brad brace contemporary culture scrapbook

An avalanche-like noise on a recent rainy night proved to be an architectural metaphor for the fate of Nicaragua’s erstwhile elite: In a matter of 30 seconds, the front half of a grand colonial adobe mansion collapsed into the street in a pile of muddy rubble, revealing the wobbly structure that holds together the homes and social class of the country’s former oligarchy.

Though no one was hurt in the collapse, it served as a dramatic reminder that the noble facade of country’s former power structure is masking advanced decay.

“The Sandinista revolution in the 1980s diversified the quotas of power in the country,” said sociologist Cirilo Otero. “There was a displacement of the oligarchy; a lot of investment left the country, and what is left is the remnants of a class whose influence and power are almost nil.”

Like Miss Havisham in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, the remnants of many of Nicaragua’s traditionally powerful families live in crumbling mansions in a no-longer politically relevant city, clinging to memories of colonial grandeur. Their skin color is generally lighter than the rest of the population’s; their politics are conservative; and their last names are those that have for centuries filled the rosters of Nicaragua’s social clubs.

The country’s traditional oligarchy is made up of a dozen families that have intermarried for generations to, as they say, “keep the blood pure.” But as those families have grown, migrated and diversified in recent generations, their collective clout as a social elite has weakened. Today, an oligarchic last name no longer guarantees its bearer the influence or money once attached to it.

Where once they amassed fortunes from the bounty of the country’s traditional agricultural sector, many of the finer families now live off of what’s left of former fortunes, or on remittances sent from relatives in the United States. The younger generation, armed with college degrees from Texas A&M and Louisiana State University, have migrated to Managua to parlay their family names into middle-management or public-relations jobs, while the elders remain behind in their rocking chairs.

“The oligarchy is in a profound crisis; it’s in its final days,” says sociologist Orlando Nunez, author of the brisk-selling Oligarchy in Nicaragua.

According to Nunez, the decline of the oligarchy began even before the Sandinista revolution, when the U.S.-backed Somoza dynasty used its dictatorial power to strip the old-money class of its traditional military and political power. In fact, when economic power began to shift in the 1970s to a new bourgeoisie based in the cotton industry, some of the old landowning oligarchy even sided with the rowdy Sandinista rebels, hoping that the overthrow of the dictatorship would allow them to reclaim lost power. But the Sandinistas had other ideas: After seizing power in the insurrection of 1979, they systematically dismantled the power of the oligarchy in subsequent years. The coup de grace, Nunez says, came last year when the Sandinistas formed a political alliance with the Catholic Church, the oligarchy’s last institutional bastion.

“All the oligarchy has left now is its prestige, its values and some influence over the media,” Nunez says.

Now, they may be losing their stately homes, too. An influx of wealthy foreigners is swooping into Granada to buy up colonial mansions and build an economy based on tourism that has created many entry-level service jobs in hotels and restaurants — not exactly “suitable” employment for the grandsons of plantation owners.

The grim economic, political and social realties of a changing Nicaragua has prompted some to cash in their family’s last chips, selling their homes in a hot real estate market and thereby severing their last ties to past grandeur. Still, despite the hardships, old paradigms die hard, Nunez says.

“The oligarchy,” he says, “would still much prefer to sell their home to a white and wealthy Gringo than to a Liberal, a black or someone from the working class who has made money.”

One of the main sources of jobs for people on the Caribbean Coast of Nicaragua is the cruise line industry. Many families are dependent on the remittances sent back by family members on the ships. But a recent BBC Radio Four programme exposed the super-exploitation that goes on in one of the fastest growest global industries.

One cruise line worker, described as from Central America, but with a Bluefields or Corn Island accent, revealed the reality of working conditions. “I had to get up and work, maybe 18 hours sometime, maybe sometime no time to sleep because just time to make money. Ship is money. You go on ship to make money. They have a timesheet, they are giving you from such a hour to such a hour to complete, like, 8 hours, so we can say we only work 8 hours which, that’s a lie. For instance, I go like from 5am and I will stop like 10am, then I will go back again like 2pm, and then I will stop working like, sometime, midnight. We are just supposed to report 8 hours.”

The wages are so low that the workers depend on tips: “That’s our salary. Our salary from the company is $50 a month. That’s nothing my friend, so if we don’t get tip, we don’t have any salary.” The crews work every single day for months at a time.

