Down the hill, after the curve

Northern Nicaragua has two realities these days. The picturesque with green landscapes and hills – and the ugly with poverty, hopelessness and hunger. You never know what awaits you down the hill, after the curve.

By Christian Korsgaard

10. September 2002

Northern Nicaragua in September. Green mountains. Light sunshine through clouds. Coffee fields and cows. Freshness, harmony and peace. Then up a hill, round a curve, down on the other side, another curve – and that other ugly part of reality is right in front of you.

Blocking the road is about 20 people, all dressed in ragged, dirty clothes. They don’t say anything. They don’t scream. They don’t threaten you. They don’t make any obscene gestures. But above all, they don’t move. The car slows down, pulls closer and comes to a stop just a couple of meters from a dark skinned, slim girl in the center of the right lane. Through hair that should have been washed and combed several days ago, she stares at you, then takes a step forward and extends her left arm, holding an old can in her hand. A light movement reveals that some coins have already been dropped into the can today.

“Ayúdenos, por favor”, says the girl – please help us. Another coin is dropped into the can; the crowd mumbles a vague “gracias” and moves aside. The car is let through and the landscape unfolds beautifully in front of you again. Then up a hill, round a curve, down on the other side, another curve – and once more a new line of people is blocking the road.

Life’s hurdle race

Life around El Tuma and La Dalia in Northern Nicaragua is indeed comparable to a hurdle race these days. Seen from the inside of the windshield, the constant road blockings make driving complicated. Seen from the outside of the windshield, from the roadside, life as such is complicated.

Coffee prices as low as ever, no jobs, no home, no food and no future. If that doesn’t make life a hurdle race, nothing does. As a consequence, poor coffee workers have been squatting along the highway for months, hoping that the next truck coming around the curve might bring along a solution to the problems of life – or at least fill an empty tummy today.

And every once in a while, a pick-up truck or car does in fact pull over and start unloading sacks of rice, beans or corn. The reaction from the workers is admirable.

Astonishing organization

Knowing that we are dealing with hungry and sometimes even desperate people, the level of organization and self-control is astonishing. Nobody flings themselves against the sacks, nobody rips them open, nobody pushes, nobody fights and nobody complains. The more than 250 people simply form two lines, women and men in one, children in another. The children are of course out in the grass on one side, while the adults stand on the shoulder of the highway, just off the potholed asphalt. No need to take any risks – even hungry children do get hit by cars.

Three persons start counting the contribution. So and so many sacks of this, so and so many sacks of that. Total amounts are calculated and marked in the camp’s little logbook. Also the origin of the donation is registered, and the president, vice–president and secretary of the camp sign the fact sheet. The logbook also contains the names of all the heads of families in the camp, and a complete count of children. Nobody enters or leaves the camp without being registered.

Then comes the math part. So and so many pounds of rice, divided between so and so many families – a couple of bowls for each are dished out, and bags are placed on the ground. When everything has been divided in individual parts, the distribution starts. Each head of family grabs a bag of rice, one with beans and one with corn. The little ones receive milk, vitamins or oats. Later in the day, the leftovers are cooked and shared among those present. No reason to do it right away, people might get funny ideas and intend to leave the camp for the day, wanting to bring the food bag home to the hacienda where more children and elderly are waiting for something to eat. Wouldn’t be wise. A constant presence on the highway is necessary if workers are to keep up the political pressure and remind the rest of the Nicaraguans that a more lasting solution to the problems is needed.

From not so far away, an engine roars as a car pushes up the hill and into the curve. Then the engine falls silent as the driver lets the vehicle run down the hill and into the curve below.

“¡Tiene placa amarilla!”, shouts the slim, dark skinned girl – the car has yellow plates, indicating that a foreigner might be driving it, that the contribution might be bigger this time. Quickly a human line is formed across the highway, forcing the driver to slow down. Yet another person has to face that ugly part of reality which cannot be overlooked in El Tuma these days.

Christian Korsgaard, information worker, MS Central America