Tom's Miskito Mission

Thirty Years on the Coast

Thirty years ago this month I first laid eyes on what is known as the Mosquito Coast, La Mosquitia, and Miskitu Tasbaya. Many of the people I knew from that time are dead and gone, and many of their old back-time ways have disappeared with them. Back then, a man considered himself well-to-do if he had a 30 foot mahogany canoe with three or maybe even three and a half feet of space between the bulkheads, so that he might install an 8 HP Briggs & Stratton motor and drill a hole through the stern for a prop shaft which he would pack with a piece of discarded rubber slipper. Or if he had put a metal roof over his house made of otherwise local materials he would really be set until his wife succeeded in convincing him after much supplication and prayer to cut enough lumber or salt enough fish to buy a kerosene refrigerator with which she could make and sell cold charamuscas (boli in Nicaragua), because everyone knew that the success of a mom & pop general store was guaranteed once you had a way to offer cold drinks in addition to the salt, sugar, coffee, matches, cigarettes, and other such necessary items. Not one Miskito in Honduras had yet graduated from the university, except for one guy who--everyone knew--had bought a fake diploma. They all called him “Licenciado” to his face and snickered a lot behind his back. No one really believed a Miskito could ever make it through college. It was truly a wild place; boys didn’t normally wear clothes around the village until they were twelve years old.

Even so, what I saw thirty years ago was “modern times” in the day that I saw it. Old times were pirate times, when words like “humbug”, “maiden”, and "frock"  first worked their way into the Miskito language. Broken down gringos who had come with the lumber companies and stayed on with Miskito wives were still alive thirty years ago. These Americans couldn’t understand the words "ambuk", "mairin", or "prak" when their wives uttered them. Their women served them chicken soup with "damplin" thinking that they were training them to eat Miskito food. I befriended these guys and visited them on their deathbeds. Now the old gringos are gone also, and people have forgotten about them. Their widows,stooped and bowed legged, cleaned their graves. Now they too are gone, all gone. Freckle-faced grandchildren learn in school about Hernán Cortés and the Aztec Empire but don’t know where they’re from. Much history has been lost.

Today guys on the coast get around standing tall, holding the throttle arm of a 40 hp Yamaha strapped to the transom of a Jamaican skiff named “Miss Something-or-other”. The top echelon won’t be seen with less than a 70 HP Johnson or Evinrude. They act like it’s always been that way until someone knocks them off their high horse, saying: “Man sin wabul dih pauram!” (“You too grew up drinking banana porridge!”) No one wants to remember the past. If you have a store in your house now, you must have a couple of electric freezer units, one stocked with frozen chickens that you’ve flown in from the city, local beef on the bone, off the bone (filet and flank for the richest in town), and ground beef, as well as all manner of “embutidos”, pork products such as chorizo and smoked pork chops. No more monkey meat. You keep another freezer filled with a large variety of soft drinks, canned juice, bottled water, and perhaps cold beer if you have applied for a license and have tough enough skin to withstand the opprobrium of the churchgoing community. If you want to get into reselling locally caught seafood you ought to have a third freezer exclusively set aside for that use, since there are enough places to get a cold coke now that the discerning shopper will avoid buying soft drinks that smell of fish.

Of course the economy for the last 15 years has been largely propelled by the business of drug transshipment from Colombia Northward. Not that everyone’s a drug trafficker, mind you, but even the boy who takes out the shopkeeper’s garbage rakes into a pile and burns the discarded packages of goods bought with money that first appeared here as exchange for the recovery of cocaine that fate and ocean currents had spewed onto the beach. Growth hasn’t come without increased cost of living, violence and theft, eroding work ethic and loss of common courtesy. “Modern time, mon.”

Four months ago I moved my show to Nicaragua, to the lower Wangki, or Coco River. Life in these backwater villages is still a bit like the Mosquitia that I first knew. They are too isolated even for the contrabandistas who need lonely places to do their work. They don't need them to be that lonely. Constant implosion of the formal (“legal”) economy these last 30 years since the FSLN first came to power in Nicaragua has held back the tide of development and reduced school teachers to “voluntary workers” if not for the assistance of Seek the Lamb. Unlike the Honduran Miskito Coast, it’s still hard to find a fat man on the street, not just because there aren’t any streets but because you either work your body hard or else you don’t eat. Either way, you remain slim. It is still very much a subsistence economy; life goes on without money. You eat meat if you can afford a bullet and are good enough to shoot an animal.

