We discussed strategy in the morning,
over stale rolls and instant coffee. Once we distributed our
remaining food, we would have finished the task we had set out to do.
We could go home.
But it seemed silly to make such an
effort to get to Managua, and then just turn around and leave. There
must be something useful we could do! While Raquel and I tidied away
the breakfast things, the guys went to the hospital administration
area for pointers, and came back with an address and a map of the
city.
Gustavo Parejon, the leader of the
Baptist relief effort, lived in a modern, airy house on the outskirts
of Managua, well away from the devastated area. Sitting in his living
room, sipping real coffee, I surreptitiously inspected the walls and
ceiling for cracks. They looked solid. The tiled floor was smooth; no
missing grout, no buckled areas.
Parejon must have noticed my scrutiny.
"There's nothing to worry about," he said. "This house
is properly built. Brickwork and rebar. It's earthquake-proof."
The problem in the centre of Managua,
he explained, was that people insisted on building in the old way,
with adobe and lath. Foolish, they were; this was the second time
that the city had been leveled by a major quake. They should have
known better. But no: he had already heard plans for rebuilding -- on
the same site.
He and other Christian leaders were
setting up an agency for recovery and change, Parejon said. CEPAD,
they were calling it: The Evangelical Committee for Help and
Development. They would work to channel funds to stimulate sensible
re-construction, and to make bricks and mortar available even to the
poor.*
CEPAD would be an interdenominational
effort; he hoped all the Christian churches would get involved. "This
will be a great testimony to the nation. After the miraculous events
of the past week, people are more open to the gospel than ever
before."
What miraculous events, we asked?
"You haven't heard?"
"Just what's on the radio."
"Ah, but the radio is owned by
Catholics, they won't tell you this."
The earthquake struck late on the night
of the 23rd, Parejon told us. It was the height of the pre-Christmas
party season, and as usual, it was an occasion for sinning, instead
of for remembering the birth of the Saviour. In the centre of the
city, party-goers thronged the ballrooms and nightclubs, dancing and
drinking. The hotels were full.
"And then," Parejon said,
"without warning, they were swept into eternity. 70,000 people
found themselves facing God, and they weren't ready."
The Christians, he said, were spared.
Most of them were in their homes when the quake came, away from the
dangerous centre of town. They scattered, fleeing to safer areas, and
were initially counted as lost. But in the week since, the church
leaders had been inquiring after their flocks, and almost all of them
had been accounted for. Not one single death of an Evangelical church
member had been confirmed. Even when the buildings around them
collapsed, they escaped.
Parejon had heard of one man, a
Christian on a business trip, who was sleeping in his hotel room when
the roof caved in over his head. He woke up in the dark, and reached
for the lamp on his night stand. There was no lamp, or night stand,
either. A block of cement had flattened them. The man himself was
untouched.
"The Bible says, 'A thousand shall
fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall
not come near thee,'" George quoted. "God takes care of His
own!**
Carlos brought us back to the reason
for our visit. What could Parejon tell us about relief work, he
asked. We had a certain amount of food to distribute; did CEPAD have
an outlet for it?
"No, we are not set up for that;
our concern is with the rebuilding."
The interview was over. Parejon put his
empty coffee cup on the end table and rose to his feet. "I'm
sure you'll find something. God will lead you."
"Oh, one thing I should tell you,"
he added. "Don't take your food to the government authorities;
they will just keep it for themselves. The Americans sent down a
large shipment of food and tents and other supplies. Somoza3
gave it all to his friends, rich people who live in strong houses in
the hills. You ought to drive around the area; you'll see.***
"If you want anything to get to
the victims of the quake, you'll have to give it to them personally."
We drove back down into the ruined
city. Partway, Carlos stopped the car and went back to delve into his
duffel bag once more. He brought out a pair of signs, which he
propped in the back windows; red crosses on a white background. "Just
to keep the soldiers from stopping us," he said.
"But that's a Red Cross sign!"
said George.
"Not quite; the proportions aren't
the same."
"We'll get in trouble if they ask
us for identification!"
"They won't. They never bother Red
Cross workers. Besides, we're not saying we're Red Cross, are we?"
We went on. We parked in an area where
most of the houses were still standing, and filled shopping bags with
foodstuffs. Carlos gave us a handful of tracts each, to be given with
the food. "Don't forget to tell people what we've just heard,"
he said. "God has given them a warning, and another chance."
I walked down a side street littered
with shards of roofing tiles until I found a doorway standing open. A
woman was sweeping the courtyard with a twig broom; a couple of
ragged children stared at me another ran to hide behind her mother. I
smiled at them. "Hello."
"Come in," the woman said.
There had been two rooms bordering on
the courtyard, now there was one and a pile of rubble. A torn cloth,
maybe an old sheet, was propped up on sticks to make a roof over a
cot and a table. As I came across the courtyard, a man rose from the
cot and came to meet me.
"What do you want?" he asked.
His tone was polite, but cautious.
"I brought some food. To give you.
If you want it. Oranges for the girls."
"Yes. Please." The caution
was gone; the man and his wife were smiling broadly now. She came
forward, and I filled her hands with oranges. I piled boiled eggs,
three days old now, onto the table. A plastic bag full of powdered
dry milk. Another one of oatmeal.
"Do you have a can opener?" I
asked.
"A knife."
"That'll do." I put a couple
of cans of Spam on the table.
The husband walked with me to the
street door, thanking me over and over. Behind me, the children
clustered around their mother and the oranges. She was peeling the
first one; I could smell the sharp tang of it over the dust.
The tracts! I was supposed to hand out
a tract. I turned back to the man at the door. "I have something
else for you; some literature about God." I dug one out of the
bag and gave it to him. "Read this. God protected you and your
family last week. Now He wants you to know about Him."
He was looking at the tract dubiously.
Large red letters on the front said, "Four Things God Wants You
to Know." I wondered if anyone would read it. Then the man
smiled again. "Thank you for the food," he said.
Much later, when I got back to the car
with my empty bag, Raquel, George and Paco were waiting. Carlos had
loaded up his backpack and gone out again. George was worried,
remembering the curfew. It was almost 5 o'clock. Raquel thought maybe
we would be safe with the Red Cross sign, even after dark; George was
sharp with her, accusing her of being as foolish as Carlos. We were
all relieved when Carlos finally came out of an alley way; George
honked for him to hurry, and had the car in gear even before the door
closed.
Once we were away from the stench and
rubble of the city, George relaxed. It turned out that we had plenty
of time, after all. He turned off the road to the Baptist hospital,
and drove around the better residential district, as Parejon had
suggested.
It was cooler up on the hills. Quieter.
There were no cries of vultures. No bumping and creaking of car
springs; the streets were well paved and undamaged. Behind high stone
walls draped with greenery, we could hear music and laughter. In one
house, where the wall was lower than usual, a large canvas tent stood
in the garden. These were Somoza's friends, then.
At 6 o'clock, George headed back to the
main road. Before we entered the hospital grounds, Carlos crawled
back and took down our Red Cross signs.
*CEPAD was still in operation at the time of this writing, in 2001. Parejon was the President.
**Of
the 70,000 reported missing, 90% were eventually found alive.
Present estimates give between 7 and 10,000 dead.
***General
Anastasio Somoza, President of Nicaragua
Stories of Mexico: Non-fiction
©Susannah Anderson, 2001
©Susannah Anderson, 2001
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