that were supposed to be close by. The road was paved with newer, mass–produced cobblestones. The street curved around the buildings to the west, and Luke stepped over a small stream of whitish–colored water that emptied into a small ravine below. The smell stopped him from even getting the bottom of his shoes wet.
People sitting on the sills of their open front doors or just outside their small homes ignored him as he walked by. Luke returned the favor. When people have so little, the privacy of their homes takes on greater importance. Just like one wouldn’t disrespect another inmate by staring into his cell. A few men were adding an upper floor to one of the houses, and piles of sand and rock were being wheelbarrowed inside by a guy who looked too small for the task. Across the street, a group of drunken men were sitting on the dirt lawn outside a house, watching the others work and arguing back and forth between themselves. One of the more rowdy guys caught Luke’s eye, gave him the thumbs–up, and hollered, “Hey, man! You new in town?” in rough English.
Luke was caught a little off guard and just responded with a smile and short wave as he continued walking down the street.
Staying in the middle of the road, Luke looked ahead and saw a scrawny horse with prominent ribs grazing on the scrub brush growing in between the piles of trash that littered the side of the road. To his left, Luke passed a tall wall with the faded letters FSLN, the acronym for the Sandinista National Liberation Front that defeated the Somoza dictatorship in 1979, spray–painted on it. The wall enclosed what looked to once be a large courtyard, the trees and flowers in the garden long overgrown.
The side streets branching off to the right and left were of hard–packed dirt, with no light poles and few people on them. Dust and trash blew between dwellings that were more shacks than homes. An old colorful bus with luggage racks on the roof and “Milagro de Dios,” or Miracle of God, emblazoned across the top of the windshield sat on blocks, its front wheels stacked up next to it. Luke would learn later that they were called chicken buses, family–owned rigs that ran between towns and were usually so crowded that a person had to stand up when riding them, and so worn out that people had to jump on and off while the bus was still moving to save wear on the brakes.
Luke had traveled to other places in the world and seen poverty before, and he assumed he could handle whatever he encountered in Nicaragua. But that had been poverty in rural areas, where people grew their own food and got some nourishment from their surroundings. Being poor in a city was a much different experience. It sapped any energy a person had left. As Luke took in his new surroundings, he found himself shocked at how few of the people he saw were actually doing something productive instead of lying around outside the door to their home.
Coming to the main street at the end of the road, Luke found the two grocery stores he was looking for, one on each corner, and chose La Union on the right. Buying just the bare essentials he needed for his morning routine, Luke noticed that the prices were not much cheaper than those in the states. Except for the wine, which was even more expensive.
Once back at his apartment, Luke opened the bottle of cheap Gato Negro Cabernet, which cost him two dollars more than it would have in the states, and felt his despair begin to rise. So far it seemed that between his rent and the prices at the supermarket, the expat articles talking about how cheap it was to live in Nicaragua were exaggerated. Typical, he thought, as the wine eased his tension. Shaking his head, he knew he should have known better. He had made this move sight unseen with no friends or contacts, assuming he could find his way like he always had before. But now he wasn’t so confident. The bravado and machismo he used to get through much of his younger life now seemed phony as he felt into the reality of being alone so far away from the few people who called him friend.
Luke finished off the bottle, then spread out on top of the sheets under the ceiling fan. He let the exhaustion from the last forty–eight hours take over and pull him into a restless sleep.
End Chapter 2.
Bob
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