RUS RUS 4: LASA TINGHNI

1. 7. Lasa Tinghni 

     At 11:35 that morning, the 24^th (the day after my 42^nd birthday, which was also my second wedding anniversary), our little convoy of Toyota pickups rolled into the Miskito and Sumo refugee camp at Lasa Tinghni, a few kilometers upstream from the TEA camp, and still not far from the bank of the Río Coco.

     I saw no morsel of food in that camp, not so much as a single kernel of rice or corn. The thatched huts had floors raised three or four feet above the ground, which keeps them above the mud during the rainy season, and allows air to circulate all around the dwellings during the hot dry season. They reminded me of Montagnard houses in the highlands of Vietnam, where I had helped patch up Tin and his Sedang comrades after he shot them near the Special Forces camp at Mangbuk sixteen years earlier. The bare earth that stretched under these Miskito huts looked as if it had been swept with a vacuum cleaner. A large wooden mortar and pestle for pounding grain into flour lay on its side in the hot noonday dust.

     A new group of refugees had just crossed the river from Nicaragua. They told – some through MISURA fighters who would translate Miskito or Sumo into Spanish for me to retranslate, some directly to me in Spanish - of being driven from their homes by Sandinista soldiers, or by fear of the war's increased incursions into their lives. These stories were not canned: facial expressions and body language were obviously unrehearsed. Desperation was palpable. Women, dressed in trailweary clothing that was already becoming rags, crowded around us, pleading with their eyes, even more than with their voices, for help. A few had a little Nicaraguan money. They were in Honduras without benefit of any immigration process; they had crossed the border – the Río Coco – in dugout canoes. They had no way of dealing with any sort of paperwork. We had been told to leave all our money in camp. I had disobeyed, so started to change what Nicaraguan currency they had. Finally, the four North American Indians and I just gave them the Honduran lempiras we carried in our pockets.

     I got busy taking photographs: a young boy and girl sitting in the dirt under a hut's raised floor, only occasionally trying to brush the flies from the open sores on their faces. The flies had more energy than the children. There was an old man, his pants and shirt filthy and in shreds, holding a listless infant; an emaciated dog, soft brown eyes bulging from taut skin, too weak to plead for food, waiting to die; a teenage boy in a Houston Astros T shirt; a striking looking young Miskito mother, one child on her hip and another clinging to her filthy skirt, wearing an old T shirt with the Playboy Bunny emblem on the front. (Apparently CMA had organized, or cooperated with, some church based relief organizations in the southern United States to collect clothing and transport it down to the people in these camps.) 

     The four North American Indians in our group were visibly stricken. The hour or two we spent in Lasa Tinghni was the first of several times that week when I would see this change in them: a visible identification with other Indians and with their suffering, a too-easily tapped reservoir of blood memory, of being hounded and starved and killed by agents of the white man's government. It affected Gary, Larry, Bill, and Mike physically: some circulatory change would visibly alter the skin color in their faces. I have a photo, which I think is one of the best I've ever taken, of Larry Pino holding a Miskito or Sumo infant at Lasa Tinghni, holding the child close to his chest and nestling its head next to his chin, bending his own head down, his own eyes staring deep within himself, remembering stories of his own people. 

   "Just like what happened to us," one of them murmured.

     I noticed something else while we were in that camp  -this not about Indians, but about men who carry guns. As I moved slowly about with my camera, I was pained at what I was seeing through the lens, but relieved that, for once, my subjects were too preoccupied with their own survival to be offended by being photographed. Like most Vietnam veterans, I have a perpetual itch between my shoulder blades. In any public place, I am always looking about, wanting to know who is present, what sort of force fields or psychic disturbances they emanate, what sort of trouble might come from what quarter. And especially, who is carrying what weapons, and what they're doing, or intend to do, with them.

     This habit caused me, even while moving in the emotional whirlwind of photographing the refugees, to lift my gaze above the immediate scene, to probe the edge of the forest at the camp's boundaries, to look at everything I saw through another lens in addition to the one that studied human suffering: this one calibrated to ask Where are the weapons? What's the current disposition of those who are carrying them? Is anyone there in the brush beyond this circle of suffering? and if so, what are they doing, and what do they intend to do?

     At Lasa Tinghni, every time I changed my way of looking in this manner, no matter how subtle I tried to be about it, I would look out above everyone else and immediately meet the eyes of Flaco, Shooter, and Perico staring back at me. I realized that their focus was much greater on the military aspects of the scene than on the humanitarian aspects. I also realized that they considered cameras to be weapons, and mine particularly so. (We had been warned early and repeatedly not to photograph any of the three "security men;" I considered it another of my most important tasks, besides getting the tape of Larry Pino talking about US soldiers parachuting into Nicaragua back home intact, to somehow sneak photos of Stewart and the three mercenaries. I would succeed at three out of four.)

RUS RUS (PART 3)

5.The Tape

     We spent a good part of that week riding in the back of Toyota pickups with teenage Miskito and Sumo warriors armed with AK47 and M16 automatic rifles. They climbed in and out of the trucks with no regard as to where their rifle muzzles were pointing. By the end of the week I'd looked down so many rifle barrels that I began to have the physical impression my torso was perforated, that breezes were passing between my ribs, that I was breathing in and out directly through my chest. Meeting young Miskito and Sumo Indians who'd been wounded in combat, and showed us their scars, intensified that feeling.

     One of the Miskito we rode with in the back of a pickup was Alejo Teofilo Barbera. He was older than most of his fellow warriors; I'd say in his mid30's. He was from Puerto Cabezas, the Nicaraguan Caribbean port I'd flown out to in late 1983 to interview people after a contra raid, possibly conducted by some MISURA warriors in a speedboat supplied by the CIA, had damaged a freighter docked there and injured a few people.

     Teofilo said that he'd been fighting against forces of the government in Managua since 1973, which meant that he had fought first against the Guardia Nacional [of the dictator Anastasio Somoza], then since 1979 against the Sandinistas. He echoed a common Indian complaint: that los españoles, the Spaniards, as they called the European-derived culture and political structure in the nation's capital, mostly ignored the indigenous people who lived in their country; and when they did pay some attention, that attention was typically racist and exploitative. He gave examples: there were three major gold mines, he said, in what was traditionally Miskito territory: Bonanza, Rosita, and La Luz. "The Sandinistas promised that 80% of what richness come from Indian lands would be for Indians; 20% for the government. But it is not like that." Teofilo was speaking in broken but clear English, unlike most of his comrades, who spoke mainly their own languages and Spanish.

     I took notes as we bounced along in the truck. My notebook still has mud splotches in it, and the writing makes it clear when we were moving and when we weren't. Most of this information came from Teofilo as he was conversing with Larry Pino. I was seated on my pack at arm's length from the two of them.

     After the talk of the gold mines and the broken promises and the Indian elections, their conversation took a shift, and they began to compare older Indian stories. They weren't exactly current news, but they were interesting, and things I hadn't heard before. And it was becoming harder to take notes, with the jouncing of the vehicle. I turned on my tape recorder and set it between Larry and Teofilo. Both noticed it, and didn't seem to mind. They continued with their stories.

     Suddenly Larry remembered something he'd wanted to ask Teofilo about. Following is an unedited transcript of the next portion of my tape:

DM: Larry was asking Teofilo if their people came down from the north as well. He [Teofilo] said yes. That's when I turned the machine on.

(Saying the above, I stepped on the first part of Larry's next sentence, when he'd said something about white men, or about Columbus):

LP: ...discovered the Indians. Bullshit. 

TEOFILO laughs.

DM: Teofilo, what was the name of the reverend who knows all your history in Tegoosh [Tegucigalpa]?

TEOFILO: Molling Stellet (phonetic).

DM: Molling Stellet?

TEOFILO: Mmhmmm.

DM: How do... how does a person find him?

[A few words where LP, TEOFILO, DM all speak at once.]

LP: Miskito office.

TEOFILO: MISURA office.

LP: Oh, MISURA office.

TEOFILO: ...there's ... other reverend, Silvio Díaz. Him too.

!![NOTE]!!


LP: Did you hear a story about two months ago, about American paratroopers coming here, landing seven miles into Nicaragua? Have you heard that story? [THE "COUSIN" OF WHOM LARRY PINO SPEAKS HERE WAS ACTUALLY AN APACHE  FRIEND WHO WAS A MEMBER OF A US ARMY RANGER BATTALION.]