I often think what would happen to these villages if Seek the Lamb disappeared. It is true that in a sense, Seek the Lamb is acting as an enabler to the Nicaraguan Government, paying the school teachers as they do, but it would be sheer fantasy to believe that schools would continue to function if we discontinued our assistance. Whose responsibility is it anyway? Ultimately, it is the responsibility of every parent to educate his or her children. We in the States have collectively left that chore up to the government, but it has not always been that way. Miskito parents on the lower Coco River have very poor literacy skills; the education that they are able to give their children would not prepare them for the future. I believe there is a God in heaven, the Alpha and the Omega, who is perfectly aware of their situation ... their past, present, the opportunities and threats that present themselves in the near future. This God has faithfully supplied their need for quite a long time now. Now that Nutie and I have committed ourselves to these people, I pray that He will allow us to help them face that future not only armed with letters but also with eternal truth.

  

What if I Were Born Mennonite?

Back in the year 1980 I was a Peace Corps volunteer in a little Miskito town in Honduras called Brus Laguna, and I didn’t know the Lord. The only other American in the village was a Moravian missionary named Sam Gray. He was the son of a Moravian missionary named Joe Gray.

I’d had precious few previous encounters with Christians in my life--two, to be exact. The first time, back in ’72, I was hitch-hiking through Oregon on my way home to Healdsburg, California, when a Volkswagen Microbus full of Jesus freaks picked me up. I hadn’t smoked any weed for 2 days, and wasn’t feeling very peppy, but these longhairs were really excited about what they were doing.

 “Got anything for the head?” I asked. 

“No,” they said. They were on their way to some event.  

I remember that their joy had been so contagious that I had wanted badly to go with them, even after realizing they weren’t going to bust out the rolling papers. But there was something inside me that kept me from asking them if I could go along, a ‘not wanting to invite myself’ kind of feeling.

The next time I was with a friend from The Evergreen State College. We were going to a rock concert that evening in Seattle that I wasn't too excited about (must have been around 1977, because I was into Caribbean music then and wasn't feeling rock very much), and we stopped by his brother’s apartment in the morning. His brother was a Christian and had a real job--he was a fireman--but I didn’t know that until I had entered his home and sat down while my friend took care of his business. The fireman was just sitting down to breakfast with his wife and two little girls. They prayed together as a family. I had never seen that before. There was such a beautiful, holy atmosphere in the room that its scented image engraved itself on my memory's wall, where it vividly remains to this day. I can’t remember for the life of me what band we went to see later that evening, but I do remember wishing I were back at my friend’s brother’s apartment instead of being there as I watched two Mexican guys high on a hallucinogenic drug do some very strange dancing. Unfortunately, the fireman's apartment was a private affair; who was I to barge in and crash the party?

Anyway, back to my friend Sam Gray. We spent quite a bit of time together that year in the swampy, mosquito infested outpost of Brus. He would tell me about his way of life, saying, “this is what we do,” and “this is what we believe.”  We Moravians, that is. It all sounded so attractive to a vagabond without purpose, but he was a Moravian from Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where everyone was a Moravian. You were Moravian if you were born in Winston-Salem. I was born Irish Catholic in Fairfield County Connecticut. Being Irish Catholic meant certain things. It meant that you compete in academics and sports, and become the best. You compete well also in the real world, succeed, and then what? The end of your efforts was that you learn that it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven. So you feel guilty and do a lot of community service. You become a liberal, like Ted Kennedy. Back in 1980, I wished I had been born Moravian. Or Mennonite. Being a Catholic was too darn complicated. 

In God’s perfect time--the year was 1987--someone finally told me that I too could be a Christian. All I had to do was believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God raised  from the dead, and ask him to take the reins of my life. I didn’t have to be born Mennonite or anything. All of a sudden I had communion with my Creator and community with people of many races who called me ‘brother’ for real.

Now I can be myself, walk with God, and tell all of my Miskito friends that they don’t have to comply with any prerequisites to become Christians. I can tell them that they were born in the right place, to the right race, at the right time, and that with God dwelling inside them they will lack for no good thing. In the accompanying photograph you can see how I might use a few props to dramatize my point about not needing to be a Mennonite. Oh, I think the band back in Seattle was Z Z Top.

Buzzards for Nutie's Birthday

In 2003, Nutie's second year in Nicaragua, she bought this painting from a little art shop in the Masaya market.  It's only twelve and a half by fourteen and a half inches, oil on canvas, depicting a woman in a large hat selling what appear to be mangoes in an open market. It cost her a hundred bucks. She thought the style unique and playful; it stood out because it was different from all of the Solentiname primitivist paintings that people go there to buy. The shapes are flowing, not too detailed, with soft edges, and the colors are warm. Cheerful and pleasant, kind of like Nutie, not  ambitious, over-stylized, or pandering. The artist wrote with what he must have considered "flair" only his first name, or perhaps it was his surname, it's hard to tell. It looks like Eyván. As far as Nutie knows, he never gave it a title, so she calls it "Mercado Dulce."

