38. Full Moon Over Managua

© Robbie O’Connell 1985 Slievenamon Music (BMI)

“Full Moon Over Managua” is a memoir short story taken from Clean Cabbage in a Bucket: And Other Tales from the Irish Music Trenches.¹ (Very long post!)

All nine of us were enjoying a post-concert nightcap in the hotel bar in Quito, Ecuador. We seemed to be the only customers in the long, narrow bar, probably because it was too expensive for the native clientele. The token air conditioner did little to relieve the clinging humidity so we made an effort to cool off with local beer, not very effective, but a good excuse. Our group consisted of six Green Grass Cloggers, three of whom were also old time musicians, along with fiddler Susie Gott. They all hailed from North Carolina. The Irish legation consisted of our fearless leader—banjo player and singer, Mick Moloney—and me.

We were discussing our departure for Nicaragua on the following morning when Moloney was paged. This was unusual so late at night, and as he went off to take the call, we wondered if something was wrong. The tour, which was organized by the National Council for the Traditional Arts, had begun three weeks earlier, and we still had two weeks to go. As musical ambassadors of the USA, we sometimes did two or three performances a day, but we also got to hang out with local folk musicians and dancers almost everywhere we went. Sometimes after a show the local musicians would take us to a Peña, a sort of folk nightclub featuring regional performers. They were the kind of places we would never have found on our own, and the music was always excellent.

Most of our concerts were free and the admission fee for the others was so low we were assured of a good-sized audience just about everywhere. So far, the tour had gone smoothly, and we were enjoying every moment of it.

Our first stop had been Uruguay, an eighteen-hour flight from the USA. The capital city, Montevideo, felt so European that we could have been in Spain. Statues of heroes on horseback proudly ruled every square. The first night we sauntered out of our hotel around 9pm looking for nightlife, but it seemed like the whole city had gone to bed. However, by 11pm, as we were returning, it suddenly turned into happy hour. The streets echoed with the shouts and whistles of jubilant teenagers cruising the streets. All the bars and restaurants instantly filled up and stayed that way the next five hours. “Someone should have told us,” we complained as we traipsed back to our hotel too tired now to party.

Our first concert in Montevideo was a great success. The theme of our show was the Appalachian Tradition and its Antecedents. We played a mixture of old-time Appalachian songs and dances interspersed with Irish and Scottish songs and tunes. We were concerned that people would not understand our songs so we had the lyrics translated and printed in the programs. People from Ireland, the Appalachian Mountains and South America all shared a common background of economic hardship and political repression so our audiences had no trouble identifying with our songs, which echoed these themes.

The following day we set off confidently into the hinterland for another show in Paysandu, a small provincial town that seemed like it was still in the 1930s. There weren’t many cars, but the ones we saw were antique American models from the era of the black and white gangster movies, and we were amazed by the genius of the local mechanics who could still keep them running.

A few days later, we flew north to Bolivia. The airport in La Paz is more than 13,000 feet above sea level, and as you step off the plane you feel light headed and disoriented. Although musicians often aspire to a similar state of intoxication, this time it was accompanied by a slight nausea, which took all the fun out of it. We were housed in the Sheraton Hotel in La Paz. This was a five star hotel; far superior to any Sheraton I had ever seen. For about $20 per day we could live like royalty. Meals and drinks were so cheap it seemed sacrilegious not to take advantage of it. We were warned that drinking alcohol was the worst thing we could do for the altitude sickness so we adjourned to the bar and discussed it over a few beers. We all agreed that they were wrong.

Living in such style quickly lost its luster when we stepped out into the streets and markets of La Paz. The poverty all through South America was shocking; the contrast between affluence and subsistence was distressing. There seemed to be no middleclass, just disgustingly rich and disturbingly poor. It was easy to see why there were so many coup d’etats and why folk heroes like Che Guevara were so popular. As we drove through the streets, young males continually gave us the finger. The local version, thumb extended between the index and middle fingers, was new to us but there was no mistaking the intent of the gesture. As Americans we were seen as symbols of foreign imperialism, and comparing the dismal conditions that the natives lived in to the decadent opulence enjoyed by visitors to their country, it was hard to blame them.

One morning we set off for a boat trip on Lake Titicaca. We followed winding roads up out of La Paz into the Altiplano, seeing nothing but an occasional llama and a few bowler-hated Aymara women. Even though we were 14,000 feet above sea level, snow-capped peaks stretched into the clouds ahead of us. A small motorboat was waiting to take us to Suriqui Island, about an hour’s journey out into the lake. On the shore there were several of the traditional local boats made from the papyrus reeds that grew in abundance nearby.

