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"If You Don't Come Home In A Body Bag..."

By Bob Spicher

A group of us from the delegation was walking in Matagalpa after 9 in the evening looking for some place where the locals hang out. What we found was the locals don't hang out, or at least after 9 they don't.

Walking along we found a place open and sure enough there were some more people from our delegation. There was a good conversation going on with some of the Nicaraguans who were telling us how proud they were of Nicaragua, the Sandinistas and the revolution. The one doing most of the talking was girl about 18; her sister of 14 was sitting there cranking out fantastic poetry. They were very positive about the future of Nicaragua and of the Sandinistas and we quickly became friends. They had a little business selling fruit juice and rum and some other odds and ends. We ordered some fruit juice and a soft drink made from corn, and some rum—they refused to take our money. Here we were from some scumbag country that wants to bomb the shit out of them and they were giving us free drinks.

After talking for awhile about Nicaragua they woke up their 3-year-old sister and opened a book with photos of the revolutionary heroes and they would say which one is Sandino and she would point him out, which one is Fonseca and she would point him out. I found this enthusiasm everywhere I went.

So Reagan, the Sandinistas have no popular support? Perhaps you misspoke again. Misspoke my ass.

When we left there we were walking back to hotel and we were stopped by a soldier carrying his AK-47 over his shoulder and he asked us what we were doing that late at night. We told him what we were doing, that we were returning to our hotel. He smiled and shook our hands and walked on down the street. Maybe this is repression as I've heard, but if something like this had happened when I was in Vietnam, the poor suckers would have been lying on the ground while they were searched. That is, if we decided to be nice about it!

We stopped at a farm co-op that had a lot of cattle. There were kids everywhere with big smiles and looking very healthy. I started photographing, forgetting politics for a while. I thought with all these kids it's like when I was a little kid at my grandparent's farm on a holiday, kids everywhere. I almost started looking for my cousins. Walking along photographing we came to an underground bunker and three of the kids were asked if they ever had to use it. They said they had to run to it about 3 times because of Contra attacks and reality came back. The kids were asked what they felt when they had to run to the bunker; "We were very afraid," they said. Damn—all these kids having to go through this shit because of our government.

Our last evening three of us—Bill Davis, Ron Arm and myself—decided to go find something to eat. We found a cab and asked the driver to take us to Sandys, a place where they make hamburgers with a place in the back for kids called Sandino land. When we got there it was closed so we told the cab driver to take us to the nearest place that sold food. I thought he was going to drive forever, but finally he pulled into this place called the Munic Inn, an outdoor caf?; the place was packed and we were the only North Americans there. We walked in and sat down. The place was full of Nicaraguans, partying and having friendly arguments. Groups of musicians were going from table to table playing guitars and singing. People would be in the middle of some argument or discussion and the musicians would come up and start singing and everyone at the table would stop whatever they were doing and listen. Some would start singing.

After awhile the people at the table would start a conversation again and the musicians knew it was time to move to a new table. The waiter cam to our table to take our order; we only wanted a little to eat so we ordered 3 chicken burritos in our best Spanish which was not worth a damn. After the waiter left, up comes a young man who had obviously consumed great quantities of um and asked if he could sit at our table. "Sure, great—sit down."

His English wasn't the greatest and neither was our Spanish. He told us he was from Panama and that his family was in the U.S. in Los Angeles but that he could not get into the U.S. because he had a Nicaraguan passport. He asked us how we like Nicaragua. He said we were brothers and so on. When the Communication broke down because of the language barrier we simply said we are brothers and shook hands once again. In the mean time our food came and we looked up and what did we see? Not 3 burritos, but 3 whole chickens with potatoes and the works. We knew we could not leave a lot of food behind with so many poor people around—we didn't want to look like a bunch of gringos. We dug in. I was so tired by this time I could hardly chew at this point. I no longer cared what I looked like. Then Ron reached inside his chicken and says, "What's this?" He pulls out a chicken foot. I wonder what made him so special—the rest of us didn't get one.

I certainly did not find the repression I heard about in this place. Could the U.S. government have lied again? Everywhere I went I saw people with AK-47s and never once did I feel threatened. It is so clear to me now; if you want to repress people you give about 400,000 citizens automatic weapons so they can overthrow you any time they want. I found that what Nicaraguans want is peace and a chance to build their lives; they are not going back to the old Somoza days and they are not going to stand by and let the U.S. invade them.

A word for any young man who thinks he might join up and that it would be a neat thing to help invade Nicaragua. Nicaragua has a very good army with 19 and 20 year olds who have already 5 years of combat experience. They have been climbing those very steep hills and know them very well. Nicaragua also has a militia which will take no shit and they know just what they are doing. If either one of these don't get you, some old lady with her AK-47 will shoot your balls off. If you don't come home in a body bag, you will come home carrying your balls in a paper bag.

Bob Spicher