Day 3: No these aren't campers

Today was a lesson in contrasts. The video was taken on the way to the national cathedral, smack in the middle of the city of Manaqua, which was devastated by an earthquake in the 70's and never rebuilt. This shanty town is not a bunch of campers, but rather cane workers protesting their treatment by the Pellas, the owners of the cane sugar plantations and the most prosperous family in Nicaragua. These workers were exposed to DDT for decades, and now suffer liver disease and cancer. Their protest -- which has yielded nothing for them -- is to raise awareness and seek medical compensation. It is hard to represent how large this shanty town is. Consider that this video shows only the first row of tents; they go back more than a city block. They are made mostly of black plastic sheeting. It is hard to comprehend that these people have lived in this place now for more than a year.

We visited a market this afternoon, mostly local artisans and handcrafts. Of course, we did our best to support the local economy by shopping for an hour or so. I got local Nicaraguan coffee beans, which is superb if our morning coffee is representative. I'll bring a bag in and those who have visited my blog can stop by and get a cup when I'm back.

We had time for reflection this afternoon, and our bus driver told us his story. One of my colleagues said, "It is hard to imagine how it must be to living in the place where history was made, to say 'here is where a martyr was dragged' and 'here is where bombs were dropped.'" It was never more apparent than when this quietly dignified man told us, with total aplomb, about learning to make bombs when he was 15, being given his first gun at 16, and being selected as a driver for Ortega. He was also a cocaine addict who has been clean for a decade, but who stayed at his first narcotics anonymous meeting mostly because he didn't want to go home to his mom. His story was riveting and yet he told it as calmly as one might describe a trip to the grocery

Visited the cultural center this evening, where the Maryknoll Sisters have a mission teaching young people music and art. Some absolutely fabulous art graced the walls. We attended evening mass in some oppressive heat, which does seem to be the order of the day. I actually had sweat dripping off my pony tail. I sat in the second row and said "Ola" to the man to my right only to discover he was from Wisconsin. We visited briefly with the priest, who forgave us for being with the Jesuits, given he was a Dominican.

Back to the hotel where I chugged a frosty Corona, something I've not done since college. Right now, my primary thought is gratitude for the life I've somehow stumbled my way into and the air conditioning in my room. And beer. Stay tuned.