TEOFILO [guardedly eyes red light on my tape recorder]: Yeah.

LP: 'Cause one of my cousins was in there.

TEOFILO: Oh yeah?

LP: He parachuted into Nicaragua. He didn't tell me anything 'cause it was top secret, he said. The government won't let him talk about it.

TEOFILO: Top secret?

LP: Yeah.

TEOFILO: Top secret. Only for them. [laughs]

LP: He says, 'Just know I was there. And don't ask me no more questions, 'cause I'm gonna have to tell you to shut up.'

TEOFILO: Mmmm. [laughs]

GARY FIFE: You can tell him you were there too, and you can ask anything you want....

[DM laughs.]

[Here GF and LP both speak at once: GF says "...providing we have a propeller tomorrow.' as LP says something about "...rangers....' The propeller remark refers to the broken shear pin which had stopped us from crossing the Coco earlier the morning of this conversation.]

     At that point the conversation shifted to something else. Larry Pino hadn't seemed to realize the newsworthiness, or political significance, of what he'd said, or the fact that he'd spoken directly into a tape recorder with its red on light clearly visible. Or his nonchalance might be explained by the fact that he was a Native American, that he had a certain built-in disdain for the political shenanigans of the white men's nation, the United States. It was clear that mainstream journalists were included in that disdain.

     Alejo Teofilo Barbera was different. I could tell by his body language that he immediately knew the ramifications of what was being said, and particularly that a U.S. journalist was listening in. And, most particularly, that the red light on my tape recorder was glowing. His first reaction when Larry mentioned the paratroopers was to look down at the red light. Teofilo had already demonstrated his political savvy in his long discourse about Miskito troubles and alliances. He would obviously know about the Boland Amendment, and, whatever he might privately think of the ongoing tug of war between Congress and the Reagan Administration over Central America policy, he would realize that if what Larry said were true (and he seemed to be admitting that it was), and if it were proven and published in the mainstream US media, the whole Central America equation might be changed, likely in the direction of even less aid getting to his people to fight the Sandinistas.      

     I couldn't believe my luck. I fervently hoped that the recorder was working properly (it was), and that the growling of the truck's engine hadn't drowned out the critical parts of the conversation (it had not). I resolved that, no matter what else happened, my most important task now was to get that tape back home in good condition.  

     Over the following six years, I would spend hundreds of hours of unpaid time, at least four thousand dollars of my own money in travel expenses and long distance phone bills, and travel something like eighteen thousand miles (about a third  of that in my pickup), chasing that story. I started out using my status as correspondent for Pacific News Service(); then, from the summer of 1987 through the Spring of 1991, I worked on a Special Correspondent's credential with Doyle McManus of the Washington, DC bureau of the Los Angeles Times.  

RUS RUS (PART 2)

     THIS POST BEGINS WHERE THE LAST ONE LEFT OFF, WITH A LITTLE OVERLAP FOR CONTINUITY. MACO STEWART WAS THE TEXAS OIL MAN WHO PAID FOR THE TRIP. HIS ASSOCIATE, MOSES FISKE, WAS ALONG AS A MOVIE CAMERAMAN. THE THREE "SECURITY" MEN, KNOWN AS "COLONEL FLACO," SHOOTER, AND "PERICO," WERE EITHER PAID BY STEWART, OR UNDER ORDERS FROM SOMEONE IN THE REAGAN GOVERNMENT, OR BOTH. BY THE END OF OUR EIGHT DAYS WITH THEM, I SUSPECTED BOTH. IN THESE STORIES, I SIMPLY CALL THEM "MERCENARIES."
   
     Fiske, Stewart, the four Indians and I  were given a military surplus pyramidal tent with canvas army cots. The three mercenaries moved into a nearby tent with steel-springed bunks. They all changed into camouflage fatigues, and all were now armed. Shooter had his Uzi and pistol, Flaco had a similar pistol, and Perico carried an M16 rifle.

     [The four North American Indians were Gary Fife, a Cherokee/Creek journalist; Mike Hunt, representing the Survival of American Indians Association; Larry Pino, of Zia Pueblo; and Bill Pensoneau, a Ponca. Though not an Indian, I was accredited to represent the Tachi people from near Fresno, California. I learned years after this trip that my great grandmother was a half Cherokee woman named Gatsie Helen Widders. The Tachi people accredited me on the recommendation of my friend Chris DiMaio, a Vietnam vet who is part Cheyenne.]
       
     Stewart immediately grabbed an entrenching tool, went outside the tent, and began energetically digging at the hard, rocky ground. He said that he had been in the Marine Corps – late in the Korean War, I believe – and was digging himself a fighting hole, just in case. Several Miskito Indians gathered around and looked on with bemused expressions. We came outside the tent to watch. Shooter walked up and stood with folded arms. He turned and said to me in a stage whisper, "This is better'n TV. They never saw a millionaire dig a hole before." He chortled. "Come to think of it, neither have I."

     We were treated to a canned speech by "Comandante Raúl," a twenty-nine year old MISURA officer named Raúl Tobías. I copied the speech, then translated it for the others. It began "We are here in the Republic of Honduras, 37,000 refugees. They are young volunteers with the idea of returning to their country, Nicaragua. Then the young men put forth their sacrifice and their last drop of blood to regain their lands. It is a difficult war against communism, but we are making that war...." and so on. It was obvious that he hadn't written the words, and that his delivery was rehearsed. Over the next several days, we would hear a number of such speeches, some totally canned, with crude prompts from behind by armed MISURA officers. Though much was canned, it was also obvious that these people had genuine complaints about the Sandinistas, who had indeed killed some Indians and driven many from their homes and burned whole settlements and killed or run off their livestock. Sandinista claims that they had been forced to clear the area because of CIA-sponsored FDN and MISURA raids across the border were also based in fact, but didn't cut much ice with the Miskito and Sumo people who had been driven from their homes.
     At dusk someone cranked up a small red Kawasaki generator, illuminating a single bulb in each tent. We ate whatever we could scrounge from our own packs. One of the Indians had brought pemmican, a traditional food for traveling. In one corner of the tent, I noticed several silhouette targets and about half a dozen LAWs, the Light Antitank Weapon that had replaced the earlier "bazooka," or 3.5" rocket launcher, used during WWII and Korea, and with which I had trained before Vietnam. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was watching a large grey spider, over two inches in diameter, crawling upside down along the underside of the tent roof. With that, the smell of the canvas, the putter of the generator, the feel of the canvas cot... it was Vietnam revisited. I felt strangely at home.

     Life in the camps reeked of the presence of the old "special operations" network of CIA officers and agents, military intelligence types, Special Forces people, "civilian" adventurers of various stripes, even the odd civilian fresh off a plane from Washington with a briefcase and secretive manner. Somewhere in the camp at Rus Rus I had noticed a slogan which was clearly an attempt to translate into Spanish one that was drummed into our heads when I went through Marine Corps boot camp, and which has been used to motivate generations of US recruits: "The difficult we do immediately; the impossible takes a little longer." But in Spanish it had come out "Si es imposible lo haremos," or "If it is impossible we will do it," which to my ear sounded so odd that I imagined it evoking quizzical expressions among the Indians it was supposed to motivate.

THE WEB part 4: MEN AND WOMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS

                           MEN AND WOMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS

(NOTE: THERE WILL BE A 5th PART, CONCLUDING THIS ESSAY)

    In the earlier chapter “Lasa Tinghni([1]),” from my trip among Miskito and Sumo Indians in southern Honduras and northern Nicaragua in January 1985,

I mentioned photographing “a striking-looking young Miskito mother, one child on her hip and another clinging to her filthy skirt, wearing an old T-shirt with the Playboy Bunny emblem on the front.” Though I spoke with other members of her group, this woman spoke neither Spanish nor English, so I didn’t speak with her. But I will never forget her face.

     She was a young mother, and she was worried. She was worried to the point that it visibly affected her whole being: her face, her posture, the way she held her child, the way she looked about her.

     She was worried in the way that millions of young mothers around the globe are worried, every day: How can I feed my children? WHAT can I feed them? Not what will we wear, not where will we live, not what will we do for money, not where will they go to school or how will we afford books for school, but How can I feed my children?