The President of the Cruise Lines International Association, Terry Dale, thinks everything is hunkydory. “Creating and fostering a positive work culture is critical to our success. These are highly sought after jobs and our staff will spend years working with us in the cruise industry because they find these jobs very rewarding and lucrative.” Perhaps that’s why some workers can pay up to $2,000 to an intermeidary to get a job.

The United States of America started to view Nicaragua as a serious threat when, on 19 July 1979, the Nicaraguan dictator, Anastasio Somoza, was overthrown by the Sandinista National Liberation Front. To ensure that Nicaragua would not become a communist government, America began to support the Contras groups and decided to take up the responsibility of assisting the local communities to fight against the government, but without encouraging a revolt. It was with this in mind, that the C.I.A. began to compile the Freedom Fighter’s Manual.

In any war, revolt or uprising it is always the innocent civilians, children and women that seem to bear the brunt of the fighting. They often feel helpless, as they do not have the means, knowledge or tools to either be a part of the war or to be in control of their own destinies. The Freedom Fighter’s Manual was designed to be easily understood and was a fifteen page booklet of ideas, plans and actions that citizens would be able to use to destabilize the government, without the use of weapons or putting themselves in harms way.

In 1983, thousands of the booklets were airdropped over Nicaragua. Even though the Freedom Fighter’s Manual recommended that all actions were to be taken in pairs of two, there were a few pages that could benefit individuals. Divided into various sections, the booklet had instructions on how to disrupt the workplace by causing damage, calling in sick, clogging bathroom toilets and cutting cables. Public disruption was also included with methods, such as setting livestock free, graffiti, blocking roads and cutting the electricity. To disable vehicles, the booklet suggested how to cause damage with dirt, ice picks and candles and explained how the electrical system worked. The booklet even showed citizens how to make a Molotov cocktail and use explosives.

The existence of the Freedom Fighter’s Manual was exposed in 1984 when a copy of the booklet was given to an American journalist by a Nicaraguan Contra.

Bluefields, Nicaragua — As dark clouds approached, Guillaume Craig packed up his tools, climbed into a rickety boat and sped off from a small fishing village, hoping to make the three-hour commute downriver before nightfall. The boat wasn’t quite fast enough, so the former Oakland resident used a flashlight to guide his way back through endless miles of tropical forest.

“That was actually our easiest site to reach,” said Craig, whose San Francisco-based Blue Energy foundation is delivering renewable energy to hundreds of residents along Nicaragua’s remote Caribbean coast.

Craig, 31, his brother, Mathias, 33, and a small crew of volunteers have been traversing the muddy backwaters, installing solar panels and windmills for free and bringing renewable energy to villages, schools and health clinics where none existed before.

“It could make a huge difference in rural areas,” said Mathias Craig, who says he has always been fascinated with wind power. “You can’t even reach a lot of these places with power lines.”

The San Francisco nonprofit has attracted the attention of the government of President Daniel Ortega, who has expressed interest in alternative technology to help alleviate the country’s energy crunch. Within the next six months, the Craigs say, Blue Energy wind turbines will be tested at a UC Berkeley field station in Richmond. If they pass international standards, the Ortega government will consider using them countrywide.

Since June, many regions across the nation have experienced four- to eight-hour-a-day blackouts, prompting even Pacific Coast resort developers to knock on Blue Energy’s doors. For now, the brothers say, the tourist areas will have to take a backseat to underserved rural communities. “We are a nonprofit,” said Guillaume Craig.

Nearly 80 percent of Nicaragua’s electricity is powered by oil. In July, Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez financed the construction of a 150,000-barrel-a-day, $2.5 billion refinery – the largest in Central America – as part of his oil-funded battle against U.S. influence in Latin America. Chavez has also sent generators to help offset the rolling blackouts.

Mathias Craig, who studied civil engineering at UC Berkeley, says Blue Energy began as a graduate project at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology before being incorporated in 2003. The next year, the Craigs arrived in Nicaragua – the only country where they are currently operating – at the behest of their mother. Colette Grinevald is a linguistics professor who specializes in indigenous languages along the Caribbean coast.

Blue Energy works mainly with Rama and Miskito Indians, who form part of an autonomous zone of 650,000 inhabitants with greater independence from the national government than the rest of the country. Since it began operations in Nicaragua, Blue Energy has provided electricity to five villages and 1,400 residents. To date, the foundation’s most remote site is Punta de Aguila, a 51/2-hour trip south of Bluefields over choppy waters.

