to move up and down
El Cupolog
Pan-american Transmissions : The Road to Tierra Del Fuego
Fog, Empty Beaches and Dictator Residue
Las Peñitas was deserted after the hurricane. Only fog crept in at night. With so many abandoned houses rotting beneath orange street lights, the town looked more like the set of a zombie movie than a beach resort.
It was perfect. Ania and I had the beach to ourselves.
Locals fought over our business. Restaurants made us cheap “fisherman specials” and bartenders gave us free drinks for company. It rained at least twice a day, but Las Peñitas was so economic we decided to stay for a while.
I passed the slow, pointless days reading Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time and exploring ruins. On the edge of town there was an old vacation house for Somoza’s government officials. It was ransacked after the dictatorship fell, but the colorful mosaic at the bottom of the pool was still intact.
The building stood on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It must’ve been a top-notch party spot because there was a bar built into a cave along a rock ledge. (Visible on the right side of the photo.)
I thought about the bartender that worked there. Did he serve Somoza? If so, what did they talk about? Did Somoza get drunk and rant about the political prisoners he killed that day? Did he ever brag about the people he threw into volcanoes from his personal helicopters?
Then I thought about the money that built the bar, the vacation home and the mosaic in the pool. Most likely it came from U.S. taxpayers. One reason is the 1972 earthquake that leveled the nation’s capitol.
The American government (then big supporters of the Somoza’s dictatorship) sent down about $55 million to speed up reconstruction. Amazingly, only $14 million went towards disaster relief. The rest “disappeared.”
That’s just one example. The Somoza family ruled over Nicaragua for more than 40 years.
At least they got the bastard. Americans let Cheney walk around freely.
© Diego Cupolo 2011
It Begins
Ania fell in a hole as we passed a twelve-year-old breastfeeding her baby. The sewers aren’t always covered in Matagalpa. Without warning, her right leg disappeared into the street. She was alright, though.
We got in town after a four hour bus ride from the capital, Managua. It normally takes two and a half hours, but there was a protest and people were burning tires in the middle of the highway. Something about the upcoming elections.
A thick black smoke filled the bus when we passed the flaming barricade. After that, the mountain roads were surprisingly smooth. Nice views too.
Now we were in Matagalpa, a mid-size mountain city in the center of Nicaragua’s coffee region. The reason we came was unclear. We were too hungry to think about that. We left our bags at the hospedaje and combed the town for cheap food. That’s when Ania fell in the hole.
She came out with a few bruises and we ended up eating a massive chicken enchilada with rice and beans. It cost us 75 cents each … a little more than I was expecting to pay, but I guess it was cheap enough.
The rest of the night was spent watching a mix of J-Lo music videos and Ortega campaign rallies on a projection screen in the town center. We sat with families, police officers and terrible drunks to try and learn something.
Ortega is currently running for re-election in the fall. While his party, Frente Sandinista de Liberacion Nacional (FSLN), seems to have a strong presence in Matagalpa and the surrounding area, not all Nicaraguans support him. He was accused of fraud in the last election and then extended his term limits (Bloomberg-style) to run again this year.
Regardless, FSLN graffiti covers the streets in Matagalpa. The party’s colors, red and black, appear everywhere from flags to store signs.
We’ll have to see what happens.
The next day, I woke up with a giant cockroach on my nose. Ania and I went to the market and ate pollo asado, yucca, rice and beans for breakfast. It cost us 75 cents each. We sat at a table with high school students in their uniforms.They watched us eat and laughed. Maybe I was holding the chicken wrong.
We finished our meal and looked at the teenagers around us. So far, Nicaraguans had been extremely kind to us. I wondered what they thought of the world. I wanted to know how 42 years of U.S.-backed dictatorship affected their parents, grandparents and even great grandparents. What about Reagan’s Contra War? You know, the lopsided fight against imaginary communists where U.S. trained militants killed midwives and poor unionized farmers.
