going to leave again, except, he told me later, if Nicaragua makes a deal with the Russians, he’s going to join the contras. Gilmar is only 18, so he's a bit idealistic; anti-imperialist, yes, but like Sandino — no deals — liberty or death. Later, out walking, we saw the news of the FSLN rally in Managua on television. There were quite a few sets and the reception wasn’t bad in this far out of the way town. When Daniel Ortega finally came up to address the 3-to-400,000 gathered, the men came in off the street, the women out from the kitchen, and everyone, including me, was transfixed. When Ortega reached the “house by house, even the cripples” section of his Yanqui Invador speech, Gilmar turned his sun-glassed eyes to me and lifted up his -fist. It looked like he meant it. The next day, the Day of the Dead, while the San Rafaelenos were all in church or at the cemetery praying and placing wreathes for their deceased, I snuck back to Managua to fulfill my commitment as a completely independent election observor. I don’t know how scrupulously “democratic” the United States’ first election was — when we elected the leader of our own Revolution to the presidency — but I would venture to guess there weren’t as many international observers. Admittedly, things looked pretty confusing when the night before the elections the Partido Independiente Liberal (PLI) candidate Virgilio Godoy swore up and down he was boycotting the race, but come morning he placed third in a contest of seven parties. True, it was a little hard to get your party organized, since the ban had been lifted just a few months ago. Harder still to go up against the Goliath FSLN, which not only has the built-in infrastructure of the Army and the government to aid its. networking, but the party as well. But I think the FSLN has gone out of its way to be pluralist, considering its not easy to have a democracy when half the population is illiterate, the economy is bankrupt and you're in a state of siege. Arturo Cruz, the favorite son of the right, who would have supposedly swept the polls, except he didn't want to run, was invited into the government after the SHE WAS 13, THROWING MOLOTOV COCKTAILS, FIRING GUNS OUT OF HER LIVING ROOM WINDOW, RUNNING FOOD AND AMMUNITION TO HER BROTHERS. NOW SHE’S SHAKING HER HIPS TO A HOT SALSA BAND BLASTING OUT TO 100,000 OF HER COMPAS. Revolution. First as president of the Central Bank, then in the Governing Junta and as an ambassador to the U.S. . . . What more does he want? An invitation with his name embossed? Is this a Marxist-Leninist dictatorship or what? He's so popular that upon his well-publicized return from the States, a total of 300 not so screaming fans showed up at the airport. It’s ridiculous — the supposedly leftist Junta has another conservative, Rafael Cordoba Rivas, sitting in its triumverate. As the Newsweek photographer said to a writer, “How are you going to explain this to a reader.” It’s even more absurd here trying to figure things out between the three politically divided papers — each one run by a Chamorro — brother, brother and uncle. I wonder what the Christmas dinner-table conversations sound like? Considering that it would be presided over by the widow of Joaquin Chamorro C., who led the prensa (press) into battle against Somoza until the Guardia assasinated him. No, it’s not so easy growing up ip the middle of an earthquake, dictatorship, civil war, revolution, reconstruction and threat of invasion. At the big day of the elections party that the FSLN threw for the kids of Managua, I ran into an 18 year old girl who was telling me about her experiences in El Triunfo — the six weeks of open warfare that took place all over, but was extra deadly in Managua. She was 13, throwing Molotov cocktails, firing guns out her living room window, running food and ammunition to her brothers. Now she’s shaking her hips to a hot salsa band blasting out to 100,000 of her com- pas. The FSLN won the election, of course, but after they didn't get too much response to their shouting out the statistics of victory, they gave it up to let the kids party. Daniel Ortega was there as was Dr. Sergio Ramirez, the Vice President, but they saw no need to make a speech. I met my friend Francisco — the economist — and he gave me a wry smile and mentioned that they let him out on leave again. “Good party,” he said, as he passed me a milk of magnesia bottle filled with rum. The country was supposed to stay dry until the next day, when all the votes were tallied, but already beer was being served publicly. I looked around; big arc lights illuminated everyone clearly. You better party, I thought, and party hard, because this might be the last. The gringo election is in two days and its outcome is going to give the gringo king fillibuster-rights to your life and all its natural resources. Sure, if the invasion comes and all you kids are drafted out to the front, I don't doubt you have the guts and the stamina to kick our ass, but it's going to cost you. And maybe, just like Vietnam, your struggles will inflame a whole generation in the U.S. and bring down a couple of administrations and even liberate millions of your oppressed Latino brothers and sisters, but you're going to have to become the martyr for it — and you won't be laughing then. 5:45 AM, Wednesday, the 7th of November, 1984, Hotel Mesa, Managua, with tears in my eyes. 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