The first week of July, 1983
The terrace of Hotel Colonial bathes in the Costa Rican sunrise, setting the stage for its myriad of tongues. Over in the shadowy corners, conversations unfold among the whispers of the CIA operatives, arms dealers, crooked bureaucrats—individuals who thrive on chaos.
“Luca! Luca, Luucaa, look aat you,” sings Rob, stealing my attention from across the street.
He offers his arm to an elderly lady struggling to cross the street. Sure, Rob grows the best marijuana in town, the bartenders love him, and he knows his way around a bureaucrat adding convenience to our lives, but it’s moments like these that make me love the Dutch bastard.
After kissing the woman’s hand, he skips towards me.
“Where’s your better half?”
“She’s at Pablo and Ludo’s place right now for a haircut.”
“The only men that get to touch that divine woman are two gay guys and you. What a waste. Anyway,” he continues before I can interrupt. “Luca, my friend, I heard you built that motor yacht of yours.”
The waitress comes by and asks Rob if she can get him anything.
“Mi vida, claro que si. Me traes un cafe solo, porfa.”
He admires her backside as she walks away.
“Where was I? Oh yes. I also heard you were desperate to see that yacht of yours in the water. El estafador huele las victimas faciles a kilometros de distancia. I told you, Luca, not a good idea to build the yacht yourself together with a certain Jimmy.”
“Jimmy said he—”
“You are like the eternal Peter Pan, refusing to grow up and face the harsh truth.”
Rob knows full well that I really wanted to buy two hectares on a beautiful beach for $65,000. It was the chance of a lifetime, and the only person Caty and I knew who could lend us that type of money was her father, but since he saw our life here as a stint, he was more inclined to invest in a little yacht, so we could give tours.
Of course, Rob goes on, poking at the wound.
“Not everyone is a well-meaning fairy godparent, or in your case…babysitter.”
He leans back, satisfied. His underlip hanging a bit to make space for that little sarcastic smile of his. His dark eyes glow with energy, madness, and kindness.
“Good morning to you too, Rob.”
“And hey, maybe you can use your yacht for smuggling weed instead of tourists. I hear it’s more profitable. Speaking of profit, have you seen my latest Rolex I brought back from the US?”
“Another piece of greatness from your beloved USA.”
“Well, at least I know greatness when I see it. Can’t say the same for your taste. Or anyone from Belgium, really.”
“Oh, here we go again—the eternal Dutch superiority complex. You know Rob, it’s no wonder you grow the best weed. It’s probably your only escape from that Dutch ego.”
He moulds his face into the clownish smile he reserves for intimate friends.
“By the way, what’s the latest cause you’re championing? The Sandinista Revolution, I presume. Watching how the Ortega brothers are getting rich?”
“Next week, Catalina and I are leaving for Nicaragua.”
“Luca, I must say, your taste in politics is as terrible as your business decisions. But be careful, the revolution devours its own children.”
He puts one hand on my shoulder, the other arm with the Rolex in front of my eyes, and says, “Catalina deserves better.”
Managua, July 17, 1983
Under the star-filled sky of Managua, the city—or what’s left of the city—comes alive. Those not singing on the streets cheer from balconies, many without railings. Kids get to be kids again, now running and chasing for fun.
Beef on the asado grills, waiting to be shredded and chopped, and the sweet orange marinade mixes with the scent of sweat. It’s a day of celebration, marking the victorious overthrow of the oppressive Somoza regime.
Chants of "No pasaran, No pasaran," They shall not pass, They shall not pass! echo through the streets.
Strangers hug and dance and sing. Through this colourful fabric tailoring its way through the resting shadows, a woman embraces Catalina, noticing she’s not from here.
"¿De dónde eres?"
"De Bélgica, Argentina, Costa Rica—vos elegís." You choose, Catalina says with a laugh.
"Gracias por estar aquí con nosotros. Significa mucho." Thanks for being here with us. It means a lot.
Distracted by the woman’s radiant smile, I don’t notice her missing foot until she kisses Catalina and hops away with the rhythm of the victory.
In the crowd, a cohort of individuals our age twirls amidst red and black flags, the colours of Sandino. One of them, brimming with laughter, seizes Catalina's hand, casting a derisive glance my way, and they dissolve into the heart of the plaza, where the air pulsates.
"A él le gusta menear tanto como le gustan las chavalas bonitas. Pero, tranqui, Rafael la va a traer de vuelta,” says Carlos, a short but grandiose figure.
He likes to dance as much as he likes beautiful women, but don’t worry, Rafael will bring her back. I repeat the words to myself, hoping I understood “Rafael la va traer de vuelta” correctly.
“Sobre todo si son gringas.” Especially when they are gringas, adds Carmen, a girl with the sweetest of smiles.
We discuss the revolution, and although I can’t comprehend every word, I understand every message. Carlos, trying to step through the shadow of the past four years, grapples with the aftermath of their hard-won triumph, harbouring doubts about any true betterment. Carmen, echoing his unease, concedes to the struggle, her eyes bearing witness to a fusion of pride and uncertainty.
I stand up and go to the bar to buy a bottle of Flor de Cana, de local rum, a big bottle of coke and four glasses filled with a rare find—ice cubes.
"Gracias, Luca," says Carmen.
“Pa' la gente de Nicaragua, maje,” says Carlos.
We are about to cheer, but then—
Gunshots, one after the other. The drink falls out of my hand, and I jump up to search for Catje.
“Tranqui, Luca,” says Carmen, taking my hand and bringing me back to the table. "En Nicaragua no tenemos cuetes, pero sí tenemos un montón de balas.”
They use bullets instead of firecrackers!
Amid shared laughter, the sincerity in their eyes grants me solace, a rare comfort with newfound friends.
“Wow,” pants Catalina, who appears behind me. “That Rafael can dance.”
The combination of her panting and Rafael’s satisfied face makes me want to chop off Rafael’s dancing legs and use them as my own. But that disappears as soon as she kisses me lovingly. Long? Time disappears.
“Amor, amor, amor, viva el amor,” sing our new friends.
That’s what the day’s about. And it all would have been perfect if I had stuck to rum instead of fruit juice festering in a plastic bag.
The next day.
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