The Sandinista Truck

We follow the old man as he talks about the short young woman. We hear the sound of a hundred underwater trains tooting liquid French horns. Crested oropendula’s keep in touch this way; these black and yellow birds, gliding among the trees.

We come out to a clearing, and the old man explains that he has decided not to drive us to the top of the volcano, but he’d love to show us this view. We walk out onto a grassy ledge. Below is Granada, and Lake Nicaragua. Hundreds of tiny islands dot the lakeshore around the city. Those islands, the molten hiccups of Mombacho.

The distance between the giant Lake Nicaragua and the Pacific coast of Southern Nicaragua is quite slim; 12 miles at one point. Because a river flows from Lake Nicaragua into the Caribbean, it is possible to navigate upstream, into the lake, and then cross to the Pacific quickly. This created both canal dream, and, during California's gold rush, a popular route to California. Hopeful miners from the east sailed up the Rio San Juan, through this lake, to the Pacific, which, when the clouds break, also reveals itself.

While the old toothless man describes the view, Ramón explains that to him, the old man sounds funny. He looks at him and laughs, and then looks back at us and whispers, “He is a country man, and his accent is very stupid to us city people.”

The old toothless man tells us to stay off the main cobblestone road, and stick to a smaller footpath through the coffee plantations. He tells Ramón he must get back to his young woman.

Again, we wave our goodbyes and continue upwards the volcano.

We cross through some plantation estates, and reconnect with the small footpath, and then our progress is halted by a large gate surrounded by a handful of buildings. We inquire with some people sitting under the shade about the meaning of this gate.

Here, the main cobblestone road traverses the property of a coffee estate; and in turn they must manually man traffic through their property.

The property manager greets us and offers us some export-grade coffee. You would think that Jane and I, soaking in the humidity, would refuse such a hot drink. But the idea of liquid coaxes us, and we sit lazily on the plantation porch, sipping coffee with the estate’s property manager

By this elevation, the clouds and the sun interchange freely. The property manager joins us, and mentions that in an hour or so, a Mombacho volcano truck will be coming through. We agree to stay, and sip coffee, test our luck with the worker truck.

An old truck with a covered back arrives at the gate. We hustle aboard and wave goodbye to the property manager. The truck makes noises, lurches forward. "Soviet-made," Ramón says, hitting its metal. "Sandinista truck."

”Why do Nicaraguans forgive Americans so easily?” I ask Ramon, referring to our fueling their war. He smiles at this. “You know, the truth is, most Nicaraguans do not know about Iran-Contra. But yes, there is hatred still. Nicaraguans are learning that Americans are very much like them, and we like tourism dollars.”

We talk about how Americans and Nicaraguans still see the war in a very different way. Most Nicaraguans came into the war not because of political ideologies, but through their religion. So while much of the world discusses right-wing religious violence, the fundamentalists and evangelists of America, and the insane question of whether Islam’s fundamentalists speak for all of Islam, we forget that the Catholic Church, not so long ago, directly guided many Central Americans to bloodshed. Jesus as martyr. The religious left.

The truck navigates the steep cobblestone, knocking at branches, which evermore seem to come in every direction. Now, the mist and clouds are thick.

We reach the wooden field station at top, which is encrusted in moss and small ferns. Jane says to Ramón, "Erik likes trees." I don't know about that, I think, urging them out the truck, onto the path.

I think, have I ever brought up trees in a conversation? Have I ever licked a tree? What does it mean to like trees anyway?