Beneath the Red Mask
Sandinista Socialism & Sickness
Six dates—that's all it took for my parents (Catalina & Luc) to elope in Jamaica. To read those chapters, start from the beginning, "Forever Foreign." However, each story stands on its own.
Each story has a related cultural psychology or sociopolitical article.
Beneath the Red Mask
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.
Catalina.
I tried to get your father to the top of the Masaya volcano, but shit got in the way. His legs were akin to rubber, transforming each meter into a marathon. The proximity of the bus (and toilet) lingered in the air, adding weight to the impending journey, so we turned back a few hundred meters from the summit.
Outside the gas station bathroom, as I waited for your father, a distinguished man with skin of velvet dusk sidles up. "Apologies for overhearing—is your friend doing okay?"
“I think so, but he has some stomach issues.”
"Where are you staying? In Masaya?”
“No, in Managua. We have to take the bus back because I think my husband wants to be as close as possible to a toilet.”
We laugh, knowing what Montezuma’s revenge can do to a person.
“My wife’s buying some textiles at the market. She’ll join me any moment, and if you want, we can give you a ride back to Managua.”
It didn’t take long for his wife, Eleni, to invite us for a lunch of Cypriot delights at their house. For Luca’s stomach, she made Sultan, an ivory-coloured cream with a dusting of cinnamon and nutmeg. While wer tasted Cyrpus, Eleni enchanted us with tales of its history and folklore. She told me about The Legend of the Cyprus Moufflon, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Luca and me.
The Cyprus Moufflon was a rare wild sheep native to the island. According to legend, the Moufflon resulted from a forbidden love affair between a beautiful shepherdess and a handsome shepherd. The gods turned them into wild sheep, and their offspring became the Moufflons that roamed the island's mountains—maybe you and Yano are my little Moufflons.
Of course, my love for your father wasn’t forbidden or an affair, but with my family being Catholic and he coming from a long line of atheists, some might have seen it that way.
Once the food and tales were finished, Professor Elias took the stage from his wife to size us up with subtlety and class. As you know, this is a game your father loves, but on that day, he was a mere spectator instead of a performer.
“The first time I was invited to Yale University, I experienced something funny,” Professor Elias said as he took a sip of wine and stood up. “Well, frightening might be a better word.”
“I was standing in that big aula full of white students who came to see what a professor from Africa looks like. That I was black was not a big surprise to them, but that I spoke English like on the BBC, well, that came unexpectedly.”
He coughed, morphing his voice into the didactic austerity of a professor.
“I am from Kenya, a beautiful country on the African continent. Is there anybody who has visited Africa?
He paused, echoing the silence from his story.
“Nobody from the 300 hundred students raised their hand, so I continued, ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, Africa is a very special continent. It’s the only continent where you can see two moons.’ I could hear the questions amongst the murmurs. ‘What? Really Professor? I didn’t know that. “How can that be?’”
Yes, how could that be?
“But nobody realized I was joking. And that was at the prestigious Yale University.”
“No wonder the American people chose Reagan as president,” I said, and from their laughter, I realized we were on the same side of the game.
In turn, because your father was very silent, I took his place and shared stories of our adventures. As you know, it was a time we couldn’t help but tell our stories through a political lens. Reading about all the ideologies, frictions, and conflicts weren’t just ideas—we lived them. Yet, in that moment, your father existed outside the realm of living ideas.
“Caty, we have to go,” he whispered.
Fortunately, I didn’t need to make an excuse. Professor Elias and Elina saw him suffering and excused us with grace.
"Before you go, Catalina, I want to give you this tea towel from Cyprus.”
“I can’t accept that, Eleni. You and Elias have already done so much for us.”
“Please accept Catalina; it will keep memories alive and foster a sense of closeness across distances and time.”
“And I am sorry, Luca, that I have nothing from my home country to give you. Instead, I wanted to give you Lomotil, the best medication against Montezuma's Revenge, but I noticed I don’t have any left. So, please, the least I can do is bring you to your hotel,” said Elias.
To Luca's ears, that sounded like the best farewell present.
Managua, July 19, 1983.
As the night wore on, your father's condition deteriorated. A relentless urge forced him to the bathroom. The pervasive smell enveloped him, intensifying the discomfort and humiliation of vulnerability.
He wrestled with waves of pain and discomfort, his body weakening with each passing minute. In a foreign land, fear gripped him, with no one to turn to for medical aid.
Come morning, I approached the hostel staff, who did their best to provide water and a thermometer. The reading, 40.5°C, rang alarm bells.
I sought a pharmacy, navigating the remnants of a downtown ravaged by earthquakes and Somoza’s bombings. Just before my knees buckled, I found a young pharmacist who offered me a small bottle and a needle, wishing me luck in administering an intramuscular injection.
Returning to the hostel, I asked the boy to call a doctor or nurse. His attempts with the phonebook seemed futile, but I had to check on your father.
As I turned to go upstairs, the boy revealed his experience, having fought with the Sandinistas and morphine.
“Vamos, gracias, vamos.”
Arriving upstairs, the room confronted me with the reality of your father's condition. Delirious and breathing irregularly, Luca welcomed the injection from the young man with surprising calm.
“Muchas gracias. Eres un profesional.” I thanked the young man, impressed by his confidence. An hour later, your father's fever subsided.
“Gracias, gracias, gracias,” I said, wrapping my arms around the unsung hero.
Nicaragua, Penas Blancas, July 21, 1983
Lucas
The bus is packed with people, and I am squeezed between two heavy Nicaraguan ladies. To my left is a woman with remarkably large breasts, and on the other side sits an even larger lady with a live chicken perched on her lap.
I need a snorkel to get some air from above all the flesh surrounding me. I glance ahead, spotting my beautiful Catalina sitting near the front, attempting not to succumb to car sickness in the sweltering heat.
When we reach the border crossing, the Costa Rican immigration officer betrays neither emotion nor malice.
“Buenos Dias. Pasaporte por favor.”
He takes both passports and starts to turn the pages like he’s reading a story.
"¿Qué van a hacer en Costa Rica?" What are you going to do in Costa Rica?
“We are going to enjoy the beauty of Costa Rica, Sir.”
Our lawyer in Costa Rica specifically instructed us not to tell them we were living there.
"Usted no lo está. Usted ya excedió su límite la última vez que estuvo en Costa Rica.”
No, you aren’t. You already overstayed your limit the last time you were in Costa Rica. I wish I didn’t understand him correctly. The words stop my heart.
"¿Perdón? Cuando salimos de Costa Rica la semana pasada, el oficial de inmigración no mencionó eso,” Catje says.
When we left for Nicaragua, did the immigration officer tell us anything about a time limit?
"Debería haberlo hecho. Por favor, retírese y dé paso al próximo pasajero.”
I step aside, as instructed, but my head spins from fever and fear. Desperate, I put 20 USD in my passport, step forward, and say, “Sir, I think you overlooked the visa on the last page.”
He looks at the passport like he's studying the visa, puts it down, the money disappears underneath a paper, asks for Catalina’s passport, stamps it, and says, “You are good to go; you can stay three months in Costa Rica but not one day longer.”
We thank him and cross over to Costa Rica, where our yacht awaits.
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I do so love the way you capture 'atmosphere'.
Managua, the suburb without a city!