Ishmael Houston-Jones: 2 TRAVEL JOURNALS

CUBA 1996

CUBA JOURNAL

5 Feb 1996
Havana
After one day here

WHAT I'VE SEEN.
Waves crashing on the wall of the Malecon sending sprays 30
feet in the air.
A Black woman with one clear blue eye working at the ticket
counter at the Nassau Airport- I think she would never have
been hired in NYC.
Pretty boys.
Trees that look like mangroves.
Beautiful colonial mansions in total disrepair- paint almost
entirely bleached off- crumbling cement balustrades.
Black exhaust from most cars.
Big American cars from the 50's, (Buicks, Oldses, Chevys) all
held together by I don't know what.
Beautiful girls.
Old people.
Tile floors.
Cool theater with decorative cement work that looks like
toothpaste.
Few soldiers. Few police. Few revolutionary murals and
slogans.
Some construction work.
Old art deco hotels.
Lots of bicycles.
Lots of little dogs.

WHAT I'VE SMELLED.
Nasty car exhaust. Coffee roasting. Rotting palm leaves. Mildew in the theater. Cigarette smoke. Guyabina (sp.) liquor. Dark rum. Bathroom cleanser. My after shave (Paco Rabane) and European toothpaste (Elmex) Food being deep fat fried at an outdoor stand. A dumpster of rotting oranges. Grilled lobster. Lime juice on my fingers. The age of the Air Cubana airplane. Fast food against the filtered air in the Miami Airport.

WHAT I'VE TASTED.
Camel lights. Sweet paper of "Popular" Cigarettes. Lobster. Pollo Asado. Yucca. Fish. Beer. Rum. Guyabina (sp.) liquor. Pasta. Baby bananas. Coffee with boiled milk. Coffee with brown sugar. Elmex. Hot dog with relish and mustard, 100% grape juice, chips for $6 at the Nassau Airport. Raisins I brought with me from NYC. Salted peanuts on the plane. "Popular" cigarettes. Dry cookies. Uninteresting tomato sauce. Mayonnaisey macaroni salad. Salt air from the breaking waves along the Malecon.

WHAT I'VE FELT.
Anxiety.
Being in the control of others.
Being hustled but not sure if I was being hustled.
Contentment.
Thrill at the breaking waves.
Exhaustion from the journey.
Pride in getting all the checks to all my bills in the mail box at
the Miami Airport.
Lack of sexual tension.
Pleasure at watching David and Jennifer dance.
Not wanting to have my actions determined by money.
Salsa Picante I accidentally wiped into my eye.
Cold, cold, cold
Warm in the sun.
Timidness in asking directions.
The muscles just in front of my ears straining to understand
Spanish.
No hunger.
Fear that I'd pee the bed 'cause it was so cold.

WHAT I'VE HEARD.
My name being called out (by Jose Ortega) at the Nassau
Airport.
Roosters crowing.
Dogs barking.
Waves crashing.
Car horns beeping at me to get out of the way.
A woman singing with a Salsa band rehearsing on the balcony
of the theater.
Safety instructions in broken English.
Me making myself understood (or not) in Spanish.
Spanish with a Dutch Accent (from David's boyfriend, Mat).
Grinding engines.
Stalled cars.
Music coming from dark homes.
Simon and Garfunkel (Bridge over Troubled Water).
That satellite dishes are illegal here.
Chorus of birds.

6 Feb 1996
Havana
After two days

3 THINGS I MISS
1/ My own bed
2/ Delis open all night
3/ E-mail (xed out "Something about Robt.")

3 THINGS I DON'T MISS
1/ Messages on my answering machine
2/ Layers of coats and sweaters to keep away the cold
3/ My anxiety about leaving

3 THINGS I WANT NOW
1/ To get over this timidity and inability to say what it is I
want and to try to get what I want.
2/ Fluency in another language (in this case Spanish).
3/ To not have to worry about money

3 THINGS I HAVE THAT I DON'T WANT
1/ A certain inertia
2/ An inactive sex life
3/ Lack of a creative outlet and focus for my creative energy

3 THINGS THAT I'M GLAD TO HAVE
1/ Relative good health
2/ The ability to marvel at the beauty of nature
3/ A questioning and doubting and thoughtfully open mind

3 PEOPLE I MISS
1/ Mom on the phone
2/ Robt.- his feet, his coldness, his pathetic middle-class
decadence
3/ Oskar, 'cause he's my most recently made friend. He's a
jewel

3 THINGS I'M GLAD I DON'T HAVE
1/ A known debilitating illness
2/ Real cynicism
3/ A boy/girlfriend

13 Feb 1996
Havana
My last night here

WHAT I'VE SEEN
A lot of small dead dogs,
Beautiful streets that reminded me of Spain,
Bats,
Waves breaking,
Many different patterns of cement floor tiles,
Salsa in the street,
A drag queen in the bar,
Hector's eyelashes,
A ball of worms for feeding fish,
Dark hallways,
Elegance in decay,
Goats,
A children's amusement fair that looked like it was from
Eastern Europe in the '50's,
A lot of old Chevy Bel-Aires,
An old woman smoking a cigar,
A young girl smoking a cigar,
A male couple dancing salsa,
"I (HEART) New Kids on the Block" embroidered on the back of
a denim jacket,
Broken stairways,
Beautiful old colonial architecture,
Water that was really blue,
Homes,
Dog shit,
Dancing.

WHAT I'VE HEARD
Birds, waves, car horns- the usual stuff,
Myself being understood in Spanish,
That there was another snow storm in NY,
Car alarms twice. One had the same pattern as the one that
goes off on my block at home,
Dogs barking, roosters crowing-
A medley of Madonna songs at a gay Disco,
Baseball on TV,
Jokes I only half understood,
French,
German,
"Estoy llorando por ti" at the disco,
"Papa riqui", (Hector explained in Spanish to Jenn and me that
this meant "sugar daddy" and pretty much defined his
relationship with the owner of the pension.)
Dominoes being shuffled,
A woman calling "cinco pesos" selling flowers at the market,
David translating my class for me,
Jennifer's feet against the floor in the performance,
Dancers speaking in my improv class,
The hum/buzz of fluorescent lights in the studio.

WHAT I'VE FELT
Not horny,
A longing---
Something very familiar,
An unnameable connection,
Memories of the Ramblas in Barcelona,
The desire to be horny,
Impatience with group dynamics,
Sore toes,
Sweaty,
Lack of physical intimacy,
Something close to joy,
Repeatedly thrilled by the sight and sound and feel of breaking
waves on the Malecon,
Joy at being tossed in salt water in February,
Fear that someone might talk to me when I was in the street
alone,
An intellectualized desire for Hector, (the houseboy at our
pension.)
Sun on my face,
Tight skin,
Well fed,
Drunk,
Lost,
Lonely.