In the 1970s, Swedish explorer Thor Heyerdahl had built papyrus boats like these but much larger, for the famous Ra Expedition. He sailed across the Atlantic from Egypt to South America to prove that the ancient Egyptians could have made the journey. The first expedition failed when the papyrus craft became waterlogged after a few days. Research soon proved that the molecular structure of the papyrus plants in Egypt had changed over the past 3000 years, but the papyrus in Lake Titicaca was identical to that used by the ancient Egyptians. So Heyerdahl traveled to Bolivia and brought the papyrus and the local boat builders back to Egypt for another attempt. The success of the Ra II Expedition made worldwide headlines and the boatmen on the lake are extremely proud of that.

When our boat reached the island, swarms of begging children surrounded us. It was difficult to give change to some but not others. We felt guilty and privileged when confronted by such overt poverty, but mostly we felt a sense of helplessness.

Suriqui was home to a celebrity. Paulino Estaban had built papyrus boats for Thor Heyerdahl and sailed the Atlantic with him. When I asked him what it was like crossing the Atlantic Ocean, he mimed cowering in terror of the massive waves, and swore he would never venture out of Bolivia again. Now he owned a ramshackle gift shop where he sold models of the Ra boats to tourists. Being a big fan of both Heyerdahl and model boats, I bought several models in different sizes. Paulino was eager to have his photograph taken with us, and proudly posed with his wife and two llamas, symbols of his wealth and importance.

Apart from a few puffy white clouds, the sky was a deep blue as we sailed back to shore. The snow-capped Andes jutted through the clouds into the heavens and created a sense of being on top of the world. I’m not sure whether it was the altitude or the bottle of brandy we shared on the boat, or both, but I’ll never forget the feeling of elation and lucidity on that lake. Back on the mainland, we were treated to a dinner of fried lake trout, which had been caught since we left, and I have never since tasted fish that good anywhere.

Once again, we journeyed to some of the provincial cities. Cochabamba was best known as the cocaine capital of Bolivia; and as foreigners we were eyed with suspicion and made to feel unwelcome. I had my camera confiscated by the local police in the city park, but after much pleading and explaining in a mix of English and the few words of Spanish I knew, I managed to get it back. Back at the hotel, I discovered that they had confiscated the film. I was later informed that a simple bribe of a dollar would have solved the problem instantly. Not being a seasoned traveler, that solution had never occurred to me.

Our next concert was in Santa Cruz, in the lowlands. It was in a nineteenth century Opera house fronted by a vast tree-lined square. We arrived in the afternoon for a sound check only to discover that a massive right-wing political rally was underway in the square. My first thought was that we had stumbled upon a film set but our driver assured me that it was real.

This was a complete throwback to Nazi Germany. Flags bearing swastikas hung all around the park. Flatbed trucks, rigged with massive loudspeakers, blocked the entrance to the theater. The guttural ranting of the politicians was like footage from a documentary of the Third Reich. Thousands of agitated voices roared their approval or disapproval. It was a scary scene, almost surreal. We elbowed our way through the throng and made it to the stage door. Relieved to get safely inside, we discovered that the event outside was a commemoration of a massacre that had taken place in the theater years before when a score of political figures in the audience had been gunned down in the middle of a show. This was not good news. One of our gigs in La Paz had been postponed because of an assassination attempt against the US ambassador. The police in Cochabamba had been less than friendly and now we had a Nazi rally and massacre commemoration to deal with. I think it safe to say we were a little uptight that night. However, the concert went on without incident and, with great relief, we all celebrated our survival back in the hotel that night.

A few days later, we were in a hotel in Guayaquil in Ecuador arguing over iguanas. A couple of the cloggers had gone out exploring early in the morning and came back filled with excitement about the iguanas they had seen in the park a few blocks away. I went rushing off to see them, but not a single iguana could I spot. I was sure I had been set up and a great laugh was being had at my expense. When I got back to the hotel I accused them of lying to me. They explained that the iguanas’ natural camouflage made them difficult to see at first, but if you sat still and looked at the trees you would see them. I was even more suspicious now of a practical joke but they persuaded me to try again. So, back at the park, I sat on a bench and stared at the trees. Suddenly, I saw one. Then, I saw another and another. It was like a Gestalt puzzle. Once your eyes and brain adjusted you could see them everywhere, like miniature dinosaurs sitting in the trees. It was a thrilling sight and I was grateful that I had not missed it.

After Guayaquil, we moved north to Quito whose only claim to fame seemed to be its gold jewelry and Panama hats. It appeared that the best hats were made here and not in Panama, so we did our tourist duty and stocked up. Twenty years later I still have one that I use when I’m fishing.

The proximity to the equator and the high altitude made sunburn a real danger here but we did not know that at first. Mick got the worst sunburn I have ever seen after only a half hour at the hotel pool. Irish skin is ill equipped for these equatorial regions and he was lucky that he did not have to be hospitalized.

