Dispatch 7

BORDERS

Bumping and grinding our way through the windy, crumbling, exploding roads of the highlands of Guatemala, we finally arrived at the border of El Salvador, “the savior” to our south. I was traveling with a group of Guatemalan and American friends in a 4x4 pick-up truck, the ideal ride for a road trip to Nicaragua.
Recently, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Nicaragua had signed an “open borders” pact, allowing for more hassle free movement for citizens of those four countries. I would find out the hard way it wasn't such a good deal for their friends up to the “north”.

My passport stamp was a few weeks expired, so I figured that I would be having to pay a small fine at the border-that was the word on the gringo grapevine. But, that was not how it worked out there on the edge of two countries. The El Salvadorian border guards sent me back to Guatemala(after a feeble attempt at talking to the “jefe” to see if we could “work things out”). Guatemalan border guards told me I had to go to Mexico or Belize. Apparently they were not equipped to handle this ever so complicated situation.

Faced with this international dilemma, I huddled up with my traveling companeros to discuss options. It was Semana Santa (Spring Break) for them, and their time was limited. My Guatemalan counterparts assured me that we could “work things out” with the officials as long as we played the game and did the right dance. I didn't know all the rules or the moves, so I reluctantly shut my mouth, and let Ricardo show me the “way”.

He asked to see the “jefe” who appeared out of nowhere. He had four gold capped teeth that he showed off with a mischievous smile and a sparkle in his old eyes. He knew good things were coming his way, and said “there might be something I could do.” And then the back door opened(literally).

We walked in the back door and sat with the boss and my expired passport. He said I could pay the “fine” and if I was willing to give him a “present” he could give me the stamp I so desperately needed. He explained that a “normal present” was $100 US. I gulped and spoke up for the first time. “Senor, soy un voluntario, soy pobre”. His sparkle faded a shade or two, but continued on with his work. I turned to Ricardo as the jefe was stamping my passport. “What should I give him?” I whispered in English. Ricardo suggested $10 and the deal was done.

But, there was a catch. The jefe said we could not cross at this border. He explained that if we did, he would get in trouble because the El Salvadorians would know that he broke the “law” . He said we had to go to another crossing which was many hours and gallons of petro away, and not an option for my companeros.
As we walked back to the truck to discuss this latest twist in our adventure, Lindsay pointed to a bus, and said, “hop on that bus, cross the border, and call us when you get to the other side.” Before I could think it through, I was speed walking across the highway to meet the bus and contemplating all the different ways this new plan could go wrong. Before stepping onto the bus, I took a deep breath, and like a stage actor before the curtain opens I regained my composure- walked on the bus, past the driver, and into the nearest vacant seat as if I was suppose to be there; that there was nothing fishy about what I was doing.

A few minutes later the engine burped, rumbled and sputtered to a start. A few other folks got on the bus and we started the short voyage to the border. I looked out the window and saw my old “friend” the El Salvadorian guard halt the bus and approach the driver. I tried to think of an excuse as to what I was doing, as to how I suddenly appeared on this bus, of what happened to my friends and our truck. I had no story, so I slowly sank into the doom of my hot seat. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her wave us through to another check point.

When we got there, another “old friend” was getting her official hat on and approaching the bus. Earlier in the day I was in her office, waiting to see if I could “bribe” my way into that country with her boss. I quickly took off my hat, combed my hair and beard with my dirty paws, buttoned up my shirt and searched for a new character as she entered the bus and began asking for papers.

When she got to me, she asked me where I was going and why. Again, I took a deep breath, searched desperately for my new character and coughed out a convincing, though slightly stuttering explanation.

As she finished up her inspection and was walking off the bus, the “ayudante” finally noticed me. He came up and asked with a confused look on his face, “where are you going?” I explained just a little past the border, like it was totally normal to hop on a bus, ride it for a 100 meters across an international border, and then hop off. He asked for a dollar and off we went. A minute later, I gave him the international sign for “let me off here” and the bus stopped. I bounced off into the new lands of El Salvador and called my friends.

NICARAGUAN HIGHLIGHTS

(Wounded Warriors)
In the city of Leon, there is something in the air that is strikingly different then most typical Latin American cities I have passed through.
On the town square, you see the typical colonial Spanish city lay out-church, government building, and a park in between. But in Leon, there is something else. Its got a red and black flag flying from its doors, and wounded soldiers of the revolution stirring about at the entrance. The building is a museum and collective dedicated to the successful Sandinista revolution and the not so successful civil war against the US backed “Contras”.