     In the myriad wars currently in progress around the world, women and children usually suffer even more than the combatants. Increasingly, in fact, the combatants are children. This leads to some realities that are so awful to contemplate that most of us in

59 See above, p. 428ff.

the Western world deal with them in the only way we know how: we simply don’t think about them.

     Though this has been true throughout recorded history, it is, if anything, becoming worse as we enter the 21^st century. Wars currently playing out across Africa and Asia, and some in Latin America, gobble up males as young as 8 (and even younger), leaving women and girls to fend for themselves in a war-blasted world, often preyed upon by men and boys from the same social strata as those forced – or seduced - by war to leave them unprotected.

     One thing this has meant in practice has been that young men and boys, cut adrift from home and family and community and thrust into war zones, bring their sexual appetites with them, even as the normal constraints on those appetites are left behind. Depending on relative levels of decency, apathy, and avarice among the leaders of military groups, this has come to mean that, as combatants have become younger and younger at an alarming rate, so have their victims.    

     So now we have children killing children, children raping children([2]), usually goaded by adult male leaders – sometimes in pursuit of political goals, sometimes by religious, nationalistic, or tribal loyalties; sometimes by simple greed. Greed is often mixed with the other motives.

     There are also girls among the ranks of child soldiers. The Human Rights Watch report “You’ll Learn Not to Cry: Child Combatants in Colombia” takes its title from this:

        Ángela, who joined the guerrillas at twelve, had a story that became disturbingly familiar as Human Rights Watch conducted its interviews:

I had a friend, Juanita, who got into trouble for sleeping around. We had

been friends in civilian life and we shared a tent together. The commander                   said it didn’t matter that she was my friend. She had committed an error     

and had to be killed. I closed my eyes and fired the gun, but I didn’t hit her.

So I shot again. The grave was right nearby. I had to bury her and put dirt       

on top of her. The commander said, “You did very well. Even though you

started to cry, you did well. You’ll have to do this again many more times,                    and you’ll have to learn not to cry.”([3])

        

    

     Women, and their children with them, have always been lesser beings in human societies.                  

     This is wrong.     

     Women are not the least of us; women are the best of us. A woman has carried in her body for most of a year, before we ever drew breath, every human being who ever lived. Most of our literature has dealt with the deeds, heroic and otherwise, of men, because it has been written mostly by men. But no noble sacrifice in battle, no crossing of formidable mountain ranges or uncharted oceans, matches the quiet (yet sometimes noisy!) heroism of what women do and have always done to give us life, and to keep us alive.

     I’ve come to this: if the world is destroyed, men – in their unceasing quest for power and/or wealth (which is increasingly becoming the Greatest Power) - will destroy it.

     If the world is saved, women – like Azar Nafisi and Shirin Ebadi and Neda Agha Soltan in Iran, like Graça Machel and many others in Africa, like Aung San Suu Kyi in Burma, Malalai Joya in Afghanistan, Arundhati Roy in India, like the Saudi poet Hissa Hilal, like ordinary women all over the world who simply struggle to keep their children alive in the face of men’s abandonment and depredations - will save it.

     In her wonderful Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, the Iranian professor of English literature Azar Nafisi writes of the regime of Ayatollah Khomeini as conducting a “war against women....([4])” She also notes that during the Iran-Iraq war of 1980-88, Iran used child soldiers to clear minefields ahead of tanks by walking over them. P.W. Singer, in Children at War, quotes Khomeini as saying that the children’s sacrifice in that war was “helping Iran to achieve a situation which we cannot describe in any other way except to say that it is a divine country([5]).”  Singer also notes that the young boys walking over mines wore keys around their necks “to signify their pending entrance into heaven.” A military history website lists the ages of those Iranian volunteers who cleared minefields by walking over them as “from only nine to more than fifty([6]).”

     Divine country.

     Just now I am remembering lines from the “Rifleman’s Prayer” we learned in boot camp:

                  To God and Country, Home and Corps

                       Let me be faithful evermore.

                                            Amen([7])

     It will anger some that I draw a parallel between U.S. soldiers and their Nazi enemies wearing GOTT MIT UNS belt buckles. Or a similar parallel between us Marines being marched to chapel in boot camp to sing “Onward Christian Soldiers” led by a chaplain with officer’s insignia on one point of his shirt collar and a cross on the other, and Islamist extremists who call our soldiers “infidels” and “crusaders.”

     But that’s my point. “Divine country” says it all: Your country will send you to war. We will give you a reason. The reason may or may not be true, or it may be a mixture of some truths and some outright lies. But the truth or falsity of those reasons is not your concern. Your job is to do what you’re told, without question, attack the people we tell you to attack, and risk or give up your life as you do this. Your country thanks you for your sacrifice. If you do not come home alive, we will thank your mother. We will give her a folded flag and a prayer to replace you.

---

[2] I am particularly thinking of Democratic Republic of Congo, where a deadly stew of mineral wealth, tribal loyalties and intertribal hatreds, rebel groups from Congo and from neighboring Rwanda, and the flourishing practice of voluntary and forced recruitment of child soldiers who at times are permitted, even encouraged, to rape; and the culture which stigmatizes women and girls who have been victims of rape, even if they are pregnant.

[3] Human Rights Watch, copyright © 2003 http://www.hrw.org. P. 73. The report was written by Sebastian Brett, senior researcher in the Americas Division.

[4] Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books. Random House, 2008, p.111

[5] Children at War. University of California Press, 2006; p. 22.

[6] http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/war/iran-iraq.htm

[7] From the Marines’ “Rifleman’s Prayer.” See above, pp. 93-94.

OUT OF THE WOODS, + DREAM

12. Meeting

     The next day, January 27th, we had a meeting in a conference area that had been set up at the edge of the camp, which consisted of a camouflaged cargo parachute spread like a tent above a flat clear area with a number of wooden benches. It reminded me of a woodsy area in a Baptist youth summer camp in southern Oregon where, as a kid, I remember us being gathered to sing the old hymns like “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and “That Old Rugged Cross.” Stewart, Fiske, Flaco, the four North American Indians and I were there.

     The purpose of the meeting was to discuss, and presumably for our hosts to control, ground rules for what we would say and write about our trip upon returning to the States. I thought it curious that this meeting should be held at the end, rather than the beginning, of the week. Agreements about what is "off the record" are customarily made before the valued information is passed. It's standard practice, known as well by those who are experienced at being information sources as by journalists, that if a reporter gets information without having made prior agreements about whether or how it may be used, it's fair game, period. So this meeting was essentially a post facto attempt on the part of Stewart and Flaco to influence what we said about the trip, and to get us to believe that they had the authority to do so.

     I listened, nodded, even asked questions and took notes about what they wanted, hoping they'd take that for agreement. I just wanted to get out of there in one piece with my film, tapes, and notebook intact. I had visions of blowing at least part of the lid off the "private" contra resupply effort which a number of journalists pretty well knew had stepped in to take over, during Boland Amendment prohibitions, from the CIA‑led supply and direction of the contras.

     The first thing, of course, was that we weren't to say that we'd been in Honduras. The Honduran government was receiving increasing international pressure to investigate and stop such activities, and it was important to preserve their "deniability," however thin it might be, by using such phrases as "somewhere along the Nicaraguan border," or better yet, "somewhere in northern Nicaragua." The whole world knew otherwise, of course, but it was part of the game. Many journalists from major print and television outfits had been doing it routinely; it was the price of access to training camps, patrols, interviews, the whole nine yards. The difference was that usually that agreement was made as a condition of getting to where the action was; we'd already accompanied two illegal armed border crossings into Nicaragua and were on our way out.

     Flaco said that under no circumstances were any photographs of him or the other two "security men" to be published, on the off chance that, in spite of their precautions, some of our pictures had inadvertently included them. He said that this was especially important in his case; that there was quite a high reward on his head (he was never specific about who was offering the bounty, or its amount). Stewart said he didn't want his picture published either. The affable Moses Fiske shrugged and said it didn't matter to him one way or the other.

     Flaco said emphatically that "we do not violate the anti‑neutrality laws of the United States." (I would question him about this later, noting that it was against such laws for US citizens to conduct military operations against foreign governments. His response was that he and his colleagues didn't recognize the government of Nicaragua as legitimate.)

     And: "The private sector picked up the gauntlet... if Congress hasn't got the good goddamn sense [to help the anti‑Sandinistas], then we're going to exercise our rights to help these people."    

