Day One in Managua. I didn’t believe New York Times journalist Stephen Kinzer’s claim that there are literally no addresses for most places here. But sure enough, my hotel has no address in the Expedia confirmation. I made it here from the bus station after midnight last night by having the cab driver call the office. Today’s strategy is to walk out the front door, turn right and explore the city, getting back by simply retracing my steps. I have the hotel phone number and the cross streets in my iPhone.

The hotel receptionist suggests that the lake is far off and I might want a taxi, but I need the exercise so I grab my day backpack and head off. My goals are to find a place to write and post, see the city, and ask people how Daniel Ortega 2.0 is doing since his extraordinary resurgence as president. That and find some cheap but colorful places to eat and drink.

Some things about Managua from street level: There are no crosswalks. There are no street signs. As in Guatemala, people mostly do not speak English. And it’s very hot, though today’s heat is tempered by some clouds and, soon, a light rain.

I make it to the Crowne Plaza hotel after an unsuccessful attempt to find wifi and an AC outlet at the shopping mall. The Tender Mercies of travel: air conditioning, water, electricity, good wifi, a clean bathroom, a cheap but good meal. More water. This first leg of the global walkabout is about experimentation, process, testing early assumptions. And developing a routine for low cost, high efficiency travel writing.

I pay the bill and walk out the hotel front door, only to be accosted by a loud middle-aged gentleman speaking heavily-accented English. Was I being sold something, gently mugged, befriended? Three hotel employees in branded beige polo shirts approach us.

“HOW DO YOU LIKE NICARAGUA? DO YOU LIKE OUR BEAUTIFUL CITY MANAGUA? ARE YOU AMERICAN?”

“I love your country. I love your city. Thanks for asking.” I smile and check him out. He is in jeans, worn tennis shoes, a threadbare blue T-shirt, and has an exuberant look on his face.

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME? WHERE YOU FROM? HOW LONG ARE YOU STAYING?”

He doesn’t seem drunk. Or hostile. So, I think, in my first encounter with the people of Managua after two centuries of U.S. invasions, overthrows, Marine assaults, and installed dictators, I should set the record straight. Especially as an audience was gathering. I’m not sure if this is Brooklyn training, or personal style (sorry, LiAnne), but I find that a successful strategy in threatening or uncertain situations while traveling is to speak loudly, and act aggressively, to change the dynamic of the moment. So, I raise my voice, spread my arms wide and address the small group.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Brian Gruber, this is my first day in Managua and I am here to say that I LOVE your country and one more thing, on behalf of the people of the United States, we are SO SORRY for William Walker, for the Somoza family, for the contras, for all of our interventions in your beautiful country. Now, let’s start a new era of peace and love and prosperity! Thank you for welcoming me to your country!”

The not drunk but possibly insane fellow begins cheering as the the hotel security guys laugh. One, a short, muscular young man in a freshly pressed uniform, smiles and shouts,”We love America. Except Obama.”

My assumption was that Nicaraguans were keenly aware of some of the darker stretches of our shared history. But this well presented young man with fluent English had more current concerns.

We introduce ourselves. Alex says,”Obama deports too many people. He’s deported more of us than any American president. That’s why I don’t like him.”

I ask where he picked up his impeccable English. “I lived in LA, in La Puente. I had a great life there, a good business. And then I was arrested by the INS and deported.”

I mention that I used to live in LA and worked for Charter Cable which serviced that area. I asked if I could record our conversation. “Nah. I gotta go. But now I can’t apply for a visa for ten years. And I blame Obama.”

I ask for directions to the lake. He points toward the our left, “Just walk right down Simon Bolivar and there’s a bunch of restaurants and bars on the water. You’ll like it. I’ll get you a cab. It’s gonna rain and it’s a long walk.” I shake his hand, thank him and tell him I prefer walking. Showing off my waterproof birthday gifts from LiAnne, a light blue Orvis T-shirt, green Ex Officio cargo shorts and REI daypack, I head for the lake, looking back and shouting, “It’s only water.”

I turn right on Simon Bolivar, a broad boulevard and walk through a thickening line of street vendors. Within five minutes, the rain starts. It’s not the thoroughly soaking downpour I experienced during my first weekend in Guatemala City, but a friendly, almost feathery sprinkle. It feels refreshing and cuts the heat.

Passing the Hugo Chavez tribute in the roundabout, I begin to notice a lot of police. I think, how nice, tourists must feel well protected here. But then, no, there are A LOT of police. There are loads of plastic chairs and, across the street, a hundred yards away, a reviewing stand. “Is there some kind of parade going on?” I ask a young, smartly uniformed policewoman. She knows no English and my Spanish is a sad, sad, thing, so no clear answer. Just smiles and an apologetic look.

As I get closer to the reviewing stand, the density of police per square yard intensifies as does the firepower of their weapons. I ask another police officer, and this time receive my answer. “The thirty-fifth anniversary of the Nicaraguan police.” The Sandinistas overthrew the Somoza regime in 1979. I am in the middle of final rehearsals for the event.

Columns of police walk past me, around me, alongside me. Police on foot, on bicycles, on motorbikes, in cars. With sidearms, automatic weapons. And right here, in the next hour, as night fell, would be the national leadership reviewing Managua’s finest.

I think, briefly, of taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs and pretending that I belong there, but my dress is way out of place. The last time I did that was at an event celebrating the new school year at daughter Andrea’s Placer High. I was mingling with teachers and administrators on the gymnasium floor when the principal asked everyone to be seated. There were seats all around me, with many more up above. I sat down and soon realized I was sitting with the teachers. The principal started by honoring those in my group and asking us to stand and wave for a round of applause. My daughter was horrified as her friends asked why her dad was standing with the teachers. One thing’s for sure. She’ll always remember that I was there.

The rain is now coming down in a steady, warm sprinkle. If it stays like this, no problem. I cross a heavily guarded street and a young guy tries to sell me a soft drink. I decline and wander through the street food vendors and begin to head toward the lake. Then, I realize, I have stumbled into an important political event: why not enjoy it? I turn around and, this time, accept the offer of a soft drink.

Williams, “like Robin Williams!”, dries off a chair and invites me to join him. “President Ortega is supposed to be here. But you can’t be sure. Security.”

I buy one drink for me and one for Williams. During my hour stay on the his corner, I will be one of only two customers. The drink, a sugary orange soda, is twenty-five cents.

“What do you think of Ortega?,” I ask. I am fascinated with Daniel Ortega’s story. Sandinista guerrilla. Captured and imprisoned. Freed during a daring Christmas party hostage taking. First president after the overthrow of the Somoza regime. A decade of increasingly repressive governing. Then a shocking electoral defeat by Violetta Chamorro, the widow of Nicaragua’s martyred newspaper publisher. Then, amazingly, a re-election after some adjusting of election rules, and the new, improved, business-friendly presidente.

Williams’ tiny nephew Luca, is now crawling over me, arranging himself on my lap.

“Ortega is great!” beams Williams. I ask why.

“The economy is doing well. He bring people together. And he really cares about the poor people.”

Mindful of Ortega’s origins as a Marxist guerrilla, I ask if Ortega is a communist, a socialist or a capitalist.

“Oh, he’s a capitalist. He used to be communist, but that was a long time ago.”

I feed him a softball question. “And what do you think of the guy he overthrew, Somoza?”

“Oh, my grandma loved him. Somoza was a great president. There was very little crime in Managua back then. If someone was making trouble, the police would take them away and kill them and you would never see them again. My grandma says the economy was the best ever when he was president.”

So, to recap. He’s a big fan of both Ortega and the brutal dictator that Ortega overthrew. Thinking he would fit right in with the American electorate, I ask Williams if he has ever been to the United States.

“I love your country. I lived there with my grandma, in Daytona Beach, Florida. I was studying to be an accountant at FIU, Florida International University. But I was in my friend’s car when it was pulled over and the car was stolen, so I got kicked out. I can’t apply again for five years and I have someone working on the papers for me. When the papers are good, I want to go back.”

Williams has an earnest and pained look on his face as he points out his sixteen-year old niece. “I tell her. You’ve got to get an education. But she doesn’t listen to me. Without an education…” His voice trails off. “Hey, can you hook me up with a hundred dollars?”

“What? For what?”

“A hundred Nicaraguan dollars, cordobas. I need it for breakfast in the morning for me and my family.” There are twenty five cordobas to a dollar. Four dollars. Three thoughts go through my mind as I put my hand in my pocket. 1) Why in the world would I give you money? 2) Was this whole conversation a grift? 3) He needs the four bucks a whole lot more than I do.

The police are still marching and rehearsing and laughing and it’s raining and I don’t want to wait around the parade, having seen enough of it up close. I take my leave of Williams and his family and head off for the lake.

It’s only another ten minute walk to the puerto entrance. The restaurants are a mix of indoor and outdoor affairs, with the Nicaraguan version of international cuisine. Cuban. Mexican. Thai/ Asian. A steakhouse. I pick a table overlooking an exhibition area with a few hundred plastic chairs lined up in the light rain. I order a Nicaraguan Victoria Classico beer and fajitas de pollo. I have my daypack on my back and pull out my dog eared copy of “Blood of Brothers,” Stephen Kinzer’s authoritative classic on the Sandinista overthrow of Somoza and the ensuing contra war. I notice a large sign over the proceedings. It’s a drawing of deposed Chilean socialist president Salvador Allende, with a tag line loosely translated as “the president of dignity”. The restaurant enclave is called Puerto Salvador Allende. My hotel is off Salvador Allende Boulevard. I think they like this guy.

And, lo and behold, there’s a beauty pageant on stage. Each girl, draped, oddly enough in a sparkly red, white and blue outfit, comes forward when her town is called and vamps for the audience. The contestant then gives a short speech. If my Spanish was better, I would be able to tell you if the San Juan del Sur was saying, “Death to all imperialist Yankee pigs,” or “My dream is to marry a submissive, wealthy man and have a big refrigerator.”

Between segments led by a formally clad master of ceremonies, a group of percussionists in the back, right near my table, explode into a Frenzy of drumming that sounds like a cross between a Brazilian batucada troup and a New Orleans second line. I watch and read and write for an hour, then head back. The dirt road leading out of the puerto is now VERY dark and I walk briskly back to Simon Bolivar. At which point, it strikes me that my plan to retrace my steps is blocked by a heavily armed procession of one or two thousand police officers. At which point, it strikes me that the reason I was not able to get video of the batucada band was because my battery on my iPhone ran out.

Williams is delighted to see me return. I walk across and ask one of the police if there is any way I might be able to get through the phalanx of marchers and vehicles. He looks like he might shoot me, then smiles and shakes his head. I sit and watch for a while with Williams and his family. Now two little nephews and two little nieces are crawling over me, grabbing at my backpack, asking me questions. And then, a group of motorcycles and an open top official car approaches.

“That’s Daniel Ortega!” Williams exclaims. I wave along with him, though by that time the car makes a U-turn and is heading back to the reviewing stand. A woman is at his side, presumably First Lady poet and revolutionary Rosario Murillo.

Williams tries to hit me up for another hundred. Not this time. He introduces me to his aunt and boasts how he will be selling soft drinks at a heavy metal concert tomorrow. “I will make money AND hear great music! I have the best job!” I say goodbye to him and the kids, and start walking back to the puerto to catch a cab.

No one has ever heard of the Art Hotel, so I negotiate a fare and give my non English-speaking driver a jumble of directions and landmarks. We drive around, and surprisingly, get lost. We drive to the Crowne Plaza so I can at least get my bearings, and we consult with a gas station attendant (why, I’m not sure). Then, miraculously, I try to open my iPad and there is indeed three percent of power left. The Maps app shows where we are, five minutes from the hotel, whose rough location I can make out. I give the driver instructions which he repeatedly ignores, until we work out a communication system consisting of me leaning over his shoulder, jabbing my finger either straight ahead, to the left or to the right, and imploring him, “No, not that way, the other way.”

Finally, the hotel sign comes into view. I am so pleased with myself that I am offended when he tries to extort 5x the original fare. A 2x fare, amounting to $8, seems about right.

I walk in, order a beer from the receptionist cum cook cum bartender, and plug in my iPad.

There’s no place like home.

An expanded version of this post,
Including Part Two, can be found at http://thevisionproject.com/101visions-blog/

Day One in Managua. I didn’t believe New York Times journalist Stephen Kinzer’s claim that there are literally no addresses for most places here. But sure enough, my hotel has no address in the Expedia confirmation. I made it here from the bus station after midnight last night by having the cab driver call the office. Today’s strategy was to walk out the front door, turn right and explore the city, getting back by simply retracing my steps. I had the hotel phone number and the cross streets in my iPhone.

The hotel receptionist suggests that the lake is far off and I might want a taxi, but I need the exercise so I grab my day backpack and head off. My goals are to find a place to write and post, see the city, and ask people how Daniel Ortega 2.0 is doing since his extraordinary resurgence as president. That and find some cheap but colorful places to eat and drink.

Some things about Managua from street level. There are no crosswalks. There are no street signs. As in Guatemala, people mostly do not speak English. And it’s very hot, though today’s heat tempered by some clouds and, soon, rain.

I make it to the Crowne Plaza hotel after an unsuccessful attempt to find wifi and an AC outlet at the shopping mall. The Tender Mercies of travel: air conditioning, water, electricity, good wifi, a clean bathroom, a cheap but good meal. More water. This first leg of the global walkabout is about experimentation, process, testing early assumptions. And getting a routine for low cost, high efficiency travel writing in place.

I paid the bill and walked out the hotel front door, only to be accosted by a loud middle-aged gentleman speaking heavily-accented English. Was I being sold something, gently mugged, befriended? Three hotel employees in branded beige polo shirts approach us.

“HOW DO TOU LIKE NICARAGUA? DO YOU LIKE OUR BEAUTIFUL CITY MANAGUA? ARE YOU AMERICAN?”

“I love your country. I love your city. Thanks for asking.” I smiled and checked him out. He was in jeans, worn tennis shoes, drenched in sweat from the afternoon heat, a threadbare T-shirt, an exuberant look on his face.

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME? WHERE YOU FROM? HOW LONG ARE YOU STAYING?”

He didn’t seem drunk. Or hostile. So, I thought, in my first encounter with the people of Managua after two centuries of U.S. invasions, overthrows, Marine assaults and installed dictators, I should set the record straight. Especially as an audience was gathering. I’m not sure if this is Brooklyn training, or personal style (sorry, LiAnne), but I find that a successful strategy in threatening or uncertain situations while traveling is to speak louder, and act aggressively to change the dynamics of the moment. So, I raised my voice, spread my arms and addressed the small group.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Brian Gruber, this is my first day in Managua and I am here to say that I LOVE your country and one more thing. On behalf of the people of the United States, we are SO SORRY for William Walker, for the Somoza family, for the contras, for all of the interventions in your beautiful country since your independence. Now, let’s start a new era of peace and love and prosperity! Thank you for welcoming me to your country!”

The not drunk but possibly insane fellow began applauding as the the hotel security guys laughed. One, a short, muscular young man in a cleaned pressed uniform, smiled and shouted,”We love America. Except Obama.”

My assumption was that Nicaraguans were keenly aware of some of the darker stretches of our shared history. But this well presented young man with fluent English had more current concerns.

We introduced ourselves. Alex says,”Obama deports too many people. He’s deported more of us than any American president. That’s why I don’t like him.”

I asked where he picked up his impeccable English. “I lived in LA, in La Puente. I had a great life there, a good business. And then I was arrested by the INS and deported.”

I mentioned I used to live in LA and worked for Charter Cable which serviced that area. I asked if I could record our conversation. “Nah. I gotta go. But now I can’t apply for a visa for ten years. And I blame Obama.”

I asked for directions to the lake. He pointed, “Just walk right down Simon Bolivar and there’s a bunch of restaurants and bars on the water. You’ll like it. I’ll get you a cab. It’s gonna rain and it’s a long walk.” I shook his hand, thanked him and told him I preferred walking. Showing off my waterproof light blue Orvis T shirt, green Ex Officio cargo shorts and REI daypack, I headed for the lake, looking back and shouting, “It’s only water.”

I turn left on Simon Bolivar, a broad boulevard and walk through a thickening line of street vendors. Within five minutes, the rain starts. It’s not the thoroughly soaking downpour I experienced during my first weekend in Guatemala City, but a friendly, almost feathery sprinkle. It feels refreshing and cuts the heat.

Passing the Hugo Chavez tribute in the roundabout, I begin to notice a lot of police. I think, how nice, tourists must feel well protected here. But then, no, there are A LOT of police here. Then loads of plastic chairs and across the street, in the distance, a reviewing stand. “Is there some kind of parade coming?” I ask a young, smartly uniformed policewoman. She knows no English and my Spanish is a sad, sad, thing, so no clear answer. Just smiles and an apologetic look.

As I got closer to the reviewing stand, the density of police intensifies as does the firepower of their weapons. I ask another police officer, and this time receive my answer. “The thirty-fifth anniversary of the Nicaraguan police.” The Sandinistas overthrew the Somoza regime in 1979. I am in the middle of final rehearsals for the event.

Columns of police walked past me, around me, alongside me. Police on foot, on bicycles, on motorbikes, in cars. With sidearms, automatic weapons. And right in front of me, in the next hour, as night fell, would be the national leadership and police brass reviewing Managua’s finest.

I think, briefly, of taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs and pretending that I belong there, but my dress is way out of place. The last time I did that was at an event celebrating the new school year at daughter Andrea’s Placer High. I was mingling with teachers and administrators on the gymnasium floor when the principal asked everyone to be seated. There were seats all around me, with many more up above. I sat down and soon realized I was sitting with the teachers. The principal started by honoring those in my seats and asking us to stand and wave for a round of applause. My daughter was horrified as her friends asked why her dad was standing with the teachers. One thing’s for sure. She’ll always remember that I was there.

The rain is now coming down in a steady, warm sprinkle. If it stays like this, no problem. I cross a heavily guarded street and a young guy tries to sell me a soft drink. I decline and wander through the street food vendors and begin to head toward the lake. Then, I realize, I have stumbled into an important political event. Why not enjoy it? I turn around and this time, accept the offer of a soft drink.

Williams, “like Robin Williams!”, dries off a chair for me and invites me to join him. “President Ortega is supposed to be here. But you can’t be sure. Security.”

I buy one drink for me and one for Williams. During my hour stay on the his corner, I will be one of only two customers. The drink, a sugary orange soda, is twenty-five cents.

“What do you think of Ortega?,” I ask. I am fascinated with Daniel Ortega’s story. Sandinista guerrilla. Captured and imprisoned. Freed during a daring Christmas party hostage taking. First president after the overthrow of the Somoza regime. A decade of increasingly repressive governing. Then a shocking electoral defeat by the widow of Nicaragua’s martyred newspaper publisher Violetta Chamorro.

Williams’ tiny nephew Luca, is now crawling over me, arranging himself on my lap.

Part Two to be posted later today. I’m going to the lake for the William Walker Day celebration. I’ll take plenty of pictures.

The purpose of the “War:The Afterparty” global walkabout is to visit the scenes of our last half century of military and covert incursions for lessons learned. It’s been particularly fascinating in week one to hear the stories of the people who were on the other end of the gun barrel, the people for whom we spent blood and treasure so that they might enjoy freedom, democracy and free enterprise. I expect the narrative will be different from Guatemala to Nicaragua, from Kosovo to Vietnam.

And now…what’s this? If George W. Bush liked thinking of himself as The War President, Barack Obama surely likes thinking of himself as The Peace President. Last night’s address, which I caught this morning after a late night arrival in Managua, promises a new multi-year conflict:

My fellow Americans, tonight I want to speak to you about what the United States will do with our friends and allies to degrade and ultimately destroy the terrorist group known as ISIL.

The President then laid out a four point strategy. You can read it here. In short, the plan involves air support, training, intelligence and equipment to the Iraqis doing the fighting on the ground, a broad sweep of counterterrorism actions, and humanitarian assistance to the victims of the murderous IS rampage.

And it will be done with an insistence on aggressive and urgent reform in the Iraqi government–Maliki is already gone–and the involvement of Arab and other allies.

There are hints of a new, escalating conflict, but the speech goes to great lengths to describe strategy, limits and motives.

Stephen Kinzer, whose thick books on Nicaragua and Guatemala are nestled in my backpack, noted Obama’s avoidance of hysterical paranoia and overreach in this morning’s Boston Globe in a piece called “Obama’s calm approach on ISIS will keep America safer.”

“Perhaps he would mobilize the nation more fully and win bigger headlines if he warned, like Governor Rick Perry of Texas, that ISIS terrorists might be sneaking across the Mexican border at this very moment…

“He called not for a massive attack but a steady, relentless effort’ to ‘degrade and ultimately destroy’ the militant group.

“It is difficult to hear our President gently remind us, ‘We cannot erase every trace of evil from the world.’ It challenges ideas of American power that are part of our collective psyche. Yet too many of our interventions in the Middle East have been aimed largely at fixing the messes left by our previous interventions. Obama signaled that he wants to pull the United States out of that cycle.”

Is there any difference between the Obama and Bush approaches? I think so.

Obama resists talk of a divine or providential mission to spread American values around the world, violently and unilaterally if necessary.

He resists saber rattling, militarist language threatening that you are either with us or against us.

He is consulting Congress, without the manipulative, deceitful political machinations used by Cheney and Rice, in evoking stark fears of an imminent apocalyptic threat.

He is doing this only with allies involved and supporting the mission.

He is doing it in support of a sovereign country, Iraq, whose people are being terrorized and whose vital resources such as dams and oil fields are at risk.

And he is disappointing the people who got us into this mess in the first place, via a nonstop attack on his approach as weak, feckless and adrift. People like Brookings analyst Robert Kagan, whose call, with Bill Kristol, for benevolent global hegemony in Foreign Affairs magazine provided the intellectual foundation for the disastrous Iraq invasion. Peter Beinart dissects Kagan’s position in The Atlantic.

“If American policymakers are truly “yearning for an escape from the burdens of power” and “com[ing] close to concluding … that war … is ineffective,” they have a strange way of showing it. Near the end of his first year in office, President Obama sent 30,000 additional troops to Afghanistan. That same year, he began an expansion of America’s drone program that would lead him to authorize eight times as many strikes (so far) as George W. Bush did. In 2011, the Obama administration helped militarily depose Muammar al-Qaddafi. Over the last month, it has launched 130 airstrikes in Iraq, with more almost certainly to come, perhaps in Syria as well.”

The speech outlines difficult decisions that are measured, justified, collaborative and legal. For now, that seems about right.

A reminder to join fhe Afterparty Kickstarter campaign to fund the Europe, Middle East and Asian legs of the project.
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/wartheafterparty/war-the-afterparty

I visited the storied campus of the Universidad de San Carlos de Guatemala and spoke with prominent professor and historian Dr. Oscar Pelaez Almengor. The campus, the fourth founded in the Americas, was the scene of intense and sometimes violent protests against both the 1954 CIA overthrow and the subsequent civil war. Director of the Center for Urban and Regional Studies, Almengor organized a historic conference on the Arbenz coup last year.

Why was Jacobo Arbenz overthrown?

There were four principal causes. He was promoting the industrialization of the country, and the highway to the north, to the Atlantic. He was intent on doing his best for the common people. The people who opposed him were the people from Guatemala, not the U.S. The U.S. participation was three million dollars. They created the mercenary force. They wasted that money. It was nothing. What was really important was the people who opposed him here in Guatemala.

If the U.S. did not intervene, would they have overthrown him anyway?

I think so. The army coming from Honduras was defeated. We as Guatemalans like to blame the U.S. But it wasn”t true. The people who overthrew him were the Guatemalans. That is my point of view after studying the issue for many years. We want to see sins and culpability in people other than Guatemalans. The U.S. paid the salaries of the military officers who were close to Arbenz. Two thousand dollars each for three or four years. They immediately took power. They started that with the U.S. ambassador. He went with the junta to San Salvador, flying there and making a deal with Castillo Armas.

I asked whether the same 25-30 families have been in control since the Spanish conquest.

It”s a myth. The economic forces of the country are constantly changing in terms of political and economic elites. You can”t say that nothing has changed from the conquest to today. The elite are changing. If you look at the statistics, you will see that the landowners are no longer the most important people in the country. You have industrialists fighting against them. The landowners are now the third or fourth. We have people in (other forms of) commerce who are the most important. And they are not necessarily former landowners. The country is changing constantly.

I asked about the political evolution of the Catholic casino online Church during the civil war.

The church became more left wing. You had one kind of church in 1954, another kind of church in the 60″s. The communists were not so important in 1954. They were a small group of people.

But somehow threatening to the United States?

In what way? What happens is you have to justify your actions.

You”re saying the Dulleses really didn”t care about communism but just wanted to support United Fruit and American economic interests.

They didn”t care about the communists. They used to say there were ten politically important people on the left in Guatemala. They said they were dangerous people. But in what way? They (Arbenz government) were working with the mass organizations, student and women”s organizations, things that happen in any democracy. They were dangerous to Guatemalan power. They used a word to describe what they wanted to do with those people. Disposal. They don”t say we are going to kill them.

You said Arbenz may have been overthrown anyway. U.S. Author Stephen Schlesinger suggests that if Arbenz continued, there could have been the first modern capitalist liberal democracy in Central America. Which would have created more regional stability and less cause for guerrilla activity.

The agrarian reform program was solving one of the huge, more dangerous problems in the country. The land is a problem even today. There are a lot of people asking for land. In Guatemala, El Salvador. Nicaragua. The way they proposed agrarian reform is the way Mexico did it. If you look at Mexico, you will see Guatemala if it did agrarian reform. Cardenas did it in the 1930″s. It happened in Taiwan, Mexico, Ecuador, Cuba.

Could a deal have been made with United Fruit?

I think there were some radicals in the Arbenz government who said the law is the law. During WWII, many Germans lived in Guatemala and the government took over their land. The biggest pieces of land to be redistributed came from the Germans.

Guatemala was asked to do that by the United States government during the war.

That is where the agrarian reform started. In WWI and WWII, both, they took the German citizens” land and they started the agrarian reform with this land.

On anti-communism as the reason for the coup.

It”s mostly fantasy. They used that as a justification. “I am fighting against the communists”. But who were the communists? University students, high school students, professors. They didn”t represent a real problem, a real power to take over the government of Arbenz. After the overthrow of Arbenz, many took to the mountains and became guerrillas.

Everyone talks about social justice but then, it was cause to be called a communist. You have to justify what you are doing. In the case of Central American governments, the military became rich controlling the government. On the other side, you have people looking for human rights, justice, agrarian reform. And you start looking at them as a collection of communists. You don”t make any distinction between a social democrat, a Christian democrat, you have only communists. You see the social democratic people in Costa Rica, they built a strong state, schools, education for everyone, social security. They are linked with social democrats in Europe.

On the state of Guatemala today.

The loss of the hegemony of the land owners is changing Guatemala. You have social democratic people, Christian democrats, center left, center right, right people. The radical left is no more. It is a very small group of people. The same in the U.S. I saw them in Boston, giving papers and selling socialist literature, (laughing) all 2 or 3 of them.

What is the reason for the mass migration of young Guatemalans to the United States?

The lack of opportunities here in Guatemala. There is not enough economic growth to give jobs to these people. But on the other side, when you do work in Guatemala, your salary is low. If you are going to find a job here, you will get a very small amount of money, but if you go to the United States you are going to get much more.

Asked about the charge that young Guatemalans are coming to the U.S. due to proposed change in immigration policy.

No, I don”t think so. I think it is the American dream to become rich, very soon. To have enough money to buy a car, to buy things, a house.