I was immediately drawn to it, and found myself caught up in exciting conversation with a man whose arms were blown off during the war and another whose leg was shot several times. They told me stories of the past, like how the church that leaned over the park had been taken over by the former dictator's troops during the revolution. Snipers were up in the church bell tower picking off revolutionary soldiers. However, the Sandinistas were eventually able to get the better hand and attacked the church and troops inside. The old warriors explained that were thousands of people had been wounded and killed during the revolution and civil war, and that the museum we stood in front of was designed to honor them and care for the wounded-many of whom lived in the old revolutionary city of Leon.

There' s also a cafe called the “Ben Linder Cafe” which is named in honor of the OREGONIAN engineer and clown who lived and worked for years in Nicaragua during the 1980's. He worked on projects to bring clean water and electricity to local towns and was also famously known as a circus performer who was memorialized in a mural in the UO student union building riding a unicycle and juggling. He was murdered by the Contras in the 1980's.

There was something special in the air of Leon, and I breathed it in as deep as I could. Memories, ghosts, and idealism were all still alive and stirring about here.

(The Mansion)
One night we found ourselves on the beach as the sun was setting. The nearest town had thousands of people packing its streets and hotels to celebrate Holy Week(Semana Santa), which we know in the secular world as Spring Break. We were contemplating our sleeping options for the night and it wasn't looking good:
Option One: Sleep on a concrete floor at the appropriate technology shop I would soon be working in
Option Two: An invitation from a drunken madman to sleep in a still under construction gringo house up on the bluff. With crazy hand gestures and strange noises(like WahhhShaSaloop!) he described the good time we could all have up there. He also mentioned how recently some gangsters had tried to rob the house and the gunfight that ensued.
In the midst of our discussion, another option suddenly presented itself to us. Lindsay, our reina of the trip, had gone off looking for a bathroom and returned with some interesting news. She had found a bathroom and also a mansion that we had been “invited” to spend the night in. The “owners” were foreign and only spent about two months a year in the house. They had a Nicaraguan family who “guarded” the place and lived in the garage. Somehow, in the short time of using the bathroom, Lindsay had charmed her way into a loose agreement with the “guards” that would benefit all of us. For a “donation” to the family, we could stay the night in the mansion. The rooms had silk sheets and computerized fans. We also had access to Wireless Internet and a big screen T.V. The only catch was that we had to leave at the crack of dawn(to avoid drawing attention from the neighbors to our not so legitimate agreement), but it beat a concrete floor or crazy night with the madman. You never know what options are out there until you ask...

THE PROJECT

I became a trusty sidekick for a few weeks to a fearless Don Quixote(esque) appropriate technology guru by the name of Fidel. Riding on the back of his motorcycle, carrying his tules, moving heavy objects, and asking questions ever 73 seconds or so, I got a chance to learn how to set up water filters that use sand, rock,and gravity to clean water, how to build organic toilets, and how to contsruct "safe stoves". It was all going great until I started getting some strange emails from the US department of Justice. Then they told me about section 1783 of Title 28 and everything changed.


SECTION 1783 of TITLE 28 of the UNITED STATES CODE

Layman's Summary: Matthew Rutman has to return to the USA to testify in the federal trial of the United States vs. Elreese Daniels in Spokane, Washington. If he does not return, he will be put in jail for contempt of court and be given a huge fine the minute he crosses a border back into the good ol' USA.
Seriously, it’s a real law. I looked it up because it seemed so surreal. It didn't mention my name, but the rest of it is pretty much the law in layman's terms. The government can force a US citizen living abroad to return to the states to be a witness in a federal court case.
The feds are prosecuting my former fire crew boss for manslaughter for the deaths of four fellow firefighters that I was trapped with during the 30 mile fire in July of 2001. It's an unprecedented case that could have some big consequences in the world of fire fighting. Apparently it’s such a big deal, that they are willing to apply section 1783 of title 28 to me if I don't return.
Also in the law, it states that the government has to pay for all of my travel costs, return me from where they are taking me from, and pay me for food, transportation,and housing costs while back in the states.
I put up as big a stink as I could, wiggling and waggling every which way I could to find a way out of this strange twist of fate. But, alas, it was to no avail, though I did make a couple of enemies and I think a friend in the process....
I am heading back for “pre-trial consultation” on April 23 then I will be bouncing my way between Spokane and San Diego(on the government's dime) until they call me to testify. They say I have to be available and in the states for the duration of the trial, which will supposedly last between 6-8 weeks. If you got a couch or spare room and want to see my bright and shiny face in the morning, let me know and I will put you on my radar. At the very least I plan to spend time in Portland, Eugene, San Luis Obispo, and San Diego...

Hasta Pronto! Hasta Siempre!Mateo