WHAT I'VE TASTED
Fish, yucca, garlic, salt, tomatoes, a strange vegetable I've never tasted before, rum, pasta, arroz moro, peanut candy, tooth pasteand mouth wash, strong cigarettes with sweet paper, chicken, beer, chocolate, coconut ice-cream, sweet coffee, fresh juice and yogurt, oranges, cola, fried eggs every morning

WHAT I'VE SMELLED
Wood smoke, garbage, exhaust, flowers, night air, salt spray,
musty basement, grilled food, deep fried food, sewer funk

14 February 1996
flight from Miami to NYC

3 THINGS I MISSED
1/ Alone time
2/ My tapes, records, CD's
3/ Easy everyday interactions without a language barrier

3 THINGS I DIDN'T MISS
1/ Having to return calls
2/ My TV addiction
3/ Feeling that I'm not getting enough done with the time I
have

3 THINGS I WANTED
1/ Friends who were more out going and not so concerned with
money to hang out with
2/ More fluency in Spanish
3/ Something sexual to happen

3 THINGS I HAD THAT I DIDN'T WANT
1/ Anxiety about returning (vis-a-vis the illegality of being
there)
2/ Stupid, stupid shyness
3/ Some inertia

3 THINGS I WAS GLAD TO HAVE
1/ Jennifer to hang out with
2/ Enough money
3/ A fun living situation

3 PEOPLE I MISSED
1/ Mom on the phone
2/ Robert
3/ The Meier-Linden kids

3 THINGS I WAS GLAD I DIDN'T HAVE
1/ Any illness
2/ Any bad interpersonal experiences
3/ TV, answering machine, computer solitaire

NICARAGUA 1984, part 1

[NOTE: Nine months after coming home from my first visit to
Nicaragua where, as a guest of the government, I'd been part of a delegation who observed a theater festival, I boarded a plane for Managua on my own, with $400 and very few concrete plans. In the
intervening months I had participated in demonstrations against U.S.
intervention in Central America and I had made several performance
pieces which were informed by my experiences in Nicaragua. A
notable one, a speaking dancing improvisation, I made shortly after
my return during the “Artists Call” events. It was highly criticized
because in my text I questioned the real value of “us” going down
there, being seduced by the sexiness of a tropical revolution when
there was so much more “we” could be doing here. The night before I
left on my second trip I received, with Fred Holland, a New York
Dance and Performance “Bessie” Award for our piece Cowboys,
Dreams and Ladders, which dealt with the invisibility of the Black
Cowboy in the history of the American West.]

14 Sept 84
Miami Airport

[Passport # at top of page.]

So I've made it this far with 2 hours to spare. Watching Miami B-
boys breaking and popping for change on the carpeted concourse to a
KISS FM tape. There are a lot of religious sect people and although
it's an exceptionally clean/sterile airport, no one seems to chase the
riff-raff away. Slept a little on the plane, in fact was nodding out at
JFK but essentially I've been awake for 29 hours. Have no idea what
landing in Managua will be like since we were so pampered on our
last trip. I should list my options now:

[What followed was a list of ten names and addresses given me by
friends in New York.]

And…

Cheap hotels:
Drive past the front of the Intercontinental, take a right, take (I
think) a left to a street with a tree in the middle. Lona [Foote] stayed
at both La Mesa (or Meza?) and Las Santas. I have a photo for a girl
there.

[There are also the names of people who I have messages for and
presents. One message is about film distribution rights and another is
about forming a construction brigade. I am also carrying medical
supplies for a Dr. Karen Brundy and some videotapes from X-Change
TV.]

Group of what looks like sleazy Christians exchanging the address of
their host in Managua. Midwestern NAMBLA types. Darren, a pro
ball player from Bluefields went to look for a phone. I'm
understanding Spanish around me, but I loved the Caribbean
rhythms of his English.

Crying children.

Wave of apprehension awhile ago. Over nothing. Over unknowns.
One of the sleazy Christians is Reading Stranger in a Strange Land.
Lots of rolls of toilet paper in [other people's] bags.

17 Sept 1984

11 AM at the entrance of UCA (Universidad Centro America) an hour
early for my appointment to meet Ezra to deliver tapes from X-
Change TV. Left the house at 10. [I was staying with Claudia G a
friend of my friend Eva Gasteazora.] Thought it would take much
longer, which I'm sure it could have. Took a very crowded
camionetta down La Carreterra de Sur to Siete Sur. [The Southern
highway to Seven South.] [Camionettas are pickup trucks with
canvass covered beds that are used for public transportation outside
the city. They are usually very crowded and one often has to stand
on a bumper and hang on for dear life. You bang on the sides when
you want to get off.] Then a bus to Centro Civico to the office where
[Dr.] Karen Brundy works. Left the medical supplies there as she
would not be there 'til la una [1 P.M.]. Then got a bus (#103) to here.
All that took 1 hour and 5 cordabas (15¢). Ezra says that he knows
of a cheap place to stay near here that he can show me, which is also
near the Dance School. Got through to him by speaking Spanish at 2
numbers. I'm getting better, still too shy about speaking.

Spent the weekend traveling around, smoking and drinking and eating with Claudia and friends. We went to Diriama, where her friend Claudio lives, both Saturday and Sunday. On Sunday we went to Jinotepe also. Claudio changed $ for me at some incredible rate – 250:1. (The official rate is 28:1.) [Since Claudia lives on the outskirts of the city, I didn’t know how easy it would be to find a bank. So I asked Claudio if he could change $100. He looked a little surprised and went away for a long time. When he came back he had a shoe box full of Cordabas. Being ignorant of the Black Market, I was expecting $C2,800. Instead he gave me $C26,000. It was like winning the lottery.] So now I have more money in cordabas than I intended to bring with me and I still have $300 left. Can't figure out the politics of this, or the economics, but it will definitely make staying here easier and more comfortable.

There's a Euro-gringo looking man sitting on the bench beside me, writing. The sleazy Christians were a group of Franciscans here to attend the ordination of a Franciscan Bishop on the Atlantic Coast. One had lived here for 20 years but had left right before the earthquake and has not been here since the revolution. While standing in line, then being told to change lines, he said it didn't look like things had changed much. Noticed that I made the assumption that any Norte Americanos – especially religious people – coming here would be on "our" side. Then realized that, in fact, he was quite conservative and a little condescending. The blond Father managed to feel me up while in line. My trunk was broken (either dropped, or something heavy was put on it) but everything was there and intact.

Ezra's here.

3 PM

So I gave him the tapes. We went to lunch at an outdoor student
cafeteria at UCA. He took me to the place where he stayed before.
The woman wanted $C300 a day since I would have the room alone.
But Ezra said that he could find a room in a house in the
neighborhood of his wife's grandmother.

The neighborhood was called Colonia Centro America. I met his wife
and in-laws. Ezra y Kenya had a disagreement over where I should
stay. She has a friend with a room who wanted $5 a day, but in
dollars. Ezra, being the proper gringo leftist said it is "immoral" to
support the black market. Since this was all taking place in Spanish,
I had to rely upon my spotty knowledge of the language and his
selective translation.

[Map of Managua drawn by Ezra on the next 2 pages. Has bus route
numbers. Includes an "X" marking "your casa" and an arrow to
"where they sell veggies." There are 2 McDonald's on the map, but
now I have no recollection of ever having seen them.]

Ezra was really pushing for one house a few blocks away. (He's 21.
His mother is a filmmaker.) Kenya (who's pregnant.) was pushing for
dollars for her friend. We found "his" place. It's rather dreary but
the woman's nice and she will also wash and iron all for $C1500 a
month. I talked her into letting me pay per week. I gave her $C500
and told her I'd be back.

Right now I'm sitting on a porch of a restaurant having my shoes
shined by a 12-year-old 4th grader who's asking me about the Mafia
and the atomic bomb and dollars. His friends sell Nueva Diario. I
actually was happy to not be served but he told me when he was
finished that they didn't serve outside, but inside was air
conditioned, so here I am with a beer and feeling better. I got off the
bus accidentally but was going crazy anyway being squeezed, worse
than cattle. Don't know if I'll go back to that woman's house. The
prospect of the #119 every day might depress me too much. And
since I have used the black market, I might want to take advantage
of my newfound fortune. My shoes are shined to a ridiculous
brilliance. He was a sweet kid – a real "hustler" and $C15 = either
53¢ or 6¢ [for the shoe shine] depending on which exchange rate I
use. The 500 cordabas I gave the woman is either $17 or $2 so if I
don't go back I'll just let her have it. It's almost 4. The busses will
probably be worse. Maybe it's taxi time, or time to get to the ASTC.

If those little hotels (hosterias) only cost $5 in dollars, I only have 20
days left so at most I'd pay a hundred dollars or the $C300 place
would be $C6000 or $24 or $214 depending on exchange rate. I need
another beer before facing the #119 again.