Now we were waiting in the bar for Moloney to return from his phone call and hoping that our plans to fly to Managua next day were not in jeopardy. Relations between the governments of the USA and Nicaragua had been tense for some time because of US backing for the Contra war, which in 1985 appeared to be escalating. When Mick returned he told us that the plans had all changed. He had just received word from the US embassy in Quito that the Reagan Administration had imposed a trade embargo against Nicaragua and the government there would not allow us to go to Managua. We were sorely disappointed at this development. We had been looking forward to visiting this little David, so troublesome to the U.S. Goliath, and wanted to see for ourselves what was going on. Now we were in Limbo. Our next scheduled country on the tour was the Dominican Republic, but they were not expecting us for another ten days. What was going to happen to us? Where would we go next?

Next morning at breakfast, Mick surprised us all. He had just received another call to say that our visit to Nicaragua was still on. The word from the embassy was that the Sandinista government had concluded that as cultural ambassadors, we posed no threat to their regime. So, after hastily packing bags, we were carted off to the airport.

Flying through the Andes in a propeller plane is not the most relaxing way to travel. The aircraft was like an antique bus with wings and as noisy as a hundred lawnmowers. Peering through the scratched windows, the mountain peaks looked close enough to stretch your arm out and touch them. I had to banish stories of plane crashes and cannibalism from my mind.

The other unnerving aspect of the flight was the body odor, which literally took our breath away. The majority of the passengers were rural South Americans, many of them women sporting the bowler hats that had become so familiar to us in Bolivia. They were dressed in the native style of many multicolored layers of wool. You expected to see live chickens in cages beneath their seats. It would appear that personal hygiene is not highly regarded in this region. Unlike the Irish farmer who took a bath once a year, whether he needed it or not, these people obviously suffered from hydrophobia. I had experienced some smelly feet on Aer Lingus flights over the years but that seemed like Eau de Cologne in comparison to the odor that assaulted our nostrils now. In an attempt to escape the near lethal pong of our fellow passengers, we wandered up and down the aisle, like pearl divers holding our breath as long as possible and desperately trying to keep from gagging. We were eventually forced back to our seats by our impending and very welcome approach to the Managua airport. Through the windows we could see dozens of anti-aircraft guns lined up along each runway. Welcome to Nicaragua!

The customs officers were rude. They tore our clothes out of the bags and flung them around the table. They seemed to be angry with us gringos for visiting their troubled country and they were determined to find something wrong. They made no effort to repack our bags and tried to rush us on before we had any time to do it ourselves. Carrying an American passport was not the way to endear you to these people, but finally, after many questions, arguments, examinations and delays, we were in our minibus on route to the Intercontinental Hotel.

The streets of Managua were deserted apart from a few eighteen-year-old soldiers in battle fatigues patrolling, with machine guns slung over their shoulders. I had played concerts in Belfast during the “Troubles” but despite the unease and the threat of car bombs, the streets were still bustling with shoppers, and life seemed relatively normal. These empty silent streets reminded me of Thurles in County Tipperary, when a Munster Hurling final was underway, and I wondered if everyone had not slipped away to a big soccer match.

The Intercontinental Hotel was home to dozens of foreign reporters who were there to cover the Contra war, a hundred miles or so to the North. The lobby was filled with press people, coming and going, day and night. Maybe this was because of the newly imposed embargo, but it felt like everyone was waiting for something dramatic to happen. Tragedy is always news, and the reporters were gathered like hungry animals waiting for someone to fill the feeding trough. They were affable and cynical, at the same time, as we chatted, and everyone we spoke to seemed to think that US policy in the region was misguided, even those from the conservative press.

After we settled in we were taken to the US Embassy for a “briefing.” This consisted of a warning to stay away from areas of combat and beware of interacting with the local people, or buying drugs. In keeping with official US policy in the region, they informed us that we were the good guys and these Sandinistas were no good communists. I asked if it wasn’t un-American for our government to try to overthrow the freely elected Sandinista government. After all, weren’t they the legitimate representatives of the people, and hadn’t they replaced a brutal dictatorship? Shouldn’t America be supporting Democracy, not undermining it? In answer, they cited irregularities at the polling booths as the justification for U.S. interference. I found this answer unacceptable at the time but hilarious fifteen years later during the Florida recount in the 2000 presidential election. Ah well, what do I know? I’m just a humble musician.

Our first concert was in the local arts and culture center, unlike any such center I had seen before. It was a derelict building, the ruins of the Grand Hotel that had been destroyed in an earthquake in 1972. All that remained was the ground floor, which had been roofed and made structurally safe. Multicolored ornate batiks hung from the ceilings, strange Indian paintings covered the walls; but my favorites were the carved wooden figures that looked as if they had melted and assumed rounded and twisted shapes. A glimpse of further treasures ahead appeared now and then through jagged gaping holes in the stone walls. Outdoors, there was a huge stage, in what was formerly the pool area, while the auditorium, which held about a thousand seats, was under cover, in the now defunct ballroom of the hotel. The whole place was like a colorful garden that had bloomed on a pile of rubble and, as all good art is meant to do, it created a sense of awe.