As her birthday approached,  she realized that I was completely stumped about what I might get her here in the ramshackle jungle hamlet of Waspam. She has always celebrated her birthday, nay, her birth MONTH, with plenty of friends in places like Paris or London, and her husband David had become expert in planning the most thoughtful surprises. There were only 2 shopping days left and I was getting into a deep funk about the fact that I had nothing. Nutie gracefully suggested that I make a frame for the painting.

"I think it would look good with just a simple, crude wooden frame. It needs to be wide. You could make it for me, darling!"

I took out a tape measure that Nutie had in her "art box" and butted it up against the canvas. "About like this wide?" I asked, showing her what three inches would look like.

"Yes, that would be fine." 

How was I going to make her a frame? I had zero tools. I decided to draw up an idea of what I wanted and take it down to the little cabinet shop that Otis operates as a side venture next to his bustling internet café. I went over my sketch with Luis, the woodworker. He was a Wangki-looking Miskito--that is, more "Indian" looking--but his manner was more creole like someone from the coast. He looked to be around 27, 28; I guessed he had spent some time in Port. He wore a red bandanna around his neck, ostensibly to be used as a dust mask, although I never saw him cover himself with it. He assured me he would start on the frame just as soon as he had delivered on a contract he was presently filling.

"Nutie's birthday is in 2 days," I said. "Is it possible to get it done by then? I want it crude, real simple. It wouldn't take more than an hour or two at most. You could use a couple of mahogany  two by four ends, like those over there." I pointed to the clutter on the floor. He said he would see what he could do. "I'll bring you some birthday cake," I added.

Nutie's birthday came and went, and Luis hadn't gotten around to making the frame. Her birthday was a disaster. All of our local men had stayed down river, leaving only the wives in Waspam. We had 2 huge cakes and 18 liters of soft drinks, which the ladies succeeded in devouring, but nobody would dance because their men weren't there. Or maybe it was because they were so full of cake and pop that they couldn't move. Bottom line is, I felt like a complete failure.

"I really like the iPod you gave me," Nutie said thoughtfully. At least I'd had the foresight to get her an early gift before we left the States, but still I wasn't feeling too good about it.

The next day I brought Luis his piece of birthday cake. It had been massive, but Nutie and I ate it down to normal size, and then I re wrapped it in a paper napkin and brought it down to the cabinet shop. Luis wolfed down the cake, and delicately licked the icing that had stuck to the napkin without getting any paper in his mouth. "He's got skills," I thought. He then got up and took 2 pieces of 2 X 4 that he had been working on, putting them together to show me how the corner would come together.

"Maybe you could get me a router the next time you go back to the United States," he said. "I could do a lot of things with the router. Draw flowers and all kinds of stuff."

I imagined the real funky flowers he would want to carve into the frame. "Just make the frame simple, without decorations. That's how Nutie wants it," I said finally. Luis insisted on showing me the hand held DeWalt router that Otis had. It was about the size of a skill saw. Just the kind of thing you want to take to Nicaragua with you as a carry-on, along with the similar requests of some 80 other friends who want to be in your fave five.

The following day Nutie went with me to the shop. The frame still hadn't been done. "I've got a contract to fill," said Luis, apologetically. "If you want, go talk to Otis." Nutie's painting was on the floor with its face turned, resting against a door that had been varnished. I picked it up and dusted it off. A cloud appeared in the air, like when Lebron claps his hands together before a game, only ruddy.  Nutie smiled wistfully. 

Otis came into the shop with us and Luis said he would work on it in the afternoon, after hours. "When can we come for it?" asked Nutie, "Can we come back tomorrow morning?"

"O.K., come back tomorrow." Luis pointedly addressed me in Miskito and did not look at Nutie. He smiled obligingly through large white teeth framed by a wishful mustache that Wangki men tend to sport with pride, if they are able to coax  into existence a critical mass of facial hair.

 

At this point Nutie was really eager to get her picture frame, so we began to pass by the shop every day. Each time Luis was busy varnishing doors. On the third day, Luis suddenly addressed Nutie in passable English: "I want to learn English," he said.

 

"You make the frame and I will come talk English with you," said Nutie. The next day Nutie came back to the house and told me that the frame was ready. She had been chatting with Luis in English. I reasoned that my problem was that I had always talked with Luis in Miskito, But it did nothing to assuage my feeling of ineffectiveness.