While Hurricane Dean nearly destroyed several turbines earlier in the summer, this month’s Hurricane Felix missed Blue Energy’s area of operation.

The Craigs are convinced that wind and solar power are the most practical ways to bring energy to isolated indigenous villages far removed from any power grid. Currently, the only option for most coastal dwellers is diesel-powered generators.

“Our community has always lived in darkness,” said Edgar Swartz, 32, standing in the shadow of an 80-foot Blue Energy wind turbine that powers the village of Kakabila, home to 700 people. “We think plenty about electricity.”

Separated by geography and culture, the region is among the poorest in a nation that has the dubious distinction of being the second poorest in the Western Hemisphere, with Haiti being the poorest. On the Caribbean coast, basic health services are spotty, illiteracy is 65 percent in rural areas, and an estimated 80 percent go without regular electricity.

Blue Energy operates on an annual shoestring budget of about $120,000 in grants from the government of Finland and contributions from mainly American and French donors. The Craigs hope to eventually turn a profit that will sustain their nonprofit work.

The foundation currently churns out one new wind turbine a week from the rustic port town of Bluefields, the region’s largest city with 50,000 people. Following a common design to harness wind power, the turbines are hand built and shipped in pieces in 15-foot wooden boats with outboard motors.

Blue Energy also buys solar panels from local distributors to keep communities powered during hot, nonwindy days. The full wind and solar package costs $12,000 for 1 kilowatt of power. In contrast, a small diesel generator costs about $500 and is typically affordable only for those operating local businesses.

The foundation pays for installation for entire communities, but those who want power for private use, such as charging cell phones and hooking up television sets, must purchase a special $300 battery and pay roughly $4 a month for recharging fees.

Though more expensive than generators, alternative energy will pay for itself in the long run, the brothers argue. Using nothing but wind and sun, the Blue Energy installation pumps out roughly 3,500 watt-hours of electricity each day – enough to power five homes using a small radio and refrigerator over a 24-hour period.

The Craigs estimate that it takes three windmills to sufficiently power small communities of up to 700 people with basic energy needs. They hope alternative energy will allow these villages to open night schools and improve refrigeration for the main industry along the coast – seafood.

Mathias Craig, however, said his heart sank when he saw the first installation three years ago in Punta de Aguila being used to power television sets tuned to Spanish-language soap operas.

“We don’t promote using television,” he said. “But they get to pick.”

In the meantime, the Craigs hope to train Nicaraguans in solar and wind power that will one day rival the nation’s largest privately owned electrical companies.

That makes perfect sense to Poochy Newton, 48, a Miskito fisherman who is selling his diesel generator to become the first nonbusiness user of alternative energy in Set Net Point, a four-hour boat ride north of Bluefields. Newton calculates that he will save about $30 a month by not using diesel fuel, which is shipped in, for his generator.

“Diesel is very expensive,” Newton said. “The wind is going to work out much better.”

The San Francisco-based Blue Energy foundation is delivering renewable energy to hundreds of residents along Nicaragua’s remote Caribbean coast. Guillaume Craig, 31, his brother, Mathias, 33, and a small crew of volunteers have been traversing the muddy backwaters, installing solar panels and windmills for free and bringing renewable energy to villages, schools and health clinics where none existed before… Blue Energy works mainly with Rama and Miskito Indians, who form part of an autonomous zone of 650,000 inhabitants with greater independence from the national government than the rest of the country. Since it began operations in Nicaragua, Blue Energy has provided electricity to five villages and 1,400 residents… Separated by geography and culture, the region is among the poorest in a nation that has the dubious distinction of being the second poorest in the Western Hemisphere, with Haiti being the poorest. On the Caribbean coast, basic health services are spotty, illiteracy is 65 percent in rural areas, and an estimated 80 percent go without regular electricity. Blue Energy operates on an annual shoestring budget of about $120,000 in grants from the government of Finland and contributions from mainly American and French donors. The Craigs hope to eventually turn a profit that will sustain their nonprofit work. The foundation currently churns out one new wind turbine a week from the rustic port town of Bluefields, the region’s largest city with 50,000 people. Following a common design to harness wind power, the turbines are hand built and shipped in pieces in 15-foot wooden boats with outboard motors. Blue Energy also buys solar panels from local distributors to keep communities powered during hot, non-windy days.