Our first show began at dusk. A massive yellow moon rose slowly up before us like a huge spotlight. It was so big that you could see individual craters on its surface. As soon as we began to play, darting shadows suddenly flickered through the arc of the stage lights. Bats! Dozens of them appeared in front of us, beside us, behind us, everywhere. They seemed particularly agitated by the sound of the banjo. I guess if the joke “Welcome to Hell, here’s your banjo,” is true, at least I won’t have to worry about bats when I get there. We quickly developed an expertise in avant-garde choreography as we bobbed and dipped while we played our instruments and the bats dive-bombed us. Maybe the little critters were irritated by the music but the audience was enthusiastic and friendly. To our relief there were no shouts of “Yankees, Go Home!” We performed there for two nights to sold-out houses and by the second night we even grew accustomed to the bats and only ducked our heads occasionally.

During the day, we went to visit some of the local sights, including a live volcano in Masaya not far from the city. A wooden viewing platform on the crest of the crater enabled us to see right down to where the lava bubbled and smoked and belched out spirals of thick grey smoke. I watched fascinated as hundreds of bright green parrots wheeled through the smoke plumes to their nests, which clung to the walls of the crater. They were attracted, no doubt, by the free central heating. The vivid flashes of green wings amid the grey smoke of the crater were an unexpected and memorable sight.

Nearby, in Masaya, we found an open-air market where we could shop for souvenirs. Wandering through colorful stalls filled with local produce and crafts, we were astounded to hear a voice call out, “Hey, Moloney! How are they all in Limerick?” A stranger rushed over to shake Mick’s hand and explain that he was an ex-patriot Chilean dissident who had lived for two years in Limerick, Ireland, Mick’s hometown. He had fled to a reconciliation center there when his life had been threatened by the Pinoche regime. Still unable to return safely to Chile, he had settled in Nicaragua where he felt more at home. He had recognized Mick from a photograph in the newspaper promoting the concert and they had a great chat about mutual acquaintances. It is said that the world gets smaller everyday and here was proof indeed.

Some people take photographs as mementos of their travels but, although I usually bring a camera, I find that writing a song about the experience can be a powerful way to preserve memories. Songs and smells are like a time machine taking you back to a particular place or time. I jotted down some thoughts and ideas as we traveled around and when I got home I wrote a song to try to capture the feelings of our Nicaraguan sojourn. I subsequently recorded it on a CD called The Love of the Land.

Several years later, at a folk festival in Pennsylvania, I ran into Trish Miller, one of the clog dancers from that tour. She told me that one night not long before, while she and her husband John were driving home from a gig in up-state New York, she was astounded to hear Full Moon Over Managua on the radio. She hadn’t been aware that I had written the song, and she said she cried as all the memories of the South American tour came flooding back.

Lyrics:

FULL MOON OVER MANAGUA

© Robbie O’Connell 1987 Slievenamon Music (BMI)²

In the Casa Grande garden, we sat at evening time
Politely making small talk while the waiters poured more wine.
And it seemed like some old movie that I saw so long ago
Until I looked out through the chain link fence at the city down below.

CHORUS:
There's a full moon over Managua, and the wind is in the trees,
The stars are shining clear tonight, there's music on the breeze
The palm tree silhouettes against the sky look like a painted scene
As I wonder to myself who really is the enemy.

And up in the Northern mountains, not so many miles away,
Silent eyes watch through the night waiting for the break of day
And the smell of burning wheat fields still lingers in the sky,
With the silence sometimes broken by the crack of rifle fire.

I saw a woman rocking on her porch, her eyes as hard as steel,
A machine gun cradled in her arms where a baby might have been.
She said that though she hadn't much, at least it was her own,
And she'd rather die than go back to the way it was before.

I never will forget the night, at the ruins of the Grand Hotel,
The cloggers danced their hearts out, and we gave the music hell.
And the bats flew like mosquitoes as the moon rose overhead,
And we knew that we would never all have such a night again.

1. Clean Cabbage in a Bucket: And Other Tales from the Irish Music Trenches. Amazon Kindle Link

2. PRODUCTION INFORMATION
Robbie O’Connell: Vocal and guitar
Jimmy Keane: Synthesizer
Seamus Egan: Whistle
Eileen Ivers: Fiddle
Recorded at Wellspring Sound Studio, 960 Beacon Street, Newton, Massachusetts
Engineer, Eric Kilburn • Additional engineering, Cyril Lance
Produced by Robbie O’Connell