     And: "We operate on the Costa Rican border, too." (Since Costa Rica's neutrality laws prohibited the use of its territory for military operations against any neighbors, this would appear to violate the laws of three nations.)

     Flaco said pointedly, and more than once, that the Boland Amendment, which prohibited any US government agency from providing any material or military support to anti‑Sandinista groups (except for intelligence information), was about to expire on February 28.

     Maco Stewart took a turn. He came "from the Democratic side," he said (meaning the Democratic Party), adding that he had "always been a civil rights activist." He said that "the people who need to know about these [Nicaraguan Indians] are the [North] American Indians.... I'm raising funds for the entire movement here, but I'm insisting that at least 25% go to the Miskitos, and I'm insisting that the two groups (FDN and MISURA) exchange liaison officers. There's never been effective liaison between them."

     Flaco took the stand (in this case, the stump) again: "I make the prediction that you won't see Daniel Ortega celebrating Christmas in Managua this year."

     Stewart disagreed, saying he thought it would take three or four years to get the Sandinistas out of power. He added that he would never advocate an American invasion.

     The latter remark seemed intended to put some distance between himself and Flaco, who took this occasion to again bring up something he'd said aboard the Setco flight from Tegucigalpa: "The latest intelligence estimate says that it would take two and a half U.S. divisions 21 days and 4,000 casualties...." to take Nicaragua.

     Sometime during all this dance in which Flaco alternately asserted and denied that his activities were connected with official US Government entities, he said something which he intended, I thought, as an evasion, but which resonated with me more than almost anything else he said that week: "We are all here for our own reasons." Whether or not he so intended, I took that to mean that Flaco, along with the other "special operations" cowboys who were flocking to Central America as they had flocked to Vietnam and Laos and every other war I'd been to or read about, had come here because of the same reason I had gone to Vietnam: because he wanted to, because it suited his idea of who he wanted to be.

     The meeting adjourned and Flaco and I continued alone. I don't remember now whether he called me over, or I gravitated toward him with my unanswered questions, the indelicate ones I didn't really want to thrash out in front of the others.

     I felt very strongly that I was in the middle of something which was significant, if not in its effectiveness, at least in what was being attempted. It was worth considerable risk, now that the trip was almost over, to milk it for every drop of information I could get. I felt I had a pretty good insurance policy: my wife knew I was in Honduras with Maco Stewart, what flight I'd come in on, and when to expect me to leave the country. So did the Tachi people who'd accredited me, and so did Chris DiMaio and several other friends in VFW Post 5888 (named after Bill Motto, the "Missing Man"), whom I'd told everything I knew about the trip and whom I'd asked to start raising hell with the media and Congress and to send people after me if I didn't show up on time. I also planned to trot out this insurance policy if they tried to confiscate my film or tapes.

     I was ready with all that when Flaco and I started our private talk under the parachute tent. He got right to the point which I'd seen had been on his mind all week: what, he asked, was my assessment of what I'd seen? What was I going to write?

     Flaco was a complicated man. When word games were being played, or when it suited him, he was all gamesman. I was afraid that if I beat around the bush, or even gave a slightly evasive answer which would have been appropriate for a journalist in my situation ‑ such as "I'm a reporter; I don't have an opinion. My job is to find out what your opinion is and report that, along with what I've seen and heard" ‑ that games was all I'd get.

     I decided to be direct, hoping he would meet me at least part way. I looked into his eyes and said, "I think you're CIA."

     His reply, as he returned my direct gaze, was: "I have the final say on everything that goes on down here (I understood that he meant with MISURA, not with the FDN), and I wouldn't give the CIA the time of day." Well, that was a classic dodge if I'd ever heard one. I wasn't asking him if the CIA depended on "Colonel Flaco" to find out what time it was; I was asking if he was helping the agency organize an illegal international military effort. Then, as the two of us engaged in a little skirmish with our eyes, came what I thought was the more significant part of his communication, and what I thought he intended to be so. His face changed subtly. His shoulders didn't move, but there was a slight shrug. The muscles of his face seemed intent on maintaining a poker face, yet equally intent on letting some other message through. As I watched, there played about his mouth, for a brief moment, the hint of a smile.

     He turned his head away. "There are several other agencies involved down here...." He let his voice trail away. He seemed to be itching to say more, but didn't. My mind ticked off possibilities: DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency)? NSC (National Security Council)? State Department? USAID (Agency for International Development)? And what about NSA (National Security Agency)? I'd wondered about them for some time, because Congressional oversight was the biggest thorn in the side of Reagan's covert cowboys, and NSA was unique among intelligence agencies in being so secret that it was subject to no oversight, period, except for that of the people who directed its operations, which of course included the White House. There must at least be NSA radar and other equipment, along with its operators, providing surveillance and other intelligence for the use of contra "clients". What was to keep them from scooting selected other people and operations under their super‑secret umbrella? It seemed a logical choice to me. I recalled Shooter's earlier remark that "the CIA gets credit for a lot of shit it doesn't do down here."

     And I recalled Flaco's comment on the plane coming out from "Tegoos", as he and his cohorts called the Honduran capital, that I could have been "detained by the FBI." People returning from Nicaragua to the US had already complained publicly about being detained and questioned upon their return by FBI agents. The FBI certainly had a sordid history of conducting paranoid investigations of its own citizens, especially during the days of J. Edgar Hoover, the McCarthy hearings, and the COINTELPRO (CounterIntelligence Program) files kept on American writers and dissidents. Did they have an activist role in the contra situation?

     I pressed him to tell me more. But: "things will become known as the Administration wants them known."

     There it was again. Almost in the same breath, Flaco was denying any official connection which would constitute illegal activity under either US neutrality laws or the Boland Amendment, and claiming to personally speak for the Reagan Administration.

     Well then, I asked, how did he know this? Had he spoken with the President personally?

     Flaco replied that he had spoken with Reagan three times, but was evasive about what the occasions had been. Another time when I pressed him to elaborate, he said that one such occasion had been before Reagan won his first Presidential election, on a campaign swing through the South. He kept mum about the other two. He seemed to want credit for being close to power, without getting his boss (if Reagan indeed was his boss) or himself in trouble. He did say that Reagan had told him that the Nicaraguan government "'...will not be allowed to survive in its present form.'"    

     While we were on the subject of Ronald Reagan, I asked Flaco how he thought Reagan's election had affected events in Central America. "Huh!" he exclaimed. "You wouldn't believe the parties they had down here." He went on to describe a wave of jubilation that he said had swept through the landowners and career military officers, particularly in El Salvador and Guatemala. And, of course, among the Nicaraguan elite who had recently been kicked out of Managua by the Sandinistas. I've often wondered to what extent the body count among suspected Central American leftists was increased by the shift from Carter's policy of making aid conditional on countries' human rights records, to Reagan's dropping of that policy in favor of increased military aid to rightist officers in El Salvador and Guatemala. To some, it seemed not coincidental that the rape and murder of the four US churchwomen in El Salvador came in December, 1980, the month after Reagan's first election; and that massacres of Guatemalan Indians at the hands of the military took place in 1981 and 1982, while it was Reagan policy to aid the Guatemalan army (in particular General-cum-President and evangelical minister José Efraín Ríos Montt) in its campaign against "subversivos". Those years are still remembered by Guatemalans as the period of la violencia.

     Flaco repeated other claims he'd made during the week. One was that he and his colleagues had powerful supporters, including "the owner of Coors brewery."([1]) Another was that Edén Pastora, the former Sandinista commander operating out of Costa Rica, was getting his "last chance" to get aboard Washington's program.

     I kept trying to exploit Flaco's desire for favorable press coverage, which was the game being played here. I was trying to say to him that if he wanted to be written about as a serious player, he'd have to give me evidence of serious connections.

     I asked him who had made the decisions about the ranks of the MISURA officers whose insignia he'd passed out earlier.

     "I did," he said. He tapped his chest with a motion of his right arm and hand that replicated with startling accuracy the motion I'd seen Special Forces Captain John Moroney make at the camp at Mangbuk sixteen years earlier. Moroney had been explaining that, though the official line was that he and his men were merely advisors to the Vietnamese, "That's bullshit. (tap) We command."

     Our little tête‑a‑tête was winding down. I'd saved something special for last. I'd been thinking that the worlds of Flaco and "Mickey," my mercenary acquaintance back home in California, overlapped so thoroughly that they must know each other. If they did know each other, it was likely that they'd be highly nervous about somebody like me knowing details of their acquaintance.

     So I ambushed Flaco. The two of us were standing alone, off to the side of the parachute tent. Our conversation had dwindled to small talk, and we'd both started to relax: I, because it began to seem that I really might get out of there in one piece with my film, tapes, and notes intact; and Flaco (I imagined), because his stressful dance of trying to get me to believe him without lying, and of lying without seeming to, was coming to an end. We were both looking around us and down at the ground, in the way that men often will while talking around a subject.

     Maintaining an offhand tone of voice, I asked, "Do you know a guy named....?" and used Mickey's real name. I timed my question so that I was turning my face toward his just as the name left my lips, so that a second or two of eye contact wouldn't give him time to contain his reaction.

     It worked. For all his control, Flaco wasn't able to smother the startled look that darted around his eyes before he pulled the emotional mask back over his face. He knew I'd caught him, so he didn't lie. "Name sounds familiar," he said, giving me a look that clearly said I'd hear nothing more on the subject.

                      13. Out of the Woods

     Mario Córdoba and one or two other MISURA officers flew with us back to Tegucigalpa. We returned to the luxurious Honduras Maya, and there ensued in front of the registration desk a scene which at the time seemed both funny and pathetic, and which I'd have cause to remember in later years. Those Indians, who were more native to Honduras than anyone else in the room, stuck out like a man in a white dinner jacket at a Masai tribal dance. This, in a hotel named for, if not their ancestors, then for people who were at least racial relatives of their ancestors.

     Flaco checked them in first, under the stares of the hotel employees, then gave me, as the only person in our group who shared a common language with them (Perico had stayed at Rus Rus), the key to their room (they, of course, being only Indians, didn't get single rooms like the rest of us who had come to help them) and curtly told me to "get these people upstairs and out of sight."         

     That afternoon, Stewart went on an errand. He said he'd bought several 70 horsepower Evinrude outboard motors, "at four grand a pop," plus some SCUBA gear, for use by MISURA forces to cross the Coco and conduct military operations up various tributaries in their homeland ‑ now Sandinista‑controlled territory ‑ in northern Nicaragua. He said that he'd had to ship them via the same channels as FDN materials because there was a supposedly centralized supply system for all the anti‑Sandinista groups. He said he'd given specific instructions that the outboard engines were for MISURA only, but nonetheless they appeared to have gotten sidetracked in an FDN warehouse on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa. Stewart took along Shooter to emphasize his point.

     That night, Stewart and Shooter showed up late for dinner. They said they'd found the engines, though it wasn't clear whether they'd actually gotten possession of them and turned them over to MISURA people.

     In the hotel dining room, the relief at being back in the city was palpable among us. We ordered beer and mixed drinks generously. And it was story time. The one I especially recall came out of Larry Pino's question to Shooter. The two were sitting across from each other at the end of our table, so I listened intently.

     Larry asked Shooter what was the "hairiest situation" he'd ever been in. I could see Shooter's dark eyes glitter. "Reloading face to face," he said. "Guess who won? The one with the expertise, the one who's sittin' here eatin' steak." He grinned with a satisfaction that no steak could have inspired. Someone asked him how far apart they'd been. "Ten yards," he said.

     I piped up and asked, to be sure to get the record straight: "Shooter, was that in Vietnam, or here?"

     "Here," he said. He of course meant Nicaragua, where the fighting was.

     Another remark I heard from Shooter that evening was about Miami: "I love it when it gets cool down there ‑ when you wear a coat, you can carry a bigger gun."

    

     As we stood in the departure lounge at Tegucigalpa's Toncontín airport, Larry Pino took off his beaded belt buckle and presented it to Shooter. Larry's admiration for the stocky gunman had become more and more visible as the week wore on. I think he genuinely believed that Shooter was there to help the Indians, though I wondered if his admiration didn't come more from what Larry felt ‑ about a man who went his own way and apparently took no shit from anyone ‑ than from what he thought. Shooter was visibly touched by the gift.

     The airport scene got Shooter and Flaco talking about other times they'd passed through on their way to work. Flaco said he'd used so many aliases that at times he "had trouble remembering who I was supposed to be." Both he and Shooter said they sometimes traveled in US military uniforms, "with false ID and everything." Another mercenary-looking type said hello to Flaco in a manner suggesting that they were accustomed to meeting every few years in airports in countries where there was war. Flaco, ever the cool operator, became nearly as nervous as he had been as we left the same airport eight days earlier. He obviously didn't want us to hear the man call him by name, and we didn't.

                         14. Aftermath    

     In early February, I got a call from Jonathan Weiner, legislative aide to newly‑elected Senator John Kerry, the Vietnam vet from Massachusetts who would be the Democratic candidate for President of the United States in 2004. Without my knowledge, Jim Purcell, one of the vets in our VFW Post 5888, had taken it upon himself to call the senator’s office and tell Weiner about my trip, after I'd given a report in a Post meeting. Weiner wanted information about the trip, and was especially interested that we'd gone into Nicaragua. We talked a long time. It would be an easy matter to track down Maco Stewart, who was well‑known and had used his real name. But what of the mercenaries? I'd been very clear that Flaco, Shooter, and Perico had not only led an armed incursion into Nicaragua and had obviously done so before, but were themselves armed at the time. I named the weapons and their calibers, and made it clear that I was reporting from observation, not hearsay.

     Weiner wanted any information that would help him identify the mercenaries. Congressional opponents of Reagan's intervention in Nicaragua had been looking for hard evidence of paramilitary activities by US citizens at least since Parker and Powell had been shot down in Nicaragua the previous September.

     "Look," I finally said, "I have photographs of these people." There was a long pause, and Weiner said, with all the gravity he could put into his voice, "Dean, I need those pictures." I was working on a newspaper article about the trip, and hoped to publish photos with it. But I was also building a house, and the mechanics of writing the article and getting it published would take a while. I sent Weiner several recognizable photos of Flaco and Shooter. Perico had escaped my lens.

     I believe Flaco was first publicly identified, that Spring, in an Associated Press article by Robert Parry and Brian Barger. He is Jack Terrell, a covert operator from Alabama whose background came only partially into focus over the coming months and years. Shooter is Joe Adams from St. Louis, Missouri, who made his living hunting down people who'd been charged with crimes and jumped bail, and by hiring himself and his weapons out to various other clients. He also had been a bodyguard for Adolfo Calero, one of the main FDN leaders. Joe told me at one point that he'd also dated Calero's daughter.

     Probably bowing to public pressure, including pressure from legislators who opposed Reagan's intervention in Nicaragua and attempted to bump up the line the heat they were feeling from peace groups back home, the US State Department finally whispered in the ear of someone in Tegucigalpa. One morning, a few weeks after we left, Flaco and the boys in the camp at Rus Rus woke up looking down the barrels of Honduran Army M16s. They were put on planes back to the States.

     Terrell laid low in Alabama for several months. The peace movement picked up steam, and press accounts more frequently exposed contra atrocities, misuse of aid funds and supplies, and the misadventures of private citizens like Stewart and Terrell who took money and weapons to Central America and presumed to conduct US foreign policy on their own hook.

     Jonathan Weiner, the aide to Senator Kerry, told me later that someone from their office, acting on a tip regarding Terrell's whereabouts, confronted Terrell in an airport in one of the southern states and showed him my photographs of him in the camp at Rus Rus. Was he the guy who'd been conducting his own war down there?

     Terrell switched sides. He started talking to reporters from major newspapers, and in front of TV cameras. He began talking about contras running drugs, about the US expatriate rancher John Hull using his land in northern Costa Rica as a resupply and staging area for contra raids into southern Nicaragua, about corruption and incompetence among contra commanders. He increased the heat on Oliver North, who was beginning to be named in press accounts as the White House's man who took up the slack in terms of getting assistance, legal and illegal, to the contras.

     Robert White had been Jimmy Carter's ambassador to El Salvador when the four US churchwomen were raped and murdered there in December, 1980, the month following Reagan's first election as President. White had started a liberal think‑tank‑ cum‑pressure‑group in Washington called the American Institute for Development Policy. Terrell was given a job at AIDP that gave him enough to live on, and a platform for his damaging pronouncements against the Reagan Administration's methods of intervention in Nicaragua. He had a certain credibility because he continued to maintain that he was a conservative who had no use for the Sandinistas. But he also damaged that credibility by seeming attempts to manipulate the use of the information he gave out, by making claims that couldn't be checked out, and by continuing to be secretive about his own past, especially connections with US intelligence agencies. At an interview in the AIDP office in Washington in September of 1986, Terrell told me that he'd worked with "these people" for six years.