Ezra is a perfect 21 year old leftist. I think marrying and
impregnating a Nicaraguan woman is a little bit over-achieving but
he is very sincere and earnest (?) I think the beer is bringing me
down from the sugar rush I've been experiencing since I've been
here. I'd forgotten the Nicaraguan love for sugar.)

So, am I going to rough it? Or mid-way it at the other house – which
is near the dance school. Or will I "internacionalista" it out at the
little hotels at the foot of the Intercontinental. For political and
survival reasons, I'd like to stay at the house in Ezra's grandmother-
in-law's nabe, but it [might] be too much of a drag living the
existence of a real Nicaraguan and I might not ever teach. The first
house we went to seems like a nice compromise. Unfortunately I'm
getting used to this air conditioning; I'm glad Carlos told me about it.
The beer is calming. The 3 schoolgirls at the next table are making
fun of me behind my back, in a flirtatious kind of way.

Kenya – Ezra's wife – has a good point. Since there is no lock to my
room, (there is no door really, just a curtain) I should probably take
valuables with me all the time. Maybe I should stop by the first
place and secure the room. I know there's a telephone there, and it's
walking distance to the Escuela de Danza. Got the cuenta (bill), 2
beers here were $C60, which is very expensive.

18 Sept 1984

Every time I stop writing about 50 very different things happen to
me before I get to write again. Sitting at the café next to the dance
school drinking a beer listening to Tina Turner on my Walkman. Up-
down-up-down. The room that I want to move into is occupied until
at least tomorrow. So I can go to the other for tonight or back to
Claudia's or Lona's hosteria or "no sé." The up part of today was
teaching an improv class at the school – a mixture of beginning
contact and "improv 101." It was fun and not much resistance. I got
a ride from Claudia's neighbor at 8 in the morning and thus avoided
the dreaded caminonetta. Got to school for my 10 AM class at 8:30.
Used the time to type my curriculum and warm up. I delivered the
leotards [donated by dancers in New York], kept the green tank form
Group Motion for myself. Another beer, although what I wanted was
a Coke. After the sweetened Nicaraguan frescos, Cokes taste almost
refreshingly tart!

Last night tried to hitch from Siete Sur but it was impossible. Finally
negotiated a taxi for $C200. Claudia wasn't home so I waited in a
hammock on her porch 'til she got home. She heated up some food
and we ate and I told her what I'd done today. Including walking
into the dance school and telling them I wanted to teach "talleres"
(workshops). With a little hassle it was arranged that I would start
today and so I did. The students are great (about 12 of them). Una
Americana, Esther, is teaching there and took my class and helped
translate. They mostly do Graham-Jazz-Ballet in a grueling schedule
(for this heat) that starts at 8 in the morning. My class reminded me
a little of "Fame," but that's OK. And all right, Guillermo is cute and
flirtsy but so are most of the women. (What does that mean?)
Anyway, they're good kids and the theater kids want classes
"tambien." If I could only workout where to live. Think I'll poke my
head in at the Escuela.

4:02
UCA

So I poked my head into the school and offered to teach a 2-hour
seminar, "Movement Improvisation for Actors" at 8 AM. I gave a
very detailed description of what I planned to do to Christina Flores,
the directora. So Thursday 20th and next Friday 28th at 8 AM. Also
the teacher of directing wants me to work with 2 of his students. I'm
showing my videotapes Saturday 29th. God, I hope this place is still
here in 20 years. It's near bursting with potential, both cultural and
political.

8:30
Colonia Centro America

So 4 hours after I decided to go find a nice bourgie hosteria near the
intercontinental I'm in this room sitting on a sagging iron cot, a bare
light bulb in the ceiling, a bathroom with no toilet paper. And the
only things on the wall are a wooden plaque with the sun peeking
over pointy mountains smiling, a tile with a rooster, a bill from a
"fumigadora specializada" from 18 Feb 83 for $C230 which is paper
clipped to a torn 1982 calendar. Septiembre/Octubre has a picture of
what looks to be a Norwegian glacier and there are plugs for
"Locorten Vioformo – crema y pasta. El tratamento eficaz, seguro y
simple en eccemas piodemias." And for another "loción y crema."
The torn month before looks like autumn in a Swiss village in a
valley. To this I've added today's funky shirt. The curtain, which
serves as a door to this room, has faded Little Red Riding Hoods,
Kings, Clowns and Ginger Bread Houses. Oh, and there's a neurotic,
pink-eyed pet rabbit that wants to do nothing but run perfect circles
around my feet. Gets upset if I sit down or stand too close to the
wall and his pattern gets altered. Somehow, I could not be happier
anywhere else right now. Yeah Ron, bomb the be-Jesus out of this
scene. Yeah Ishmael, let him.

God a rooster just crowed in the courtyard behind my head – no
trouble getting up tomorrow I guess. So, aside from the four hours
(at least 3 spent walking and scared, but not really) the whole trip
here cost only $C3 or 9¢ using the official exchange rate. Everybody
wants dollars. A little boy who led me on a wild goose chase for a
hotel and I helped push his wooden cart asked me. Guillermo at la
escuela asked 'cause he's going to Cuba next month. (The folkloric
group leaves for Russia Monday.) Actually as it got later, people got
friendlier. When I finally got to the right barrio, I saw a woman who
looked like Mom. She was making sure a little girl got home and
inside a door. She brought me here. The owner, Zulema, gave me
water and put a clean sheet over the two foam pads on this sagging
cot.

When at 4:30 I took a wrong bus I wound up in one of the poorest
barrios. Most houses had electricity and of course there's bus service
and a couple of TV antennas. But there were lots of naked kids and
people who seemed to be just hanging out. (Old women mostly.)
There was a hustle and bustle in the barrio and not the defeatism
that seems to be prevalent in, say, the Loisaida. Probably the
absence of drugs. It amazed me how unafraid and unmolested I was
walking around – an obvious outsider. Except to ask the time, no one
said anything except a few children begging and one old drunk, but
he was near the Intercon.

9:15 PM

I think I'll turn in. Oh since my budget is $C1000 a day and today
I've spent 3 X $C44 for beer, $C70 for room I'm $C883 over [meaning
I have $C883 left over.] And I got a free meal for teaching.

[On the next page I drew a calendar for my remaining 3 weeks. It
showed daily classes in the Dance school plus classes for the folkloric
group, a group in Tipitapa. “Leave” with a question mark is written
at the end of week 3.]

19 Sept 1984
Escuela de Danza
Evening (watch broke)
Great clouds.

Evagelina just told me that I’m scheduled to teach every day at 10.
Yay!!! So I better stretch out my material. It’s amazing how much
improved they are in only one class. I bet Guillermo has a girlfriend
tucked away somewhere. Actually he’s probably too in love with
himself to take anyone else seriously. What are you writing, Jones?
Anyway, it keeps shocking me, the ability to get ideas across in
another language. It is possible. And even deeper concepts. Had a
long political conversation with Guillermo, he took $30 from me to
change to 6,000 cordabas. Began to touch upon “release” ideas in
class. My class is “bien popular.” I’ve been asked to teach
workshops for two folkloric groups and I’ll teach 2 seminars to the
actors. I’m so excited.

9:30
A casa (At home)

Realized that I could get the time from the radio. Went out to dinner
with Esther and Patricia and kept up my end of the conversation in
Español although Patricia did say I needed to practice. Interesting
today to note how people (dancers) are interested in N.Y. but really
regard Moscow and Habana as the centers or where they aspire to go
and study or work – kind of refreshing. I’m so pessimistic about the
possibility (probability) of Reagan being re-elected. Hung out at the
school all day, good day. Bought 2 Cokes for $C20 + 4 bus trips (2 by
mistake) for $C5. Lent Esther $C10 but she bought dinner. So I
spent $C335 of my $C1000 allowance. Lot’s of souvenirs.