That afternoon I went down to the shop. The frame was there, propped up against a new door, the varnish still wet. Luis looked at me expectantly. I knew I wasn't going to be able to win. The American ego is affirmed by how cheaply one acquires an article, while the Miskito ego is affirmed by bragging about how much he paid for it. The American sense of righteousness is satisfied when a fixed price is placed on an article so that all would pay the same amount, while the Miskito sense of righteousness is satisfied by making those considered or imagined to be rich pay more so that goods and services might be rendered more cheaply to the poor without the provider suffering a net loss of income. In the end, somebody was going to consider me a jerk. One's attitude going into every transaction is determined by the group he or she identifies with, and in my case I identify with everybody. I always feel hopelessly lost, condemned by people I love. 

"How much do I owe you," I asked, wanting to just get it over with, the sucking up and paying three times what anyone else would. I really didn't care. It was for Nutie. Wasn't she worth whatever he asked for his work? Wasn't Luis worth the ten bucks I calculated I would pay? I felt hopelessly lost, already labeled a cheapskate or a sucker.

"Wali kai," Luis said carefully. " You must talk with Otis. He's the owner. I just work here."

Before I could answer, Luis turned to the painting and began to speak. "You like that painting? I can do better than that. You like this woman? She's kind of wide..."

  "Look," he continued, pointing to some figures in the background, "they don't even have any eyes or mouths. And look at the sky..."

"What about the sky?" I asked. It was a solid color field of rich blue, opaque, without any brushstrokes or hint of detail such as clouds. I thought it was a successful counterpoint to the warm yellows, oranges and reds that dominated the shapes of earth, figures and fruits.

"There's no buzzards in the sky!" he objected. "I would have made buzzards ... one here, here, and here." He pointed to six different points in the field of blue.

"I can make you a portrait of Jesus," he said at last. "It would be much better than this."

Now I understood where he was going. "So, you're an artist!"

"Yes, I'm good to make picture!" He was speaking in English now.

"And you want me to commission you to make me a painting?"

"Yes," he replied. "You need one picture of Jesus."

"Well, I said slowly." I'm an artist too. The way it works is like this: in order to get a commission, you need a portfolio. You know, some other paintings you have done in the past so I can see what kind of work you can do. Do you have a portfolio?"

Luis shook his head.

"If you don't have a portfolio, what you have to do is just make the painting, and then if I like it I might buy it. But I can't promise to buy it before I see it then.

Luis looked crestfallen.

"Well, what is your picture of Jesus going to look like? Are you going to paint buzzards in the sky?"

"Yes, of course! Dey always buzzards in da sky. Look outside..."

A figure appeared in the doorway. It was Otis. I asked him how much he wanted for the frame.

"I can't really charge you anything for it," he said. "I don't like it very much. What do you think?"

"Well, I said, "Nutie wanted it to be crude, that's what we asked for. It's got some nail marks in the corners when he could have fastened it from the back side, and the vertical sides are lighter than the horizontals, but I like it alright."

"Maybe you could bring some people who have some skills to help teach the people how to make woodwork and things," he suggested.

"That's one of the things Nutie and I want to do in the new Discipleship Center," I said. "We want to see people painting and making things out of wood, and expressing themselves creatively."

 

Otis shrugged. "We need development here ... well I'm not going to charge you anything. Maybe I'll give you some money when you go back to the States, and ask you to bring back something for me. Why don't you give Luis a hundred Cords."

A hundred Córdovas was only five dollars. After Otis left I handed Luis a blue 100 cord bill and asked him if it was enough. I thought I might give him maybe another sixty if he felt he had invested more of himself in it than he was receiving. He was staring at the bill wistfully and turning it slowly with his fingers.

 

"This is only half for me," he reasoned. "Half for Otis."

I knew Otis. He had enough guts to charge me up front for himself and for his hired hand if he wanted the money. "So," I said, "one hundred is what you would like to have after Otis takes his part?"

Luis looked as if he had been asked a trick question. "Yes?" he nodded.

"O.K, well you keep that and I'll take care of Otis." Luis glanced sadly down at the money I still had in my hand. His eyes followed it as it went back inside my pocket.

"When you goin teach me English? I unnastan creole from Bluefeel but I want speak affishal English. I pay you."

"Why don't you paint me a picture of Jesus with buzzards in the sky? We'll trade lessons for painting."  Luis had a stuck look again. "What you can't paint?"

"I betta carve him outta wood den."

"That's good," I laughed, "They say Jesus was a carpenter. He'd like that."

I took 'Mercado Dulce' back to the house. Nutie was in the hammock, reading her Bible. Blocking the painting with my body, I rushed it into our room and shut the door. The frame was sticky on account of the varnish. I hung it on its nail driven into the wall and tried to straighten it, but Nutie was already in the room, admiring it. She gave me a long kiss.

"How much did you pay for it, darling?"

"Not very much," I said. "I got it pretty cheap."  

  

      

the end