     For once, something checked out. "Flako" showed up in Ollie North's notebooks, in entries that said he had worked with CIA for six years, and that North was worried that he could spill a lot of beans.     

     I never saw Joe Adams ‑ "Shooter" ‑ again after January, 1985. But Terrell put me in touch with him in St. Louis, and I had several long phone conversations with him, some of which he allowed me to tape.

     I asked Adams about the shoulder patch I'd seen him wearing, with the horse and wing and the words "PEGASO  CMA ‑ FDN". He told me that right after the supposed expiration of the Boland Amendment at the end of February, 1985 ‑ a month after we'd been in the camp ‑ he had led a Terrell‑planned military expedition into northern Nicaragua. Terrell had stayed in Honduras, ostensibly because he "had more important things to do." I suspected it was also because Terrell, whose abilities seemed to be more towards dreaming up military plans than carrying them out, simply didn't have the legs for a many‑day hump with heavy equipment through difficult terrain, and knew it.

     Their primary target was a bridge at a crossroads across which the Sandinistas, he had told me, would have to bring their tanks to deploy them in opposition to a major landing on the northeast coast of Nicaragua. The plan provided one or two secondary targets for them to hit on the way back.

     None of it happened. Several days into the march, Adams told me, the Americans (there were several, he said) and the Cubans and the MISURA leadership, tired and with nerves frayed, had a falling out. The group split up before ever reaching their main objective; the various groups found their own ways back across the Coco.

     In one of these conversations, I asked Adams to tell me more about Perico. Terrell had already told me that his real name was Marcelino Rodriguez. I'd told Terrell that I'd had the clear impression, from the garrote incident at Rus Rus and from his general demeanor, that Perico was a "stone killer." Terrell had searched his memory for a  moment, then nodded.

     Adams told me that he had run into Rodriguez in Miami, and had reflexively called him "Perico." The latter had shushed him emphatically, saying "'Don't call me that here!'" Perico was a Latin American slang term for cocaine. At the time of our last phone interview, Adams said the last he'd heard about Rodriguez was that he was back in Costa Rica running cocaine.

     Larry Pino's paratrooper "cousin" - the one he'd claimed had parachuted into Nicaragua as a U.S. Army Ranger - turned out to be a Mescalero Apache friend named David Michael Little. Little showed up on the roster of a US Army Ranger battalion that had been on an unpublicized "training mission," according to the Army, during December, 1984, very near the area where we traveled with Maco Stewart the following month. During the period of that "training mission," a US soldier was killed. He was a young black West Point graduate, a captain named Winburn Drew Harrington II, from Moultrie, Georgia. His death might well have been a training accident, and the Ranger battalion might indeed have been on a training mission in southern Honduras, as opposed to having parachuted into Nicaragua across the river. But we([2]) found one source, who was in a position to know the truth but whose credibility was sometimes questionable, who, unbidden, recognized a photo of Harrington and volunteered that he had seen Harrington and another Ranger officer cross the Coco into Nicaragua on a secret reconnaissance mission. This source said that the other Ranger officer, who seemed to be of equal rank, spoke fluent Spanish with a Puerto Rican accent. On that mission, he said, the two had worn black uniforms and carried night vision and special camera equipment. They were gone about three days, he said. Their target was something at La Tronquera, but our source wouldn't say what it was. He wanted money to talk. La Tronquera, or La Tronkara in the Miskito spelling, was the location, according to a very reliable retired U.S. Army source who had had access to that kind of intelligence at the time, of a new radar installation which the Sandinistas intended to use to spot and shoot down contra resupply flights. The first source also told us that he'd kept a detailed journal of events at that time, but he wouldn't show it to us without being paid, which we couldn't do.

     That radar set also showed up in Ollie North's notebooks.

     The Second Ranger Battalion's S‑2, or intelligence officer, at the time was a Captain who was described to me by another member of the battalion as "New York Puerto Rican." The last I knew of him, he had been promoted to Major.

     By the time Saddam Hussein's forces invaded Kuwait, I had narrowed the circle of people who would have to know just how Harrington had died, and whether he and others had been on missions into Nicaragua, to three or four officers. I had found them, too: I had addresses and home phone numbers, even of one Captain who had left the Rangers and entered a unit so secret that his name had been wiped clean from all but one of the reports investigating Harrington's death, even though he was supposedly the first to reach Harrington when he fell.

     By the Spring of 1991, I was about ready to begin showing up on these men's doorsteps with a series of hard questions: tell me the truth about Harrington's death and about any Ranger incursions into Nicaragua, or the story I publish, alongside the facts which I have verified, might cause your refusal to say what you know to be interpreted by the objective reader as participation in a cover‑up.    

     But the country was festooned with yellow ribbons in the immediate aftermath of the 1991 Gulf War; suddenly there was no market for any journalism which might reflect negatively on the US military. My credential with the Los Angeles Times, which had been signed by Jack Nelson, wasn't renewed. Neither Doyle McManus nor I ever published a word of the Harrington story because we were pulled off it before we could finish our research. Hardly anything else had been published, except for brief announcements about Harrington's death in local media near Moultrie, Georgia, his hometown; and articles in the Seattle Times just after his death on December 16, 1984, and later when their reporter received a copy of the Army's initial 15‑6 investigation into the incident. Harrington’s battalion was stationed at Fort Lewis, not far from Seattle.

     In late summer of 1988, I got a call from Major Garrett, a reporter for the Houston Post. He was working on a feature article about Maco Stewart. He used several quotes from me, and two photos. The piece ran on Sunday, September 18.

     Garrett found out some things by talking with friends and associates of Stewart in the Houston area that I hadn't known. His report quoted people as saying that Stewart had been elected a state representative from Galveston in 1960; that he had written a book titled Sex, Money, and God, but had been unable to get it published; that he was well known for Valentine's Day parties in Aspen, Colorado, where "guests would strip naked, don heart‑shaped paper cutouts and cavort until the wee hours of the morning"; was a close friend of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, for whom Stewart had expressed admiration to me; maintained residences in France where he threw "lavish parties attended by French models, artists and lawyers. Sometimes he will take his guests on yachting tours to ports of call on the northern coast of the Mediterranean." Garrett confirmed a tidbit I'd learned from a researcher in Houston, that Stewart had for a time appended the title "Mahatma" to his name.

     Garrett also reported that John Laughlin, described as a "former business associate" of Stewart's, said that Stewart was "a frequent visitor to Bohemian Grove, a male‑only retreat north of San Francisco for the nation's political and corporate elite." Garrett also said that some who knew Stewart saw him as "intellectual and generous."

     In the article, Stewart's attorney, David Savitz, is quoted as saying that Stewart's motives for his excursions among Central American Indians were humanitarian: “He was trying to help poor, displaced Indians being ravaged by the communist Nicaraguan government."

     About this time, I'd also had a call from Savitz. He wanted photographs I'd taken during the trip to use in his defense of Stewart against charges which had been brought in Federal court in Miami that Stewart, Terrell, Adams, and others had violated the US Neutrality Act, which forbids US private citizens from conducting military operations against foreign countries.

     I refused Savitz's request, giving two reasons. The first was that it is standard professional practice for a journalist to refuse requests for unpublished material, since such material is often obtained by making certain promises about how the material will be used, what names will or will not be kept confidential, and so forth. While I'd made no such promises to the MISURA fighters or the refugees, I agreed with my colleagues who said that caving in to such pressures sets a dangerous precedent.

     The second reason I refused to give Savitz the photos was because I disagreed with their intended use. I felt strongly that Stewart was in Honduras and Nicaragua playing cowboy for his own purposes, rather than trying to help the Indians. I particularly felt that because of the near‑starvation I saw in the village of Lasa Tinghni, where Stewart hadn't furnished a morsel of food, as far as I could see, while he provided supplies to the young men who carried weapons and conducted military raids into Nicaragua.

     Savitz threatened to subpoena the photos and have me jailed for contempt of court if I refused to comply. I told him I'd go to jail if necessary, but either way they'd never see the photos. The calls stopped coming, and I was never subpoenaed.

     Maco Stewart, Jack Terrell, and Joe Adams, along with a few other Americans, were indicted and tried in a Miami federal court for violations of the US Neutrality Act. Joe Adams had told me in a phone interview that after his testimony, the Federal judge, whose name was King, dismissed the case, stepped down from the bench, and invited him out for a beer. I could never verify that, but they were all acquitted.

For some time after I returned from that trip, I was virtually dizzy trying to remember it all, to write it down, to process it first in my own mind, then into my article for the San Jose Mercury News. As I looked at the photographs, at my notes, and at the images in my mind, one that was among the most recurrent was that of rifle muzzles: brownskinned teenage warriors, serious yet for all the world like neighborhood kids playing war, handling their AK47s and G3 automatic rifles and M16s and M1 carbines, with their limited training, as if they were toys instead of fully loaded assault weapons. They'd climb aboard the Toyota pickups, letting the muzzles point where they would, often including in my direction. So I looked down a lot of gun barrels that week.

     A few nights after I got home, I had this dream:

                                                 Dream: Deadribs       

I am dead. I'm a skeleton. Wind blows between my ribs. I can't move; can't leave the place that is death. People who aren't dead can visit me here. My wife comes, and friends. They ask what it's like. I answer that I'm sad I can't go back with them to the place of the living, but that loneliness isn't the worst part. The worst part is not being able to move. That, and being a skeleton, with the air passing freely between my ribs, not blocked by any organs or skin, the uncaring wind blowing through me and not finding any life there, no warm barrier between my bones and the wind.

---

[1] Shortly after returning to California from this trip, I was working with an editor named Jonathan Krim at the San Jose Mercury News on the version of this story they published in the Perspective section in the Spring of 1985. When I told him of Flaco’s remark about “the owner of Coors Brewery” being a supporter of Flaco’s group, he had me call the Coors brewery then and there from the phone on his desk. I did, and received a categorical denial that any member of the Coors family or anyone in their employ had ever given any aid to any Contra organizations. Some months later a member of the family, under oath before a Congressional committee, admitted that well, yes, he had bought them a helicopter.

[2] Doyle McManus, of the Los Angeles Times’ Washington DC Bureau, and I.

SKULLS OF TULIN BILA, + PERICO'S GARROTE

                    10. Skulls of Tulin Bila

     Clouds darkened and the rain increased as the afternoon wore on. Less than an hour downstream from the first village, we pulled in again on the Nicaraguan side. We climbed the bank, on an overgrown trail as before, to the abandoned Sumo village of Tulin Bila. Raúl Tobías said its Spanish name was San José. As we entered the village, Shooter stamped his foot, revealing an overgrown concrete sidewalk none of the rest of us had noticed. He said, "This is what always gets me ‑ here's a village in the middle of nowhere, big enough for them to have sidewalks, and the Sandinistas just burn it down." I was standing beside him; his manner of calling our attention to the sidewalk and his general familiarity with the surroundings made it obvious that he'd crossed the border before.

     Tulin Bila was also completely abandoned, with its dooryards overgrown and a number of its houses burned. We were led down a trail near the village, to a spot away from any buildings, not even distinguished by being in a clearing. We stopped. Someone moved to the side of the trail and called our attention to a place on the ground at the edge of some dense brush, where lay three intact human skulls, side by side, in a shallow depression in the topsoil that appeared to have been scooped by someone's hand. Comandante Raúl told us that they were the skulls of Indians who had either been killed outright by Sandinista soldiers, or of old people, ancianos, who had been goaded into a forced evacuation march which they didn't have the strength to survive.

     There were no other bones visible in the vicinity. The neat side‑by‑side placement of the three skulls, and the absence of the usual scattering of skeletal bones left by animals and birds and insects that have cleaned a corpse of flesh, made it clear that the arrangement of the skulls was a recent one made deliberately to show to us.

     In a way, that didn't matter. We had seen and heard enough evidence of Sandinista misconduct toward Indians, ranging from mismanagement and broken promises to murder, that whether or not the particular skulls we were shown were those of murdered Indians, they could have been.

     Raúl Tobías had made his speech short. As I translated it for the four North American Indians, Raúl grew silent and stepped back from the skulls, to let his visitors experience the situation as we chose. His manner seemed sincere, his grief for the trials suffered by his people genuine. The rest of the party, including the two Texans and the three mercenaries, did the same, becoming silent and pressing their circle back into the brush at the far side of the trail. Some spread out to provide security.

     I felt terrible. What I had just witnessed seemed such an improbable admixture of an attempt at cheap political theater with evidence of real human suffering that I didn't have a clue as to how I should do my job as a journalist and try to sort it out.

     But as I turned to look at Gary, Bill, Mike, and Larry, gathered solemnly around the skulls, I saw in a rush how stupid it was of me, and how misplaced, to be concerned about my own feelings at all, in the face of what was happening with them. I particularly remember the look of Gary Fife's face, how its light coppery skin, the color of some clayey soils, took on a distinctly gray overlay, as if the blood had left his face and retreated to deep inside him, or even as if his face had been rubbed with ashes.

     The four of them settled into a profound silence, standing in a close circle and looking down at the skulls. It seemed to me that these four men, who had met one another for the first time in the Houston airport three days earlier, felt something between them that made them feel as if they had grown up together, even lived past lives together. Their silence closed out the rest of us.

     They decided, almost wordlessly, to smoke tobacco over the skulls. Someone solemnly rolled a cigarette with pouch tobacco and paper.

     It was more than a cigarette. They handled and passed and smoked the cigarette like any people in the world will handle something they consider sacred.

     I desperately wanted to photograph them. What I was seeing, I thought, would tell more about what was happening on this trip than any other image, or any words, if I could get the right photograph. It had the human urgency of Larry holding the refugee infant at Lasa Tinghni the day before. I gently pushed myself back into the brush to get enough distance, since I didn't have a wide‑angle lens on the camera. I caught the eye of one of them ‑ I believe it was Gary ‑ and raised my camera and made a questioning look with my face. He barely moved his head, but it was a clear "no". The others agreed, again without speaking. There have been times in my work as a journalist when I was not willing to take no for an answer, or even to ask the question. This wasn't one of those times. I lowered the camera without shooting.

     They finished their smoke and knelt around the skulls and tore open the cigarette and sprinkled the remaining tobacco around the skulls, still treating the tobacco as a sacred offering. They stood up and looked at one another without speaking, then stepped back. Their ceremony was over.

     I took a step forward, getting their attention without speaking, raised the camera and the question again. They nodded yes. I took several photographs of the skulls.

     We returned to the canoe and headed downstream again. The afternoon grew darker and rainier. We landed near dark close to the place where the first canoe's motor had broken its shear pin the morning before. We trudged through the rain until well after dark, slipping in the mud and cursing like any ragtag, worn‑out army in history.

     We came upon a Miskito refugee camp. It may have been Karas Ankan, but I'm not sure. Dark‑skinned people squatted in pole‑and‑thatch huts, their faces and skin illuminated only by cooking fires as they stared at us as we passed. Blue smoke hung in the air between the huts. Just as I was having a feeling that it was all too familiar, Shooter, who had been walking behind me, said in my ear, "Ain't this a flashback?"     

            

11. Perico's Garrote, and other stories

     The next morning we washed clothes, and ourselves, in the creek near camp, and sat around recovering from the day before. Mike Hunt had brought a frisbee, and got a game going in the clear area between the tents. Someone came, someone muscular and very military‑looking and authoritative in camouflage fatigues, who stayed on the opposite side of the clearing from us and talked with Flaco and Shooter and Perico, always standing so that one of their bodies blocked our view of him. Their conversation seemed intensely focused.

     I took out my camera and started taking photos of the intertribal frisbee game, then used that as a cover to aim the camera through their game and snap photos of the group of mercenaries. They were too far away. I changed to my longest lens, a 100mm, and shot again. I never got anything but the back of the head of the newcomer, and Perico never turned anything but his back in our direction. Maco Stewart noticed what I was doing, and paid closer attention when I changed to the longer lens. I pretended to be delighted with the action shots I was getting of the frisbee game. By the time Stewart started to hover near me, it was too late. I had what turned out to be, after it was enlarged, a recognizable photo of Flaco. But I did not get a decent shot of the military-looking visitor, which I desperately wanted. In later years I’ve wondered if it was Oliver North – Flaco was mentioned in the notebooks that North was forced to relinquish during the Iran-Contra investigations, and I have seen a reference to Rus Rus in something that North wrote – but I have no way of knowing whether he was the stranger in camp that day. This man’s physical bearing, his uniform, and the way he wore it presented, to me, a clear impression of someone who was not a mercenary. I pegged him as active duty U.S. military.