20 Sept 1984
10:30 PM New Casa

Well, I’ve just been called a nigger who has no respect for himself at
the end of a near-perfect day. Got a single room at the house near
the school. Got to school in the morning by hanging onto the outside
of the #119 while it slowly went uphill. Squeezed myself inside
before it picked up speed going down. Got to Claudia’s with little
hassle – first cab I hailed stopped and took me for $C50, which is less
than $2 on the official rate. Taught an OK massage class and a good
class to the actors though they are being trained for the classics
(Brecht). Asked them to bring stories with strong emotional content
next week. Watched a rehearsal of the folkloric group. (Mas o
menos.) They leave for Moscow on Monday where they’ll be a hit.
(Women don’t have today in folk dances?)

Guillermo, who missed the massage class, did a great imitation of my
eyes that was pure cruising, (oops). Had some smoke at Claudia’s.
And then went to the sort of health food restaurant near here where
we ate last night. Because I was alone I sat at the bar and this U.S.
trained Nic (drunk) began telling me how Niggers don’t respect
themselves. Turns out that he assumed I worked for the U.S.
Embassy. I was amazed by the way I diffused him since he was
going to “kick your ass mother fucker.” I laughed when he asked if I
worked for the Embassy. Told him I didn’t need to have my ass
kicked by him or anyone. That I had had enough practice in the
States and that I was here to learn and testify. By the end of my
meal (tacos) we were buying each other beers and shaking hands, to
the relief of the women working at the place and the other
customers. Yes Ish, you handled it well and yes, it’s been a good day.
Tomorrow I teach at 10 and after returning from lunch I’m being
picked up to teach 2 mime students of the theater group.

It’s good to have my stuff. Other jeans and books mostly. People
love looking at the photo book of “The Lower East Side.” And
Toiletries at last. – This place comes with soap, a towel (no more
drying off with my bandanna), a good mattress on a captain’s bed,
soap, a toilet seat, toilet paper and no #119 in the morning.
Breakfast is at 7, better sign off.


Money
$C 3 bus
50 taxi
22 beer
155 tacos and 3 beers
$C230
+ 300 not paid room
$C530

22 Sept 84
8:30 AM

After breakfast of coffee & melon & pancakes, taught two good
classes. First to the dance students – finally got them to just
improvise but with concentration and focus. Then Baltazar took me
to his house to work with 3 actors in his theater group. Actually
Baltazar, Mario and Orlando are Salvadorian émigrés. The other guy,
whose name I think is Antonio, is Basque. (Real different accent.)
They were much more receptive to the contact (improv) concepts
than the dance students. Afterwards we talked for a long time, then
drank a bottle of Habana Club Rum, then ate, then drank a bottle of
Nico rum. Checca, a dance student, came over. Her family is from La
Costa Atlantica. She and I did some grinding raggae dancing. I have
Tina Turner, Private Dancer, on the phones. Great album.

There’s a man in a hospital bed here in the house who moans a lot.
And an English-speaking family with child. The señora’s daughter
and her toddler (Maria Alejandra) and I think her husband.

If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve brought King Sonny Adé to Nicaragua.
Gloria wants to use it on her radio show. I agreed to work with the
(theater) guys again at 2 this afternoon. Good to have a day off but
I’m a little lost. Think I dreamt in “Spanish last night. It bothers me
how everyone refers to “servants” as “la muchacha” or “el muchacho.”
Just like Jewish ladies or Southerners in the States.

“What’s love got to do with it?”

Bye, John??? [A reference to my friend John Bernd in NYC.]

Miss everybody, but could see being here for a long time – how long?
– why? – what to do?

10:50 AM

Made my way by foot (with very little unintended detour) to the
Plaza de la Revolución. Tranquil Saturday morning. There are
platforms over the steps of the Cathedral, probably left over from a
parade celebrating the 5th Anniversary. The Palacio Nacional is as
shabby as ever. And the Rueben Dario Theater is still closed because
they cannot repair the air conditioning. The traffic signals
(semafores) are turned off at night to preserve the bulbs, which are
scarce, but also because the cherry picker ladders cannot be obtained
making changing the bulbs very difficult if not impossible. fl This
from Deborah, Baltazar’s gringa novia de California. She’s nice, has
been in Latin America for 10 years. Several lovers here in the park;
fathers with children; trio of gringo tourists with giant cameras.

I’ve been trying to isolate smells. (Old lady jus tasked the time.)
(Gardeners with long machetes – one just asked the time – once y
trece (11:13.) Anyway the odors. A lot of it is the heavy wet green
plant smell of the south in the States. A lot like Mississippi. Plus the
perfumes of flowers I don’t know. And food cooking on charcoal and
wood grills. (At the first house I was staying at I realized that many
people like her used grills for cooking because they don’t have gas.)
Then there’s a constant sweet smell of cheap petroleum. There’s no
telling what grade of cheap gasoline some of these vehicles are
burning but they belch out smoke so black that you can barely see
for a minute after they pass. There’s also the subtle smell of dust. If
this is the rainy season, the dry season must be insufferably dusty.

8:30 PM
at the Natural Restaurant

At the end of the last sentence a kind of drunk (I think) man who
had come from the Costa Atlantica sat down and began talking to me.
Linguistically it was interesting because we both kept slipping from
Spanish to English quite freely. (I’m drinking draft beer here, I just
realized.) He began by offering to be my guide and started telling
me about the capture of the national Palace – Eden Pastoria, Dora
Maria Tellez et. al. I kept pressing him for more personal details.
(Enchilada arrives.) (Good meal, think I’ll dessert.) Anyway, it was a
situation that I didn’t use my tape recorder and should have. He
took me down to see the lake where there are trucks taking large
cement crosses to Puerto Sandino. He said to build a secret airport.
Said he worked as a crane operator (I think) and he did seem too
know the workers down there. Said he came to Managua after the
earthquake. I didn’t catch why. Said there had been no fighting on
the Costa Atlantica. When asked if the “situation” was better or
worse now or before he said he couldn’t tell because (I think) that
the Costa has been traditionally separated. But when I said that
Reagan calls this a police state and that people don’t support the
Sandinista government, he strongly disagreed. He said people had
consciousness and criticism but that the police have never bothered
him. He showed me his social security card and said that when one
lived too far away one might sleep on a park bench and the police
might wake them and ask to see I.D. but wouldn’t do more. Had a
long political discussion. He asked me about Jesse Jackson and
Mondale. I told him that Reagan was crazy and might do anything.
He assured me that Nicaragua will not be a Grenada. That the people
are ready to fight. I drank some water out of a spigot which I was
sure would kill me. Especially since he told me that the garbage of
the city is dumped there. (Did I mention the smell of burning grass
earlier in my list of odors – it’s very prevalent.) He picked a very
under ripe mango from a tree for me. When I said I had to go teach
a class he asked for money for the tour – which I expected. But when
I gave him $C50 he asked for $C100. The conversation shifted to all
Spanish. I refused. He did a guilt plea. He’d told me that he lived in
one of the despues de terramoto (after the earthquake) buildings
with his family. I realized later that the $C50 I gave me (oops) him
was worth less than 25¢ at the rate I exchanged money, less than $2
at the official rate. He took the bus, the 109, and paid for me – asked
if he could speak with me again. He rode a little bit with me. Then
got off.

23 Sept 1984
Sunday, in my room, it’s 1:30 in the afternoon, radio thru earphones.
Fuck off day. Missed the directions to Tipitapa to teach Marvin’s
folkloric group – didn’t really want to go. Feel just a little sick but I
took the 114 to the end but it didn’t go to the town. I’ll talk to him
tomorrow.

