My 1987 Nicaraguan Encounter

My Nicaraguan Adventure

Faced with a life-and-death situation at 17 years old caused traumatic feelings that lasted a short time or lingered under the surface for a long time before they rose to the top, and those involved were forced to deal with it head-on. 

Near-death experiences are not viewed by those who hear about them from the teller’s lips as immediate, acute, and dangerous as much as they were. The fear, the bubbles of anxiety, and the emotion that runs rampant throughout the teller's body as the information is relayed are emotions that words cannot fully capture. It’s not that the teller doesn’t experience the feelings and anxiety ball over again; it’s the lack of empathy since the teller is sitting in front of them with seemingly nothing wrong now.  

Had there been physical wounds another person could see as a result of the near-death experience, then perhaps more people would understand the full impact of what having your life threatened means and how much of a toll it takes on the human psyche. However, the challenge is that no one can observe another person's psyche to comprehend, value, or grasp the vulnerability of an individual's fear and life.

Sweat dripped down the small of my back, and I had my hands outstretched with my eyes wide. 

“No, no, lo hagas! Soy canadiense, soy canadiense. Por favor, no. Por favor. No disparen. No disparen. Por favor, non.” And I dropped to my knees. (I'm Canadian. I'm Canadian. Please no. Please. Don't shoot. Don't shoot. Please, no.) and I dropped to my knees. 

The rest of our group was also on their knees. Two were Americans, and the other two were Ticos. The man with the gun looked crazed and smelled like a wild animal. His matted hair, dirty uniform, and body indicated that he hadn’t seen a shower in months. 

Despite the challenge of understanding his dialect, we all raised our hands as if someone had called out "Hands up" to each of us individually. I felt my face go hot, and tears streamed down my face. I put my head down on the ground at his feet. I don’t know what the rest of the group members were doing. However, Carlos spoke the fastest I had ever heard in Spanish, making it difficult to follow his explanation or conversation with the man.

His fight as a Sandanista against the United States occupation of Nicaragua in the 1930s, which resurfaced in the late 1980s and early 1990s, appeared simple and steadfast. At first glance, we all seemed to be either American or Tico, which likely explains why my heart pounded loudly in my ears, and I felt like my urine or bowels were about to burst. 

“¿Por qué estás aquí? ¿Qué quieres en Nicaragua?” (What are you doing here? What do you want in Nicaragua?”).

None of us answered for a long pause. Then, one of the American girls spoke in Spanish. “We’re here as exchange students learning about Spanish culture and community living. We crossed Nicaragua to look for beautiful birds you share with Costa Rica.” 

The man took a minute to register what the girl had to say. Then he told us all to stand up. We rose to our feet to see he smiled at us and said, “Why don’t you get on your way then?”

Carlos spoke to us in English, saying, “He may shoot us in the back; that’s what these guys are known for doing, especially near the Costa Rican border.” 

We turned around, walked for the first two minutes, and then ran as if our feet were burning. When I recognized Costa Rican ground again, I dropped to the ground, sobbed, and kissed the earth. The others all did something similar: when I got up, so were they. 

We sat around a table outside, smiled at one another, and celebrated our friendship. Carlos and I went to the local pulperia, or grocery store, and bought cigarettes and booze. That night, we partied to celebrate our recent encounter with death. We all shared what we experienced from seeing the bushman until we returned to Costa Rica. Then, we agreed we would never mention it again—ever—to anyone. 

It wasn’t long before everyone became troubled in their everyday lives. Every one of us was doing erratic things: the two Americans were sleeping with any guy who asked them to at the parties we went to. Carlos used more drugs than ever. His friend dropped out of school to sell drugs full-time. And me? I retreated into drinking and kept to myself. After that, I stayed away from the social scene and didn’t want any issues with anyone. Carlos and I continued to hang out. We remained best friends until I left to go home. Then Carlos lived at my house in Canada for half a year. 

My change happened gradually. I abandoned the bottle to pursue more significant and fulfilling endeavours in my life—sports and friends who were finally the kind I deserved to be seen with. I enrolled in university, and most of my troubles went away in one instance but resurfaced in another area of my life.

Learning about the before me in my after-me life meant I had a lot of soul-searching and difficulty getting used to the new me. I no longer relied on alcohol to cover the indecencies and uglies of my life, only to allow me to see the real me in the raw every day and accept what I see. 

Nobody understood more about how things started or how we ended up in Nicaragua that day, but we all understood after that day that we were all fortunate and grateful to be alive. The fact we were so lucky to have learned such a lesson so young meant that we were more fortunate in life before adulthood than most kids our age.  

As we mature, we comprehend our near encounters with death and the gravity of our life's precarious state. Nobody else in our peer groups could fathom, let alone imagine, what it took to make the memories of that unpleasant experience dissipate over time. Only to come screaming back to the surface as we move through the stages of aging and mortality. 

It is a story I used to laugh at when I told people, but I now shudder and shake when I even think about it. As I sweated, he pointed his gun at us, much like the moment I saw the bushman as I struck the deck. I didn’t know how much it changed me until my age changed.