We didn’t come to Nicaragua simply as tourists on vacation, we came for a reason. What that reason is/was/and will be is sure to change over the course of our journey.
We bought one way tickets and we’re heading south. That’s all we know. I’ve got a camera, a laptop and a waterproof tent. Ania came on board just last month. She also has a curious spirit and what better travel companion than a Croatian flute-playing gypsy? (She’s also interested in international affairs.)
The goal is to reach a friend in Buenos Aires and follow him to Tierra del Fuego.
I’ve been planning this for more than a year.
Whatever happens in between, well, that’s what ends up on this blog. I hope to learn as much as possible while crossing Latin America and will share it with everyone that’s paying attention.
Wish us luck.
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Back in the U.S.S.A
First thing I see is a homeless man with a pillow preaching about September 11th in the middle of a bus station.
“I’m not the problem, you’re all the problem,” he said. “If you were paying attention before the first plane hit the tower you would’ve known it was coming.”
He then raised his right hand in the air and rambled about flying houses and clergy men.
South Station, Boston
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Albany Terminal
The bus station crowd is what happens when you boil the fat out of American society. The strange, the old, the people living without cars among tangled spaghetti highways. You don’t have to travel to Africa or Southeast Asia to see real poverty - just visit your local bus station.
Albany Bus Terminal - Albany, New York
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Les Québécois are a colorful bunch
With the passing of each frigid, six-layer day I became closer to the Québécois mentality. To know the people, one must suffer with the people.
First thing I learned: never call a Québécois “Canadian.”
This is Quebec and in Quebec we want nothing to do with the rest of Canada. Ask them about national politics or what’s going on in Toronto and most will have no idea. The Québécois purposefully remain ignorant to these matters.
Also, many French-speaking Québécois refuse to learn English – which is an interesting discovery in a supposedly bilingual territory. They have their own French-language newspapers, radio stations and even their own political party, allowing two contrasting cultures to live side by side and know nothing of one another.
This only provides more evidence for my theory that to be truly French, one can never learn English. It’s a pride thing.
But don’t take my simple observations as criticism. To be fair, Americans also suffer the inability to learn languages (including their own.)
Claudia came to Montreal after growing up in France so I asked her to provide some insight on the two cultures. She said: “In general, the Québécois are more optimistic than the French.”
Fair enough.
My last noteworthy observation is that when it snows they plow ice rinks before the sidewalks. Hockey is played at all hours in Parc Lafontaine.
Note: After reading my post, my Québécois flatmate shouted: “It is not that we have no idea about the rest of Canada, it’s that we don’t care because not our country. And we are not refusing to learn English, we just have to preserve our French culture. We are the only French-speakers in all of North America.”
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Refuge in Montreal
February was a month of desperation. I was terribly sick from exploring crackhouses, disabled by chronic stomach pain (misdiagnosed as hernia), unemployed and the feds were holding up my paperwork, delaying my trip around South America.
My plans were in shambles.
Not knowing what else to do, I went out to look for a job. I got two responses: one was for a “comment moderator” position at a mystery news web site and the other was a data entry position for a furniture store near Union Square.
I put on my white shirt and shaved my neck. It was a big day. I hadn’t worked for a respectable company since I left the papers and I was ready to do a job that required thinking.
I met Aly at a café on 38th street. She was the recruiter for the mystery news site and her eyes were red from looking at her laptop screen. She seemed about my age and explained the job. It was simple. I would delete unrelated comments and racist rants on the site. But what site was it?
Glenn Beck’s very own TheBlaze.com.
The pay was $8 an hour. Eight hours a day.
I considered the position for three seconds. Maybe reading comments from Glenn Beck’s fans would let me into the psyche of the contemporary, pissed off, severely uneducated middle-American. Maybe the experience would help me understand how to reach this misguided audience. How to connect with them …
Nah, I thought, these people are just belligerent with false information. They were never politically aware before a scary black man was elected president and it’s too late to teach them basic history.
