how am i supposed

to eat this, i wondered, holding the bag gingerly. the plastic sack was lined with wet banana leaves and the stew inside was HOT. i began to pull apart the thick chunks of yuca, blowing on my fingers. yum.

i could barely move with everyone pressed close all around me, 100,000 or more wearing red and black, holding flags of the same color. the atmosphere was like the fourth of july, people milling around happily. kids were riding the ferris wheel and startling at the noise from fireworks that were underwhelming in bright afternoon sun. vendors pushed their way through the crowd, selling deep-fried tacos, plantain chips, sour, fresh cheese, tart lychee-like mamones, long flat strips of dulce de leche, sour mango with salt and lime, corn roasted until it was dry and chewy and could be pulled off the cob a few kernels at a time. others sold plastic bags of coca-cola and water, bright purple cactus fruit pithaya, brownish sludgy corn-and-chocolate pinolillo, bubbly chicha, and plastic bottles of guaro, the local firewater. still others hawked bracelets, bandanas, t-shirts, wide-brimmed hats, flags, patches, stickers-- all in combinations of red, black, and woodland camouflage. most of these last bore the calm silhouette of augusto sandino or, sometimes, the face of che guevara.

i kept an eye on oliver and fernando, who didn´t go far. the atmosphere was calm, but oliver had told me to bring nothing i couldn´t stand to lose. we each had a few pesos stowed in a sock or a wristband and didn´t carry cameras or backpacks. we watched as a little boy paused in front of us for a moment to riffle through the contents of a wallet, throwing family photographs, identifications, shopping lists on the ground. he kept the nicaraguan ID card and left the rest to the mud and a million feet.

there were a few americans. some were barefoot, wearing che gear, looking lost. a group of young women played with nicaraguan kids under the trees. a few young men drank and laughed, talking loudly in english.

the speeches began. it´s difficult to hear spanish through a microphone from a distance, but hugo chavez spoke at length. "the genie is out of the bottle in latin america," he said, "and no one can put him back in." he spoke about leftist presidents being elected all over central and south america and asked that washington and london respect the soveriegnty and rights of the people.

we left as it was getting dark. the atmosphere, though still one of celebration, had become a little more political and a lot more drunk.

i got on the bus and headed to the back. i found a spot to brace myself by a couple with a squalling infant. the frustrated father shoved the baby into my arms. "here, hold him." the child had bright blue eyes. "i´ll give him to you." he said, seeing my surprise. "go on, take him. he´s a gift," he joked. the baby kept screaming until i gave him back to his mother.