church people. My daughter saw the man beside her die. I got hit, and as I lay on the floor of the boat, not sure if 1were going to die, I decided that 1would get even for being shot with a bullet paid for with my own tax dollars. And so we are taking down more than a million dollars in aid to defy out government’s embargo.” All this in his steady, even preacher’s voice. Jim Barnett got up to speak, his voice even richer and steelier than before. “Some people say we may get turned back at the border. Some say we can’t possibly take this mixed group of pastors and sinners down. They say we’ll never make it. But as for me, I got my mind on Nicaragua and ain't nobody going to turn me around till I pull my rig into Managua." I thought I caught a faint smile when people applauded. 11. OVEREASY August 1-3 T he first of these caravans, the Vet- * erans Convoy, had been attacked by U.S. border guards, maced and beaten, so that it was said some still suffered a year later. After the District Court Judges ruled that we could take compassionate free material aid to Nicaragua, the problem of leaving the U.S.A, was moot, at least legally. Even so, our 27 vehicles approached the border with a certain hesitancy. I fantasized headlines: POETS BEATEN ON BRIDGE TO NICARAGUA. We waited a few hoiirs while the papers were finally organized and the price for the custodian who would ride with us down Mexico was agreed upon. Then, in the dawning, while lovers strolled hand in hand along the banks of the Rio Bravo, we slowly rolled into Latin America. The flat, sour Texas plain soon gave way to scruffy, rolling farmland which rapidly became lush, green tropical forest. It seemed incredible that the bleakness of Texas was only a few hours drive north. The next night in Poza Rica, we sat at a sidewalk cafe. I noticed the waitress reading the Garcia Marquez book 100 Years of Solitude. “Do you like his ‘magical reality’?” She sighed. “Poet’s work is to make up whatever realities they can. Understanding them is more difficult.” “I’m a poet,” I said, telling her about the Bridge of Poems. “So is Antonio over there.” Antonio Salazar P., bathroom fixtures salesman from Veracruz, joined us. “You are going to a country of poets, you know? I guess a very developed country doesn’t have much time for poems.” What kind of poems do you write?” I asked. “Oh, mostly about my kids. Some men take photographs. 1 write how I feel when I watch my daughters growing.” He spoke very softly, and it was hard imagining him pushing appliances. “Someday, when they can understand, I will read to them.” Art guerrillas and soul mechanics. 12. AHAWK’SEYEVIEW O topping at Pananilla for supplies, we realized the immensity of our entourage. On a major truck route to the south, we sucked the town’s four service stations dry of diesel. We ate all the snacks, drank all the soda pop. We were a Gar- gantua, consuming our way along the Gulf Coast. At Santiago Tuxtla, where Olmec heads sit in the jungle, I decided to make our morning group reflection into a revivification. Without any coffee, the traveler’s stood in a circle around me as I turned the session into a poem of recollection. “Close your eyes and imagine there is a hawk on your shoulder. You are full of laughter and your truck is traveling easily. You join the hawk and rise high above the convoy. Now, look down and see the long line of trucks. Feel very proud that we are curling through that jungle below. Today will be a wonderful journey, and you will fill with laughter whenever you feel afraid.” Poet Tom Heidlebaugh W ha t kind of poems do you write?” “Oh, mostly about my kids. Some men take photographs. I write how I feel when I watch my daughters growing.” It was hard to imagine him pushing bathroom fixtures. That day, when the police stopped us, wanting to take our trucks apart, many people told me that the memory of how it felt to be a hawk above the slog of the caravan helped them feel stronger. “Poets can have too much power,” said one priest from Cleveland. “No, I’m afraid poets are usually so useless that nobody gets to hear them do anything.” I didn’t want him to think there was competition between birdsingers and pastors in a world with enough conflict already. I did feel as if I were spreading my wings, proud that I could soar. 13.DWG4W ANDTHEMOON A Zapotec Serenade August 4-6 1X7 e s t o PPe d in Juchitan, the capital of » r the Zapotec culture. I walked long kilometers into the heart of town past many soldiers. Then I saw a large painting of a well-dressed cat staring at an anthropomorphic moon. The sign over the door read, DON GATO Y LA LUNA. The cafe manager came up to me. “Are you with the caravan?” “Yes, but we’re moving on early in the morning.” “Oh, that’s too bad. We could have greeted you properly, in Zapotec style, if you had just let us know.” “We’re hurring to get to Nicaragua by the 11th. Tell me, what does Mr. Cat and the Moon mean?” It means this is a cafe where poets come. That is an old Spanish story. It means you have to work to have a culture. We are a center for the old ZapOtec traditions. We are all Indians here, and proud to sing our languages.” I told him that I had once lived in Tehuantepec, 25 years ago. Then, the people had walked the sandy streets of that old matriarchy, singing the old Sandunga songs. “There weren't many soldiers around, like I saw out tonight.” “Yes, poet. The Zapatista party had a shootout with the police a few months back and are seeking to make the Isthmus autonomous.” “Do you think they will succeed.” He pondered a moment. “No, they are too violent. I think they are too angry to win.” “In America, anger usually wins.” “No, I think business wins, just like here. But before you go, take this poem on your Puente. It’s a little Zapotec reminder of God’s great music, what We try to sing.” Ca yaga naga ribidixi nisa quiee i gupa cani. He had me repeat it until I captured some semblance of the sound. The tree receives the rain from heaven and it grows and then the stars rejoice. 14. INTOTHESTORM Military Fantasy in Guatemala August 6-9 4 t the border, we said goodbye to our cheerful Mexican custodian and waited in the broiling sun while stern, officious men with pliers sealed our trucks to cross Guatemala. Sharon Haas, our convoy co-leader from Cleveland, bravely negotiated for five new custodios with customs officials. She worked her calm magic and we were informed that we were going into radio silence. “Please try to cooperate,” she insisted. “This isn’t Mexico anymore.” Driving from light, scruffy Mexican terrain into the dark, gothic, vertiginous cloud of Guatemala, the soil became blacker. Everything spoke of rain. Sure enough, it came in torrents, blinding us as we tried to focus on the quetzal land’s dips and twists without the use of our C.B.s. Our custodios had said that such usage would put us in conflict with one of the five armies operating in the country. Then Zopilote—buzzard—a truck driven by a beginning driver, blew an engine. Over-revving in fear, perhaps driving 50 MPH in second gear, the truck gave out. Our mechanics went back to save it and the custodios were infuriated. As a translator, I tried to defuse their attitude, but got nowhere. Lucius forced them to choose a spokesman. Our resistance grew as their demands escalated. For the second time, 1grabbed the knot of the red thread and pulled, to calm down chaos, conscious their panic threatened to invade our group. I talked with the custodios who had walked off into the pouring rain to sulk. Why were they so upset? “We have never heard of a civilian caravan this size crossing Guatemala. We don’t know how to keep you safe.” They were terrified of bandits, revolutionaries or the Army picking off one or all of us. I reported back to the convoy. “These men just want to get us all to Honduras alive. We’ve got to accomodate them somehow.” After that, they ignored our infringements as long as we stayed together. Their fear had filled our senses and now we shared it, treading lightly across a dark nation. While most people in GuateElectrician Guillermo Diaz with Oso Ruidoso Clinton St. Dec. '89-Jan. ’90 25
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz