ter. You set it in the sun and it is dry bvrnthe time you reach the island.rnYou take a room at the little hotel nearrnthe wharf. The price is 15 cordobas, orrn20 if you want a tabic fan in vour room.rnIt’s about 110 degrees, so you opt forrnthe fan. There is no running water inrnthis hotel. The “shower” consists of a cubiclernwhere one can dip buckets of waterrnout of a rain barrel. The toilet facilityrnconsists of an honest-to-God outhouse.rnThe clientele of this hotel is entirely femalernand middle-aged. “Donde estdnrnlos hombres?” Where arc the men? vournask. “At home,” they reply. And why?rn”Because we are on vacation.” Okay,rnokay. You sit down in a cane rockingrnchair with these ladies and lazily rockrnthe day away discussing recipes andrnwatching novelas, or soap operas, on thernhotel’s television set. Hillary Clintonrnwouldn’t like this bunch of gals.rnThe boat makes its return trip at sixrno’clock the following morning. Yournquickly hop aboard another old schoolrnbus, and by ten you find yourself back inrnManagua. It’s already 100 degrees. Hot.rnWay too hot. You immediately board arnbus headed for Matagalpa and fan yourselfrnmadly with that morning’s edition ofrnBarricada. (Who said the newspaperrnisn’t good for anything?) Within anrnhour you are heading into the mountains,rnand the temperature drops aboutrn25 degrees. As you cruise through onernbroad, flat-bottomed river vallev vou noticerna school with a sign in Sj^anish thatrnreads “The Mikhail Gorbachc’ School ofrnMechanized Agriculture.” Within thernvalley are a number of former Sandinistarnrice cooperatives that have either beenrnabandoned or privatized since 1990. Byrnearly afternoon you reach the pleasantrnmountain town of Matagalpa.rnThe area around Matagalpa saw arngreat deal of revolutionary activity duringrnthe uprising that unseated Somoza. ThernSandinistas later forced unwilling camposinosrnonto cooperatives, thereb givingrnbirth to a great deal of counterrevolutionary,rnor “contra,” activity during thern1980’s. Like in E^steli, shops and restaurantsrnare springing up everywhere. Butrnunlike in Esteli, the people here are quiternwilling to express their disgust withrnthe Ortega clan. The Sandinistas arernkilling the ex-contras, they say. They arernundermining the peace process in neighboringrnEl Salvador. The economy is beingrnsabotaged. No wonder the muchachosrnare returning to the hills. . ..rnIndeed, the latest news involves twornmore political assassinations. Anotherrnex-contra has been rubbed out. So toornhas an agricultural expert who had beenrnoverseeing the rcprivatization of landsrnseized during the Sandinista years. Accordingrnto President Chamorro, over 100rnformer contras and civilian resistancernleaders have been mysteriously murderedrnby gangs of armed men during the pastrnyear. Does this make the papers backrnhome? Or are “death squads” only newsrnwhen they can be tied to the politicalrnright?rnThe general consensus is that some 20rnpercent of the Nicaraguan people stillrnstrongly support the Sandinistas. Meanwhile,rnthe L’NO (United NicaraguanrnOpposition) coalition that united behindrnVioleta Chamorro and unseatedrnthe Sandinistas in 1990 has completelyrnfallen apart. By election time this year,rnthe coalition may have broken into asrnmany as 15 different parties. The LiberalrnParty alone has split into four warringrnfactions. The Conservatives are dividedrnsix ways. Even the Social Christian Partyrn—itself little more than a faction—isrnfractured. It is conceivable that the SandinistarnFront could emerge from thernelections holding the largest single blockrnof votes!rnEactional politics has long been arncurse in Nicaragua. Time and again, therninability of those on any one side to closernranks around a single candidate has createdrnpolitical vacuums that are quicklyrnand easily filled by armed groups ofrnthugs—Somoza’s Guardia Nagional inrnthe old days; the Sandinista Eront morernrecenth’.rnYou arise bright and early the nextrnmorning and walk down to the mercadornin the cool mountain air. The surroundingrnmountain tops are bathed inrnthick clouds, though the mist in the valleysrnis starting to clear. You hop on a busrnto Esteli and ride for two hours up thernpleasant little mountain highway. Byrnthe time you reach Esteli, the morningrnfog has cleared and the skies are as bluernas can be. It’s a perfect 75-degree day. Arnquick bus change brings vou to Ocotal,rnthe small market town where you immediatelyrnhop aboard a two-and-a-halftonrnIsuzu truck bound for the Honduranrnfrontier.rnThe border formalities are as easyrnleaving Nicaragua as they were coming.rnThe customs officials are pleasant andrnprofessional. You get your passportrnstamped, then change our Nicaraguanrncordobas for Honduran lempiras. Yet asrnyou walk toward the Honduran immigrationrnstation you can’t help feeling arnbit uneasy. It’s those eyes. The eyes onrnthe mountainside. You’re leavingrnNicaragua under the harsh stare of CarlosrnFonseca, Daniel Ortega, and AugustornSandino, and it doesn’t feel good. Yourntake a final glance over your shoulder atrnthese three as you cross into Honduras.rn”We’ll be back!” they seem to be saying.rnRay Lowry writes from the island ofrnRoatan in Honduras, where he is arnteacher at a biUngual primary school.rnLetter From thernPhilippinesrnby Kelly CherryrnCrossing a Street in ManilarnThe creative writing students in thernsmall seminar room at Ateneo Universityrnin Metro Manila were answering myrnquestion about the relation of languagernto politics in the Philippines. With thatrnyouthful energy that is each generation’srngreatest natural resource they talkedrnabout the “feudal svstem” Filipinos havernlived under, about the centrality of villagernlife, about the Filipino’s innatelyrn”romantic” soul and love of theater. Thernelectric power had gone off—brownoutsrnwere lasting up to seven hours a day—rnand, in late May, the room’s temperaturernquickly soared. Just as suddenly, a rainstormrnrushed across the sky, as if in arnhurry to get somewhere else; afterwards,rnflame trees and acacias seemed to lean inrnthe direction it had gone, like lovers leftrnbehind at a train station.rnI was explaining to the class that anythingrnmight be the subject of a shortshort.rn”A door,” I said, pointmg at therndoor through which we had entered.rn”Or a table.” I touched the table aroundrnwhich we were grouped. “This morning,”rnI admitted, “it occurred to me thatrnone might write a short-short aboutrncrossing a street in Manila.” The studentsrnlaughed. “That’s not a shortshort,”rnone said. “That’s a novel! Arnsaga! An e/)ic, at least!”rn38/CHRONICLESrnrnrn