It’s a shame because I Googled Aly’s name before the interview and found she worked at The Huffington Post (which is equally full of nonsense, but looks better on a resume). In fact, most of TheBlaze.com staff is composed of former HuffPost employees – just look at the similarities between their layouts.
I told her I would think about it, but the decision was made. After all, dishwashers can make more money without having to compromise their values.
I went to the furniture store for my second interview. The guy asked me questions as he ate a falafel, white sauce gathering at the corners of his mouth. He was nice, but I could tell he already picked his man. There was nothing left to do but go home.
The next day I wrote to several friends in various locations. I needed to get away. The first to respond was Claudia, a French intellectual-anarchist-baker I met while traveling in Chiapas. She lived in Montreal and invited me to stay for a while so I packed my bag and got the first bus out of town.
Nine hours later, I stepped foot in subarctic Quebec. I had three pairs of underwear and no plans. Anything was better than working for Glenn Beck.
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Bathroom
The napkins on the ground were smeared with shit.
This corner served as a “bathroom” in the abandoned foundry.
My stomach hurts when I look at these pictures.
Why didn’t it hurt when I was taking these pictures?
Philbrick Booth and Spencer Metal Casting Building
Hartford, Connecticut
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Into the Vile
It was damn cold when I got to Hartford so I went looking for a crackhouse.
Nobody, not even a crackhead, could survive New England winters without heating. This means all the summer drug hubs are sitting empty, just waiting to be explored.
I grabbed my camera and headed for the abandoned Philbrick Booth and Spencer Metal Casting building on Homestead Avenue. The facility is huge and easily accessible.
I found at least 30 beds in the former office area. Mountains of dirty, mismatched blankets were laid on every flat surface – tables, couches, cubilcles – that’s what I mean by “bed.”
Many of these beds were equipped with basic necessities: tooth brushes, toothpaste, deodorant, toilet paper, mirrors and gallon jugs of water. The jugs were completely frozen.
Next to one bed I found a small collection of pages torn from porn magazines.
Everybody needs somebody sometimes.
© Diego Cupolo 2011
Day 33 – Part 2: Sand to Snow in Three Hours
Inside the airport it was all business. Remove you shoes, your belt and your dignity. The security people wanted me to go through the full-body scanner, but I opted for the pat down.
It was my first time. How exciting.
I was ordered to stand on a rubber mat with two footprints on it. The TSA officer spread my legs and nervously explained everything he would be groping before any actual groping occurred. What a shitty job.
He ran his fingers between my balls and my thighs. Both sides.
“Sorry, this is just procedure,” he said.
“It’s alright, your hands do less harm to my balls than that human-sized microwave over there,” I said.
I passed inspection like a Grade A mule and was the last person to board the plane. I looked at my ticket and realized my seat was in first class. American Airlines must have made a mistake.
I sat down in a beige leather chair wide enough for two people. We took off smoothly and I was showered with complimentary beer, wine, salad, tortellini, chocolate chip cookies, warm nuts and warm towels. The coach class passengers got nothing.
Classism. Divide and conquer.
I spent the rest of the trip looking through Sky Mall’s latest edition. Many items were geared towards pets. For only $70 you could order an Ultrasonic Barking Dog Deterrent that claimed to “quickly and humanely restore peace and quiet for those vexed by dog’s barking.” The device was disguised as a birdhouse that you put in the yard and emits ultrasonic tones when it detects dog barks.
There was also a $400 dog cage for sale. They called it a Luxury Pet Residence, “masterfully assembled from fine mahogany-finished hardwood … this furniture-quality residence satisfies you pet’s need for comfort and privacy. Outfitted with integrated roller shades on three sides, raised base to protect floors, removable PVC tray, and washable microfiber and orthopedic foam mattress.”
The magazine is always good for a laugh, but it’s there because someone is actually buying that crap.
We landed at JFK airport at 5 p.m. It was dark, cold and everything was covered in snow. I didn’t have much to return to. No bed. No apartment. No job.
My stay would be temporary.
© Diego Cupolo 2011