Anyway, came back here and hand washed some things – mostly
dance stuff. Try to read. At breakfast today – which was really good
– huevos rancheros, and pinto gaya (or is it gaya pinto?) — I met the
other English speaking borders. The guy next door with the 2 brats
(5 and 7 I think) is a nurse from Philadelphia. He came here to work
but he’s been caught up in red tape while they check his political
affiliations. The other guy, Josh, is a journalist (I think Hispanic)
from Santa Cruz, California. Among other things, he’s writing a story
for Sierra Club about environmental policy here, which he says for a
developing country are excellent. He’s also writing a story for
Pacifica and a Latin American news agency that is out of Lima, Peru.
The other man, Vince, is from Ireland. He lives in London and NYC
and has been picking potatoes up north – hurt his neck. Said he
heard mortar fire and the 2 Black Cubans who run the school had to
be evacuated. ("Y Los Yanquis se va Correr” {And the Yankees Will
Run Away} on the radio.) He said he was picking with children about
10 years old but each day they would take a break for 2-2 _ hours to
study with the Cubans, except at peak picking weeks. (Little Eva or
Dee Dee Sharp “Give Me Gravy” on Radio Sandino now.) Vince said
the head of the farm cooperative where he was working had been a
man who was completely illiterate before insurrection. (Must
remember “the revolution” is still in progress.) Now he’s running the
whole cooperative, doing the books, etc.

Enough about today, my clothes are being rained upon. Oh, one more
thing. Josh says he’s been following Daniel Ortega around for a story
he’s writing. Said last night he spoke in a high school auditorium full
of draft age kids who were very vocal in their opposition to the draft.
But that Ortega was firm and articulate in explaining that camposino
kids on the frontiers were risking their lives every day so that city
kids could eat and live in relative comfort and that it is immoral for
the city kids to be parasites to the camposinos. (Willie Nelson singing
“To ALL the Girls I Loved” with Julio Iglesias.)

Yesterday’s workout with Grupo Roqué Dalton (Baltazar’s group) was
wonderful. I went over the contact principles – table, standing table,
finger point – plus fantasy language, Skinner Releasing lines of
energy, back shakes, leg shakes, plus Silent story telling to rap music.
They loved the music and class. They’re having a party Friday. Had a
long talk with Mario about the situation in Salvador, Roqué Dalton,
and the work of the group, etc. Real worthwhile day.

23 Sept 1984
5:30 PM

Spent a lot of this afternoon in my room listening to radio thru
headphones and studying verb forms and expressions.
Understanding more on the radio, even the songs. At certain times
it’s impossible to not hear an USA made song on any of the Sandino
stations. So now I sit on the patio of Los Antojitos Mexican
Restaurant right across from the Intercontinental. Servile/formal
waiters, plenty of blond, lobster colored gringos in linen. Didn’t see
Yerba Buena (a store someone had recommended) and I should have
passed it on my way here. Maybe closed on Sundays. There are
huge parrots squawking, a forest of plants, Mexican music on the
intercom. Bourgie Nics. You can just see the bomb being hurled from
the street. I happened upon here partly by accident. Took the #102
to where I think the Statue of Montoya is – at any rate there’s a
really nice park there and sort of figured out where the Intercon, etc.
would be. I discovered one problem of orientation to here is that
there’s a pretty high hill that hides this area from where I live. Also
there’s the Lagoon (or is it Lake Tiscapa?) that one has to get around.
(Cute Latin boy writing in his notebook at the next table. His food
just arrived.) This place is expensive, extremely so by Nico-
standards. So I’m getting more oriented. Didn’t see the ASTC, if that
park is in fact the Montoya Park. But I seem to remember
wandering near there in December. (It’s a really rico area by
standards here – lots and lots of “fotcopia” places, and the East
German and Belgian Embassies. A kid on roller-skates chatting up a
girl by a car, one obscene house with Ionic columns and grand
staircase. Eat.


24 Sept 1984

[On this page I drew 2 stick figure skeletons (back and front views)
with the Spanish names for bones, joints and body parts. Also there
is a list of directions (rise, bend, balance, etc.) and images (waterfall,
anchor, and balloon) all with Spanish translations. I believe Esther
helped me with this.]

NICARAGUA 1984, part 2

24 Sept 1984
11:20 PM

Quick note. Tired, didn’t feel well again today but just noticed that
my sore throat is gone. Rainy Monday. Low energy at the school.
Also there was some meeting so that there were only 4 students –
Gloria, Esther, Checca, and Ligia. Did shoulder and neck with them.

Last night went out with Josh and Vince from the house. Josh is
smart, has traveled around Latin America – just got back from Cuba.
Vince is kind of a Negrophile British twit. Keeps bringing up raggae
to me. Lives in the East Village while in New York. Talked a lot
about Cuba with Josh. Homosexuals. Jews in Nicaragua. The mood of
the country here – still prepared but war-weary. Drank some
Habana Club Rum in their room. Talked about his meeting with the
PLO Ambassador in Cuba. Israel, the war merchant. Vince kept
chirping in with English inanities. He reminds me of Robin F without
the sexiness or wit. It’s still raining steadily.

This A.M. Esther whispered that she had to talk with me. Seems that
Patricia told her that “it is known” that I have smoked [marijuana]
while in Nicaragua. Strange, I don’t remember mentioning it to
anyone here since Claudio was adamant that it should be kept quiet.
Vince, Josh and I were talking about smoke at the restaurant last
night but I can’t imagine anyone from the school could have been
there and I not notice. I might have talked about drugs in a general
way with the Salvadorians or maybe with Guillermo, (called Memo),
but at any rate it made me feel sufficiently creepy and spied upon.

Tonight went out to dinner with the guys. We all decided that Ken,
the nurse with the kids, is a real fucked up individual. Probably
abuses his kids and should probably go home. It was Josh’s 21st
birthday.

Tomorrow afternoon I work with Gloria’s group, Thursday with
Mauricio’s. Dinner with Dr. Karen? Next Saturday Tipitapa. AMLAE
Rally Friday and Salvadorian party. Embassy vigils still happening
on Thursday A.M.'S. Good night, Ish.

25 Sept 1984
Copy of letter to Maia Kikerpill (roommate in NYC)

Dear Maia (and John & Fred & Mom – please call her for me.),
This English guy was staying at the same rooming house and he said
he lived in the E. Village and since making calls outside the country
is a little complicated I decided to write you. Please call Pauline [my
mother] & tell her I’m OK, which I am. I feel safer here, generally,
than I do in NYC. The weather until 2 days ago was great; we now
have a rain that doesn’t look like it’s going to let up. Since 2 days
after I arrived I’ve been teaching everyday at 10 AM to students at
the Escuela de Danza Nacional. They’ve already had a grueling
Graham class and another technique – which I sometimes take at 8
AM before [my class]. I’m teaching basic Improv, Contact, Releasing,
Massage, etc. which they really need. In addition, I’ve taught special
workshops to students at the Theater School, and to a group of 4
actors in a professional theater group. I’ve been invited to teach
workshops at 3 other folkloric or theater groups. So far, working
with the actors – 3 from Salvador, 1 Basque – has been most
rewarding. So my major accomplishments have been to introduce
Contact Improv, Sonny Adé, and Rap Music to the country. Radio
sucks in an interesting way. A minute of anti-imperalismo slogans
and a revolutionary song like “And the Yankees will All Leave
Running,” followed by Frank Sinatra and “Extranjeros en la Noche,”
Doo-Bee, Doo-Bee, Doo. For an anti-imperialist country, they’ve taken
on the worse of USA culture. But it’s also interesting that the dancers
and actors, while curious about NYC, really look to Cuba or Moscow as
to where they want to go. 24 members of the folkloric group left for
a tour of the USSR yesterday and 4 of my students have scholarships
to study in Havana this fall. In fact, it was great to come to a country
of 3 million people not one of whom knew what a “Bessie (Award)”
was. (Note to John B. Guillermo – called Memo – is a Hispanic cross
between Helge, Stony, & Joseph P. and you know what that means).
Also I delivered the medicine and will have dinner with Karen, the
doctor, on Thursday. This house is great = $10 with huge breakfast
and toilet paper!! But best of all it’s close to the school and I can
avoid the busses, which cost 3¢ and are always packed like the Lex
at rush hour. If you don’t push to the back door by the time your
stop comes, you don’t get off. Oh well, it’s 8:30 and I should get
going. Still planning to return 7 Oct but would like to stay longer. In
absolute emergency Tele 75-430 and my name is pronounced “is-
mah-Él.” My passport # is – -. Don’t think you’ll need this though.
Love,
Ish

