 Nicaragua
Blockade
Author: Eric Becker
Posted: 22, November,
2003
I've never understood
to what to attribute the prevalence of gold-capped teeth in Northeastern
Nicaragua. For some, it seems like a fashion statement. For others,
it seems the last line of defense against the total loss of dental
capacity, a life restricted to mashed cassava and gummable beans.
The truck driver was somewhere in the middle, blings in the grill,
a sweaty unshaven man clad in a dust covered Hawaiian shirt.
Every year when the local
roads deteriorate to vast stretches of muddy, cratered waste, the
local government wakes up from their bathtub-rum addled haze and
pitches a bitch against their treatment by Managua's elite. I've
been in Puerto Cabezas, the "urban" center of the Northeastern
Atlantic region of Nicaragua for better part of two months, trying
to gather together the materials needed to finish the construction
of the region's fourth (to be) operating room. But in response to
the absolute dilapidation of the road connecting Puerto to the outlying
villages and the Western coast, a blockade has been instituted,
shutting off the city from the outside world.
So to pass the time while the supplies sit somewhere between here
and Managua, I decide to put on my journo boots and put together
a decent piece on the situation. I head toward the blockade on the
outskirts of town, a pathetic cluster of punished school busses
arranged in a wavy V pattern, with shirtless Miskito Indian men
controlling the influx/efflux of all traffic with a piece of rope.
For a blockade, it seems a little on the weak side of things. No
guns. Definitely no tanks. Not even coils of concentration camp
razor wire or tire spikes. Just a rope and some dirty school buses.
I find the Jeffe of the group and get into the clichéd list
of questions. Why the blockade? What is your group called? What
are your demands? Don't you think that you guys would be taken a
little more seriously if you wore red bandanas on your face, draped
bullets across your chest, and gave yourself an acronym?
He explains that the blockade has been established by a all those
affected by the practically impassible conditions of the road. Bus
drivers, truck drivers, local merchants, and the regional government.
They are shutting down the city until the Central  Government
makes a concrete promise to fix the "highway." He explains
that the trip from Managua-- a 340 mile expanse of practically nothing--
is taking drivers between 8 and 12 days. I calculate 8 to 12 days
of driving in the states: N.Y to L.A, back to N.Y. with a comfortable
stop off in Vegas.
Our conversation attracts a group of truckers that all want to vent
their frustration with the road. I ask if there is a close section
where they could take me to snap a few pictures. "One kilometer,"
they say, "very close."
I jump in the stripped-out cab of the gold toothed trucker's rig
and head off into Nicaraguan nothingness. The back is piled with
empty soda bottles and 7 men who whistle when boxes fall to the
mud. After 30 minutes of bumping down the road, waving around my
shiny new mini dv cam and mini disc I wonder if something was lost
in the translation of "very close." I ask the trucker.
 "We're
close, right? How much farther?"
"Yes, we're very
close. Just two and a half hours."
"Um...senior, I cant go two and a half hours."
"But you must see how bad it gets. Its beautiful."
I decided that that's ok, because I have a ride back.
"You are going back, right?"
"No. No. I'm going to Managua."
Shit.
Its a hot day, soon to be turning to a long evening. With three
hours of daylight left before the nighttime swarm of Mosquitoes,
something fierce that comes out of the grassy swamps, I decided
to make a rapid executive decision. 
After thirty minutes of contemplating my situation, seeing the gringo
laden with expensive cameras, thinking about the sweaty truckers
and thirsty mosquitoes, having that vulnerable "what the crap
did I get myself into" feeling, and ultimately hearing the
distant twang of dueling banjos as played by mariachis, we come
across a particularly bad section of road.
"Here. Perfect, I'll just snap a few pictures of this and wait
for another truck heading back to Puerto."
"Ok. You can take pictures, but its not safe to wait here.
You come with us."
I take the photos of the truck making its way through knee-deep
mud. The truckers insist that I stay with them until another truck
comes along. We head off again, all 180 degrees of the wrong way.
 It's
thirty more minutes before another truck comes along. It's the same
fashion as the current: shirtless, sweaty trucker chic. My anus
shivers.
After ten minutes of drivers haggling, the gold toothed man tells
me it's ok. The passing truck will take me back to Puerto. I jump
on the back, nestled between a huge leaking tank of diesel fuel
and some bags of strange looking roots. The men stare at me. But
I'm happy to be headed in the right direction.
A good twenty minutes pass before the truck makes a horrible noise
and comes to a harsh, metal-on-metal stop. The men dismount, and
crowd around the undercarriage. I sneak a peek, seeing a mangled,
dangling drive train. One of the men asks me if I have any money.
I wonder what he's looking to buy. I tell him no, just cigarettes.
He helps himself to all of them.
More waiting, this time relieved by another beaten truck loaded
with sand and gravel. I flag them down, and ask them if they're
headed to Puerto. "Yes," they inform me "after a
few more loads of dirt."
 I
spend the next hour shoveling sand into the truck, learning about
opportunities in the dirt-faming industry of the area. "Its
free," they say. "We just take it and sell it."
I make it back to Puerto right as the sun dives behind the slash-and-burn
clear-cut horizon, knocking a pile of dirt on the highway when I
dismount the truck. I push it into a pothole with my foot and smile
at the drivers.
Until the central government
convinces the people of the Eastern Atlantic region that they really
do give a flying fuck at a yucca tree about the laughable road,
the city will stay blockaded. Today they closed down the airport,
the bank, the pier, and all state government offices that represent
the Pacific coast. They want to cease all revenues, including taxes
that may reach the government and big business from operations in
the area.
 With
an estimated revenue of $80 million per year leaving this region
from fishing, mining, and lumber headed for the pockets of Managua's
few elite, this place defines the word 'enclave.' There is no sustainable
economy to speak of. The investment in local infrastructure is the
bare minimum needed to extract the resources. And with the pipe
shut off by the blockade and all of my exits closed, I'm curious
how the next few weeks will play out. Right now I'm running out
of money. The supplies for the operating room have not arrived,
and I don't think they will. So I'm looking for other ways to pass
the time other than playing journalist, and dirt farmer is looking
like a much more profitable field.
Author: Eric Becker
Contact: ebecker2002@yahoo.com
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