     We went out to another refugee camp, where the people had been established longer than those at Lasa Tinghni, but not so long as those at Awas Bila or Karas Ankan. The interviews were so obviously canned, with the subjects being visibly and audibly goaded by armed men standing behind them, that I didn't even take notes.

     We were back in our tent at the TEA camp by noon, sacked out, still tired from the day before. Gary Fife was playing country music tapes on his interview recorder. Just after a song about "tryin' to love two women," he said, "I got another tape in there, by a friend of mine. It's called 'Custer Died for Your Sins.'" Flaco, standing just outside the tent, laughed along with the rest of us.

     Moses Fiske was working on the 16mm movie camera in the tent, and was having problems. All four Indians and I were there as well. Fiske told Stewart he wasn't sure he could get the camera to work. "Can't you nigger‑rig it?" Stewart asked.

     We were lying around the tent. The four Indians were discussing the situation of their fellow Indians in Nicaragua. A year or so earlier, Bill Pensoneau had traveled there and visited some of the camps to which the Sandinistas had relocated Indians to clear the border area for combat operations against the contras, possibly including some of the people who were now our hosts.

     Their conversation got around to the history of the Sandinista movement, beginning when someone wondered where they'd gotten their name. Someone knew that there'd been this guy named Sandino, but didn't know who he was or what he'd done. They asked Stewart to clarify it, and Stewart gave an answer which I don't remember, but which was inaccurate. I had been keeping my mouth shut in the interest of self-preservation, but now I blurted out a short history of Sandino's guerrilla fight against Somoza’s Guardia Nacional, and the US Marines who trained and led them, during the 1920's.

     Stewart turned to look at me with alarm. "How did you know that?" he asked. I told him I'd worked in Nicaragua as a freelance journalist in 1983, had written some pieces about it, and had since then read quite a lot about the history of the country and US interventions there.

     I'd said too much. Stewart wanted to know more about me, where else I'd been, what else I'd done, what I thought of the present situation and about US policy in general - the sort of questions he should have asked in the Houston airport. The four Indians were listening; we'd already had some conversations along these lines ourselves, out of Stewart's presence. I'm a lousy liar, and didn't want to appear to them to be hiding something they already knew I knew, or felt. So, I told Stewart that I knew about CIA interventions in Vietnam and Laos and with the Kurds in the area of the Persian Gulf, and allowed that US intelligence operatives had a history of recruiting poor, darkskinned people to fight our wars for us, which too often turned out to be losing wars, and then abandoning our former proxies to bloody retribution by our former enemies.

     It didn't seem a wise thing to be saying in an armed camp of just such operatives a short walk from the Río Coco, but I was pissed enough about the situation to risk having Stewart hear me say that in order that the Indians would hear it too. They'd heard the basic story about the Montagnards in Vietnam, but very little about the Kurds, or about the Hmong people in Laos who'd been slaughtered in large numbers as a result of their participation in US‑initiated or ‑widened military conflicts.

     From that time on, I was looked at differently by everyone in the camp, though I was never specifically threatened. That is, unless Perico's visit was a threat. Within a day after my talk with Stewart, Perico came over to our tent while the four Indians and I were standing outside it talking. Perico entered our circle and stood next to me. His dark eyes glittered even more than usual. From his pocket he pulled a length of spring steel or piano wire, rolled loop upon loop into a coil about four inches in diameter, with a steel ring affixed to either end. He held it up for us to see.

     "Do you know what thees eez?" He asked in heavily accented English.

     "It's a garrote," I said.

     "Isn't that for strangling people?" one of the others asked.

     "You bettah believe it," Perico said, with a smile like dry ice, at once hot and cold. He looked at me as he smiled.

     That evening, in the little mess area by a creek a short walk from the tents, I sat at one of the rough wooden tables with Maco Stewart, Moses Fiske, Mike Hunt, and Miskito officer Mario Córdoba, who was wearing his new silver captain's bars on his hat. I'd become somewhat friendly with him; he seemed someone committed to struggling for his people, but not overly excited about the fighting itself. He seemed to see no romance in it, and seemed bemused, rather than impressed, by the propagandizing of both sides. He seemed particularly unimpressed with rank, his own or others'. He reminded me of Harris, the young black Marine who'd treated the Marine Corps mostly as a joke, to whom I'd tossed the rifle after we saw the three caskets on the loading dock at Oakland as we were shipping out for Vietnam.

     We had, as usual, mess‑gear metal plates of gallo pinto, standard peasant fare of rice and red beans. It was likely that we were eating the rice and beans that Stewart had brought in aboard the Setco Air C‑47, saying that the food was for the refugees.

     During the meal, Mike Hunt([1]), the only one of us five tribal representatives who had accepted Flaco's offer of a weapon, told stories about the 1973 confrontation between Indians and federal agents at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. He had apparently been one of the armed Indians, though he was careful not to say anything that would be provable if it got back to the Feds. But without coming right out with it, he alluded to the fighting in such a way that it seemed to me that he might be hinting that he was in on it. Mike said he was a member of the Survival of the American Indian Association located in Olympia, Washington. I never got a feel for how large its membership was.

     He also said he acted as a bodyguard on occasion for his friend Hank Adams, head of the Association. In the company of the four North American Indians that week, I got a glimpse of their informal but very active nationwide network, which they called the "moccasin telegraph," a word‑of‑mouth and telephone web, augmented by Indian media outlets, which informs Indians in the US about things which concern them. BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) policies, treaty violations old and new, Federal legislation regarding Indians and their lands, any such stories which often barely surface in the mainstream media are given full treatment by the "moccasin telegraph."

     The other strong feeling I got was one of danger, of yet another group of people who have so consistently been treated so badly for so long by the larger society that two very different, but perhaps equally dangerous, reactions are becoming more and more common. One is a deep despair resulting in severe alcoholism, drug abuse, and a disproportionate suicide rate. The other is an accumulated anger, especially among some of the younger men, that makes them itch to grab a rifle, put their backs to the wall, and go out like warriors.

     Once during the week Gary Fife had told of his favorite trick while waiting for a table in restaurants. He and a couple of friends would put "War" as their name on the waiting list, and later there would come the announcement "War... party of three," and diners would look up in surprise when three Indians trooped past to their table. He clearly told it as a joke, but it just as clearly had an edge to it.

     I noticed that Mario Córdoba, the Miskito officer, was eating more slowly than the rest, so I slowed down too. By the time he and I walked down to the creek to wash our plates, the others had left.

     I wanted to talk to Mario. But I was worried about two things: that I would compromise my journalist's neutrality by what I had to say, and that I would get my ass in serious hot water, especially after what I'd said to Maco about US use of minority peoples as proxy soldiers. Perico's bit with the garrote didn't seem to have been done just for the sake of entertainment.

     Finally I just said "Fuck it," and did it anyway. There was enough light left to see Córdoba's face. I moved close to him and spoke quickly, in Spanish, in a low voice. Be careful, Mario, I said. I told him, as succinctly as I could, about how the Montagnard highland people of Vietnam, and the Hmong of Laos, had had their populations decimated during and after their service with the US CIA and Special Forces, and about how the Kurds in the Middle East had been recruited, armed, and then abandoned to their enemies by a sudden policy change.

     He listened, nodding in a way that intimated that either he knew more about those histories than I'd assumed, or that he wasn't at all surprised to hear it. Be careful, I admonished again, and ended by asking if he trusted "these people" as I nodded toward the mercenaries' tent.

     He looked at me with a flat gaze that was neither friendly nor hostile: "No tengo confianza en nadie demás de los indios." I don't trust anybody except Indians.

     His look made it clear that that included me.

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[1] I have since heard, among other Indians, joking reference to “Mike Hunt” as “my cunt,” for example calling a bar that was a local hangout, and asking if Mike Hunt was there, to a round of laughs. I’ve wondered if the whole thing were a particularly Indian smokescreen, a “moccasin telegraph” kind of communication among Indians, that was a coded way for the Indians in a group to talk past any others present. But I don’t know. I do know that there is a specifically Indian humor.