6:30 PM
So it’s the evening now. Others here at the house are eating dinner;
I’m not hungry. And will probably eat later at a nearby outdoor café.
A North American woman who’s working for the U.N. says that her
boss told her that there are travel restrictions on N.A.’s and the only
places we can travel without permission are the major cities. When I
got to the school today everyone was buzzing with the news that 8
mothers were killed on their way North to visit their sons on the
front. (I’m playing peek-a-boo with Maria Alejandra, the one year
old grand-daughter of our land lady.) I taught a good class to (the
music of) Sonny Adé anyway. Watched a rehearsal. Then Gloria
Bacon (who’s from the Atlantic Coast and thus speaks English and is
Black. Except that today she’s in reserves and came to class in
fatigues and boots—she changed to pink leotards and tights, she could
be any pretty black woman on the streets of NYC.) Anyway, Gloria
took me to the TV station where she works to teach Improvisación
Contacto to the show dancers there. Great class to 10 people who had
never seen or heard of Contact before. On Friday there’s a big
demonstration by AMLAE – the Women’s org. I’m sure the death of
the mothers will highly charge the situation. I’m planning to go. The
Salvadorians are having a party later that night. It’s strange, the
rain has slowed but I don’t feel nearly as hopeful as I did this
morning.
All for now,
Ishmael


27 Sept 1984

9 PM at the neighborhood café. Good strange day. (Menu and
cerveza. What to have?) This place has had great food so I think I’ll
order blind. Must tell people who are coming down the “no
hay”[there isn’t any, we’re out] is an expression they should get used
to hearing. They didn’t have the first 2 things I ordered but since I
didn’t know what they were I order 2 other unknowns. Was here at
the earlier part of last night with Marvin to buy him a birthday beer
which turned into 5 apiece and the beginning of a long night that was
fun/weird and I don’t think that want to go into just yet. Well, as I’d
say at the shrink’s, I do want to go into it, just don’t know if I can.
Saved by the arrival of the food.

After eating. If this place were in NYC there’d be lines around the
block. Don’t know what it was, but it sure was good. There are
mixed groups and couples here, but you can still see the Latin
tradition of men going out together and leaving the wives at home.
I’ve decided to move my flight up a couple of days. I need one more
weekend here at least. Went with Gloria, who I like a lot, to teach
her group at the television station and over lunch, which she insisted
upon buying, I began to express the desire/fear that I could wind up
here for an extended time. She asked what exactly I would do and
said that I probably wouldn’t be able to work for money. I didn’t
explain to her that if I were to change $300 on the black market I
could probably live here very comfortably for a year. And I’m
loving teaching (except the 4th year dance students at the school). I
think that’s one reason why I’m in such a good mood tonight – they
had a presentation today in a going away ceremony for members (I
think) of ASTC or some other artsy types who are starting their
military service. Lot’s of speeches about how culture fights
imperialism. They (the 4th year students) really fucked up the
“Bamba” the dance they just finished learning. But the “Farimundo”
was at least performed well. I then taught Gloria’s group and then
the folkloric group that Maurcio is a part of at the ASTC. There was
no electricity so I taught outside with no tape so I dredged up all
kinds of Terry Fox (improvisation collaborator from Philadelphia)
and Group Motion (first company I danced with, also in Philadelphia)
sounding exercises along with beginning contact counter balances.
They really, really appreciated and liked and learned from the class.
I was touched. They want me back next week. I just feel that the
4th year students at the school are really caught up in Dance
Magazine images of what a dance “should look like.” Whereas the
theater and folkloric groups are really able to get into the movement
and the improvisations.

Anyway, I’m a hit with some people and mildly tolerated by others.
But it’s been good – great – for me to be here. How to stop
Reagan???!!!

The English/Irish twit who was staying at the house said that when
he was staying – working – up in Estelli he had to take his turn
standing vigilance with an automatic rifle. I feel that there is
ultimately lacking in me that I don’t even know how to shoot to
protect what is important to me. But Ghandi and M.L. King are still
hovering in the corner of my consciousness. I still fear the romance
of the gun. What if the twit had seen me – given up on hitchhiking,
heading toward the light of the cooperative? Would he (would I)
have really blown me away? Third beer talking. And I still haven’t
gotten into last night.

10 beers, two dinners, French kissing, taxi to Tipitapa. 2 pair of
underwear from Mama a Marvin [for his birthday]and a bottle of
Intensive Care from his brother. Dirt street, poor town. Iron cot.
“Ghetto blaster.” Sex on a mat on the floor. A pig grunting outside.
Roosters crowing. A dog licking my toes. Pictures of the Virgin,
Sandino and a (boy) friend on the wall. Packed bus ride back to
Managua in the morning. Our bus broke down. Live rabbit being
taken to market. He’s in the reserves. Great sky tonight.


30 Sept 84

9:30 Sunday night. Strange couple of days. “One hundred years of
Solitude” images everywhere. Tonight I was describing the house
where I live and now write this to some quite wealthy Nics and
realized how bizarre it all actually is. Then when I got home I found
out that actually most of the people living here are related by “blood
or semen” and then there’s the assortment of Norte-Americanos
living here. The weirdest being Ken and his 2 kids. Everyone’s going
to bed now. My Spanish is getting more solid. The plastic tablecloth
on this (dining room) table has a Mogen David and Hebrew letters.

So, this household as I understand it so far. Lolita is la dueña
[landlady], which I knew. And Teadora is an employee, maid/cook.
Iliana is Lolita’s daughter, which I also knew and the one-year-old
Maria Alejandra is hers – no sé donde está el papá. The two men
who share the back room are [Lolita’s] sons, which I didn’t know.
One studies zoology at UCA, the other is a soldier. The retarded man
is another son who 2 years ago was having an argument with a
“friend” who shot him in the head. So now he can’t walk or speak
and makes infantile moans when he needs anything. And the old
guy who walks with the walker is Lolita’s husband and their father
who is also speechless since he had a stroke 2 years ago. Then
there’s us. Me, Josh, Scott who’s a translator from Canada, his
Salvadorian girlfriend Anna – they now have my old room which is
actually his old room. And Ken, the weird nurse from Philadelphia
who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish and his 2 Children of the
Damned kids. !Qué casa!

Yesterday, Sat, 29 Sept, I made my way by myself by way of the
Mercado Oriental, to Tipitapa to teach the members of Marvin’s
folkloric group. He led a warm-up before and he is really a beautiful
mover. There’s another queen in the group (Jorge) who didn’t take
the class but hung out with us afterwards. It seems that Marvin had
a whole evening mapped out, but I got cranky and needed to get
back to Managua. But there were really strange and wonderful
images in Tipitapa. The town is really poor, with only one paved
street. At the home of Marvin’s uncle, where we’d slept before, there
is a pig and some scrawny chickens in the yard. People were getting
drunk. The sky was incredible. For the first time I felt it was not
cool to be a Gringo in this country. (Even a Gringo-Negro.) Marvin
introduced me as an “Internacionalista.” People were challenging me
about policy. One boyfriend of a cousin changed into his uniform
when I arrived. I explained, of course, that I oppose the U.S. policy,
but it seemed harder to convince these people. But I felt no lack of
support for the FSLN. In fact, it seemed more genuine and strong
than in Managua. We went to a local discotheque to watch a Disco
Dance competition but it was so packed that we couldn’t see a thing.
I met Marvin’s mother who gave me food and found a Managua
bound bus for me and I hopped it – Marvin had told me the last one
had left at 8. Got back here and went to the Restaurant for a 1/2 bottle of rum.

