Nicaragua, Nicaragüita … Donostia

Every once in a while, this Covid-19 thing brings back flashes of Nicaragua, where I spent a good part of three years between 1983 and 1986, first as a cotton- and coffee-picking brigadista (that’s me with the shovel on latrine clean-up duty).

After that, I worked as Managua-based coordinator of the U.S. harvest brigades organization, the Nicaragua Exchange, and then between seasons, as translator for TecNica, an organization that brought skilled technicians to the country. Oh, and there was also a stint working on rural vaccination campaigns alongside my Canadian doctor boyfriend.

Work brigades from around the world joined forces to lend a hand to a country ravaged by nearly 50 years of Somoza dictatorship. By 1986, some 100,00 U.S. citizens had traveled to Nicaragua. When we left, most of us went home to become activists in our local communities, writing letters and protesting the Reagan administration’s crusade to squash the Nicaraguan revolution. Nicaragua holds a special place in my heart, partly because if it weren’t for there, I wouldn’t be here, in San Sebastian. But that’s another story altogether…

As I said, I’ve been having flashbacks of Nicaragua. Some have a more obvious connection with what’s going on here, like the half-empty shelves in stores and the long lines to get in. But sometimes, between bitching and moaning, my mind wanders back those ‘supermarkets’ in Managua. I remember the aisles that held a single product – canned mystery meat, powdered milk, toothpaste … whatever happened to have been imported that week from the U.S.S.R. or Bulgaria. I remember being thrilled when I could buy some super-salty homemade cheese sold in the streets in plastic bags. And in the toughest years of the U.S. embargo, it was even hard to find corn to make proper tortillas. Millet was the substitute. You cannot make tortillas with millet.

Another thing is the not-going-out part. In Nicaragua, that happened in the north, where the Contra could attack when least expected, so we were told not to go out at night. Here the enemy is the little pink spikey sphere seen on every TV station – and we don’t go out day or night.

Then there are the buses, which in Donostia are shiny and new and now running virtually empty. I see them pass by and sometimes think about Nicaragua again. There, the excuse (explanation) for anything that went wrong was the bus. Couldn’t get to work on time? Bus broke down. Missed that appointment? No room on the bus….  

Anyhow, life in the days of Covid-19 is taking its toll both here and everywhere. I do my share of bitching and moaning. But you know something? It’s not that hard. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.