In the spring of 1985, while at Miami Airport, I purchased a greeting card featuring a simple red rose on the front. Beneath the flower, there was a scroll with the words "miss you." Inside the card, in a matching scroll, read the words "Wish you were here."
I signed below this sentiment as 'Derek...' before placing a photograph inside and addressing the card to some house in Des Moines, Iowa. At the airport's postal kiosk, I paid extra for express delivery in the hope that the card would reach its recipient in Iowa before 'Derek' arrived from Nicaragua.
In the mid-'80s, the AIDS crisis hit its peak, particularly in the United States, with nowhere more impacted per capita than New York City due to its sizable population of drug addicts and gay individuals. The virus primarily spread through blood transmission, affecting gay men through their sexual practices and drug addicts who shared needles, injecting both heroin and the virus into their veins.
At that time, I managed Snafu, a performance club in Chelsea. It showcased transvestite performers and avant-garde acts like the chanteuse/debutante Phoebe Legere. The club and its patrons represented a cross-section of those at risk of spreading HIV/AIDS. By January of '85, my job at Snafu became precarious as acts began canceling, or on occasion just not showing up. Attendance had dropped precipitously to the point that we no longer charged an entrance fee. Thus, Lewis, the owner (who eventually became a victim himself), informed me that he needed to temporarily lay me off.
Facing winter and a layoff, I considered spending part of my break in a warmer place like Florida or the Caribbean. However, as my finances were limited, and it was peak season, I ruled out those possibilities. One day, while reading a story in The New York Times about the civil war raging in Nicaragua, between the Contras, former supporters of the ousted leader Somoza, unofficially supported by the Reagan administration. It struck me that there might be a surplus of hotel rooms in Nicaragua and that restaurant prices could be lower. However, despite neither Canada (my home country, then and now) nor the United States severing diplomatic relations, obtaining a visa might prove challenging.
Additionally, flights to Nicaragua were scarce due to a lack of passengers, operating solely from Miami and only twice a week. Fortunately, my previous connections from my time in Afghanistan came in handy. Using these connections, I managed to secure a note from a reporter for the old Village Voice. Presenting this note to the Nicaraguan consulate in New York, I was pleasantly surprised to receive immediate approval for my visa.
In the capital city of Managua, where I initially arrived, there was a relative sense of calm. However, beyond the capital—stretching from Costa Rica in the south to Honduras in the north—lay a patchwork of skirmishes reminiscent of the unconventional warfare in Vietnam. There were no distinct 'lines' as seen in traditional wars. This chaotic scenario, coupled with the presence of a diverse array of reporters, many of whom were independent, piqued my interest in a potential job opportunity.
I ventured to a run-down used car dealership, where I negotiated and purchased a clunky mid-60s Chevrolet for four hundred dollars. Remarkably, the very next day , I secured employment with a Reuters reporter. My task was to accompany her northward, navigating through the conflict zone to the village of Esteli, close to the Honduran border.
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