The night before that Josh and I went to the manifestación marking
the seventh anniversary of AMLAE at the Plaza de la Revolución. I
wore my red and black striped T-shirt. It looked like every gringo
leftist in town was there. The dance school got bumped from the
program because the event was supposed to have turned into a
solemn memorial for the mothers killed last week. But it was
actually quite a lively celebration. People spontaneously building
human pyramids, tossing women into the air, dancing. The popular
group Pancasan sang and played. Lots of chants. Ortega spoke.

Afterwards went to Grupo Roqué Dalton’s Party at Baltazar’s house.
Missed all of the presentations except his Kafka monologue. Took
Josh, (with whom I now share a double room since Vince left). Had a
great time getting drunk and talking afterwards. Noticed that even
when there would be 3 North Americans talking together,
conversations usually remained in Spanish. A woman from
Massachusetts who teaches in the Language School in Estelli says that
the situation there is very grave. That there are helicopters always
flying overhead and that they are surrounded by bands of Contras.
She said people are getting sick simply from lack of sleep. Josh
wants to go there next weekend.

Today was spent with Eva (G’s) friend Roberto and his friend Luis.
Beautiful house on a finca where he was born. That his parents own.
South of where Claudia lives. Squawking parrots, lush palm trees,
paintings on the walls, radio tuned to the classical station. He works
for IBM but is an amateur painter. Admittedly of the bourgeois
class. Critical of the FSLN – at various times told me not to quote him
directly as he could be arrested. He and Luis (a former engineer now
a free-lance simultaneous interpreter making 2 times the $) said that
on July 19, 1979 when the FSLN triumphed, they had the support of
practically everyone in the country. They said, in fact, the FSLN
could not have won without the help of religious people, the
bourgeoisie, workers, camposinos, etc. They promised a broad
coalition. But now they have so closely modeled themselves after
Cuba that they have locked out all others. The others, particularly
the bourgeoisie who gave up much (those who remained) deserve a
voice in the government. Luis intimated that the problem wasn’t the
U.S. giving $ to the Contras por que there would be no Contras if the
FSLN had not insisted upon taking all the power for themselves. He
made the incredible statement that 80% of the Contras were former
Sandinistas who left the country to fight what was a dictatorship of
the left. He actually said that the Contras were the ones who had
courage and that those, like him, who only stayed and complained
lacked the courage of their convictions. Roberto said his family had a
cattle finca confiscated because they were called “absentee
landlords.”

Luis and I went to the house of Nicol(as), a German who
has lived here for 18 years. He makes special German soups every
Sunday and invites people over, (today goulash and a clear oxtail).
His Nic-born L.A. educated girlfriend’s name is Patsy. The house had
hot and cold faucets – I tried, the hot in the kitchen and it was warm.
In the bathroom was “Scope, Lysol, Colgate, Wella Balsam,” etc. At
Roberto’s house he drank Miller Beer. They also had Stolichnya and
Cointreau, but I stuck to Flor de Caña, [the local rum], ice, water and
lime. All of them used as an argument against the FSLN that the
Revolution has hurt most the very people whom it set out to help.
(Actually Roberto didn’t say this.) But Luis says he is living very
much the way he lived before. He says his salary is 1/4 and he can’t
find meat for his 2 Dobermans but he can always leave the country
to get things he wants whereas the poor, the workers, cannot even
buy the things they need because ”no hay.” He challenged me to
ask any poor person on the street if they are better off now than
before. He said he had, and that the camposinos say that before the
were not “free” in the way in which they are now told that they are
free; but if they wanted to blow a week’s salary on something special
they could because it existed in the marketplace. Now there are
weeks when there is no rice or beans, or toilet paper, or toothpaste,
or sugar, etc. Another criticism they had was that these goods, which
are rationed, are now available in the “Super Mercados” at black
market prices leading to the accusation that the shortages were
always false. (Josh says that there was/is hoarding of staples in
anticipation of an invasion and that releasing the goods now is
basically to compete with and thus destroy the black market.) Luis
also said it was mainly the sons of the poor who are being used as
cannon fodder. (Of course most of the country is poor so…) They
[Luis et. al.] feel locked out of the elections. Apparently at the
AMLAE rally on Friday Daniel made a very inflammatory remark
saying that when the war comes, it will not only be a war against the
Contras and the Yanquis; but also a class war against the bourgeoisie.
Daniel once belonged to the bourgeoisie and Luis hinted that he
has never overcome his inferiority complex at not being upper class.
I didn’t agree or disagree – simply listened politely and wondered
how much time is left for these people.

Well it’s 11:00 and everyone else is snoring. 3 classes tomorrow.
Hope things are OK with Marvin.


1 Oct 1984

Just had a brochette and 2 cervezas at the Margarita Natural – the
less good of the 2 cafes nearby. Since yesterday have become more
class conscious and have come to realize that this nabe and these
places (cafes) are really middle class enclaves. No wonder I fit in so
well. It’s interesting how repugnant the people I visited yesterday
seemed to me, vis-à-vis “the average Nicaraguan.” Their
preoccupation with U.S.A. consumerism trips to Europe, Charmin and
Scope. Speaking in tongues. Having cars and not picking up
hitchhikers. Great quote for Peter Brosius’ play from Luis, -- “I don’t
mind becoming a vegetarian for a week or 2 when there’s no meat,
but I have 2 Doberman’s and they can’t exist on rice and beans!”
And Patsy, the girlfriend of the German soup maker looked and acted
like the perfect ”Stepford Wife.” Not buying a new car because they
are “expecting (hoping for) an invasion.” Or the situation to become
worse. They feel that they have given up enough and now they want
a return to a status quo that no longer exist.

Any way today was good if rather wasted. Taught a workshop to a
group of soldiers – 4 women and 2 men who have a folkloric group.
Was done by 9:30 AM and actually I could have left because my
class to the 4th year students was cancelled because of a meeting.
And the woman who was supposed to show in the afternoon didn’t.
But when I went home to siesta I asked Teadora if the washerwoman
could do my things and she said of course. So if it ever gets dry
enough, I’ll have clean clothes. I spent the afternoon playing with
Gabriel – the toddler son of Evangelina [director of the dance school].
Great kid, great mover. He can say “agua,” “mama,” and “pipi.”
Danced with him. Talked with Memo – he asked if I wanted to
change more money. I told him I wanted to go to a disco in
Managua. He said he has 3 Novias (girlfriends/fiancées) and several
women. He asked if I’ve smoked marijuana in Nicaragua. I denied it
making a joke that it was impossible to obtain without a ration card.
Marvin seemed fine, if distant. Made sure I told him I enjoyed
meeting his family, which I really did. Having a piña pastel and a
tamarindo refresco. (Pineapple cake and tamarind soft drink.) Every
#119 that has passed by here tonight has been packed. I haven’t
ridden a bus in 2 days. Have a rather full schedule coming up –

Martes Morning class, Gloria’s class, help choreograph at the TV
studio. Maybe pop in at Roqué Dalton.

Miercoles 8 AM military group, morning class, teach instructors 4-5,
Radio Mil

Jueves Morning class, [crossed out], Gloria’s group, Instructors 4-5 at the school, Roqué Dalton, Mauricio’s group at ASTC, 8 PM
dinner with Karen

Viernes Morning group, Instructors 4-5

Sabado Tipitapa otra vez?

2 Oct 84

10 PM at the better of the 2 nabe cafes. Plato Tipico, (fried rice,
beans, meat, cheese, bananas and that unidentified veg which is like
an unsweet starchy banana.) And beer. One of my folkloric kids was
here. Guess my Spanish wasn’t good enough ‘cause I asked him if he
was meeting someone as a way of offering him a seat but he just left.
I’ll see him Jueves. The waitress and several customers recognize me
as a regular. “Otra cerveza, por Favor.” So this is what would
happen if I won the lottery. I’d get drunk and pig out every night
and go home alone. Hmmm!

Last night had strange dissociation dreams. – Lost in the L.A. airport –
people or strange forms in my room. Pain in the side.

Taught a good “releasing” class to the 4th year students today. Memo
didn’t take it. I don’t care what he says, he’s been in a heavy mood
the last few days. The TV kids were fun. Used Group Motion
“directing the orchestra exercise.” Then I helped with the
choreography of a play. Then Gloria wanted to interview me for her
radio program, but there was a problem at the studio. But I got to
meet her boyfriend (Jazz musician from San Francisco). The more I
meet North Americans here, the more it seems possible. Esther from
the school has decided to stay. Probably accounts for my dissociation
dreams.

The whole household (except Josh who’s away interviewing someone,
and Ken who went the Costa Rica with the kids so they can renew
their visas) watched Daniel Ortega address the U.N. I caught about
75% of it with dictionary in hand. I hope the world hears him.
Curious about the elections. Really depressed about being back there, [NYC], next week.

4 Oct 1984

Back at the better restaurant. Waitress loves me. Must be the tip I
leave on top of the service charge. How to describe the last couple of
days? If I hadn’t convinced myself that I would be of more help to
this country Stateside than here, I’m sure I’d be having more than
second thoughts about leaving. As it is I’m already planning to
return. I said so on the radio.

So Patricia’s husband is the (a) chief of police. I knew there was a
reason she intimidated me. Before classes in the afternoon, she gave
a synopsis of Daniel’s speech before the U.N. and told them if they
wanted, they should check out the text in “Barricada.” Gloria said
that this used to happen more often. It wasn’t heavy – just a “For
Your Information.” I taught a class to the soldiers who have a
folkloric group. I took a photo of them. But when I told them I
wanted a photo of them in their uniforms they told me it was
forbidden. I taught a short class [to the 4th years?] after Evangelina
insisted. They wanted to rehearse “Bamba” because they were going
to have a presentation today. I taught a short class using the
“orchestra improvisation” then let them rehearse.

My “vigrón” arrives. Strange combo of cracklin’ and a weird starchy
vegetable slaw. My taco seems to be all pure beef, no queso, ni chili.
She forgot. Oh well, no importa, I’m stuffed. My old waitress just
asked where I’m from and what I’m doing. I can’t believe I’m
leaving this place on Sunday. Told her I’ll be back in Febrero. It’s
amazing, I’m at the point of tears. Asked the waitress the name of
the strange vegetable. “Yucca.” Asked if I didn’t like it. Mas o
Menos.

Memo and I have a date to go to the disco tomorrow night. Last
night Josh returned from watching sea turtles lay their eggs. He had
more mosquito bites than I’ve ever seen on one person. He pointed
out the supreme irony of a country at war trying to protect the eggs
of sea turtles from people who rob their nests on the beach to sell
the eggs at market. It’s cool tonight. I almost passed out from
walking in the heat today. Stood up again by Dr. Brundy. A Chilean
friend just arrived. At the television class today I arrived late and
drenched from a downpour and tired from the heat.
Taught primarily yoga – sun salute, alternate nostril breathing – plus
a little group improv to Keith Jarret. Afterwards they presented me
with presents – a hat, some posters -- great because I couldn’t find
them anywhere. We made speeches, had Cokes. I came back [to the
School] to teach a good class – similar – to the instructors. Just
ordered my fourth cerveza. New waitress asked questions also.
Asked if I was writing to mi novia – No – but how to explain these
“reflexiones?” The folkloric group cancelled because they had a
presentation tonight. So I wound up talking to 3 students from the
class of instructors for about 1 1/2 hours. And with David, a 14 year
old student who’s really quite incredible. Real bright, real sharp and
a good mover. Wants to dance like Michael Jackson. Found out that
“chaon” (?) is the local pejorative for “faggot.” Did a little
consciousness raising without taking the step of being really
personal. Francisco “Chico” definitely will be when he grows up. He’s
17. And Dennis, I’m sure is. Raquel is a real hot sexy number, but in
talking to her tonight, I saw a sharp-as-tacks sensibility toward work
and her desire to be an actress. Nicaraguans all have either horrible
“tercer mundo” teeth or incredibly perfect ones.

Hanging off the back of camionettas, sodas from plastic bags, boys
selling boxes of gum, matches, cigarettes in restaurants like this one.
Women with parasols.
Ate lunch at a good Chinese Restaurant today.

Found, with Josh, the Evangelical store that sells postcards and tapes,
but they were closed for lunch. Stopped by Casa Nicaragua de
Español and had a small ego trip because I spoke better than the
gringa who works there. There are signs everywhere saying that
“aquí solo hablamos Español” and she came over and asked “and
where do you come from?” and I continued the conversation in
Español. Turns out that for 2 years she lived across the street from
me [in NYC]. Pigs and cows in the streets. Josh thinks he has malaria
and I think I have hepatitis . He got clucked at for wearing shorts
and swore at the ones who did the clucking. Heard myself on the
radio.

Signing off.


[This is the last entry. The spiral notebook is filled with Spanish
vocabulary and verb conjugations. Also people’s names and
addresses. There is also a draft of the narrative of a National
Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. And drafts of letters to my
Senators and Congressman opposing U.S. involvement in Nicaragua.]
The following night
My last Friday. This all comes through the filter of 15 years.


More presents and gifts and speeches and cake from the students
and teachers at the school.

Memo and I had a date to go to a Managua discotheque. I took him
and Marvin out to one of the nearby cafes for dinner and a lot of
rum, ice and lime. I recall that Memo said something really
suggestive at dinner using one of the napkins as a prop. We went
back to the house. Marvin had to change out of his fatigues because
they didn’t let soldiers in uniform into the disco. I remember the
strange sound of a frog croaking in the street. In my room, Josh was
out of town again, Marvin changed. He must have had civvies in his
bag. At some point Memo took my Instamatic and opened his pants
and snapped a photo of his penis. He did the international “eye
thing” for “do you want …” We went into my bathroom where we
had sex while Marvin waited on Josh’s bed. I’m sure this had all
been worked out before. The 3 of us went off to the disco. I
remember thinking how ironic it was to be in a country where there
was a civil war sponsored by the USA and I was dancing in to the
Village People singing “YMCA.” Memo and Marvin came back to the
house for their stuff.

Because Marvin lived in Tipitapa (don’t know where
Memo lived but it was far away) they wanted to stay at the house. This
made me nervous as I was sure Lolita wouldn’t approve. Marvin
slept on my bed and Memo and I slept on Josh’s. I tried to initiate
some making out but he stopped me saying “despues.” "Later." They
got up early in the morning and I hurried them out. There was an
awkward moment when Memo wanted to take my shaving cream
and other toiletries and I didn’t let him. I’m not sure why. Maybe it
felt too much like payment for services rendered. I felt bad about
that immediately after. They left and the only person to see them
was Lolita’s husband. But he’s silent because of his stroke. When
Josh got back later that day, he teased me saying “and who’s been
sleeping in my bed.”

Had to go back up to Claudia’s one last time to say good-bye and
thanks and to pick-up some thing’s I’d left there.

I still haven’t returned.
[A few updates:
Sometime later I ran into Gloria Bacon coming out of Tower Records
on Broadway in NYC. A student of mine at the American Dance
Festival when hearing that I’d been in Nicaragua asked if I knew Dr.
Marvin F. He had been a visiting professor of dance at Williams
College. I hear Memo is doing very well in stage design. I never met
Dr. Karen Brundy. Evangelina had to move back to Mexico (I don’t
think I realized that she was Mexican when I was there.) Her little
boy, Gabriel drowned in a pool. To this day, I’ve never gone back.]

December 1999

Links

Web page for Ishmael Houston-Jones
Some writing by Ishmael Houston-Jones
Glazed Glitter

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