Notorious at Last

I once was refused entry to the USA. I kept the letter for many years until lost in some move somewhere. It was polite and gracious and gave no reason - just that 'your application for a visa to enter the United States has been declined.' I was at last 'notorious.'

It happened back in 1984, ironically. The Soviet Union was busy offering fraternal assistance to the Afghans and US buddy Saddam Hussein was slaughtering Iranians and Kurds. In Central America the Sandanistas had booted US's man Anastasio Somoza out of Nicaragua and the Americans had imposed an embargo in retaliation. Anyone named 'Anastasio' HAS to be a villain.

Outraged US aid groups decided to test the blockade by driving a convoy of humanitarian aid down to Nicaragua through Mexico. (Managua had been devastated by an earthquake 2 years before and Somoza had stolen most of the international aid). About eight of us from the NZ Socialist Action League thought it really cool if we paid a visit to our fraternal comrades on the way to Managua.

See, an 'International friendship Brigade' was being formed in Cuba to go to Nicaragua to help bring in the coffee harvest. I'd never been to Central America and I was keen to learn a bit of Spanish.

'Visa denied' to all of us. I raised the possibility of going to the Press with it - 'aid workers denied US visa,' or some such.

"We can't do that!" someone objected. "We're a secret revolutionary organisation. The press will want our names."

"So? The fucking US State Department has them," I replied, to no avail.

So we had to fly to Mexico. We changed planes at Honolulu, which you can do as a transit passenger. From Mexico City to Havana, Cuba, then from Cuba to Nicaragua.

The convoy did get through. Someone in the State Department pointed out to Ronald Reagan you can't stop US citizens leaving the United States and holding up a convoy of medicine was bad PR.

A better idea was to mine the harbour, which, of course, they did.

Cuba's contribution was 4000 odd doctors and engineers with a penchant for toting assault rifles and marching in columns. A battalion of Cuban doctors was camped near us at Bluefields on the Caribbean Coast, complete with BMP armoured personnel carriers and a Mi-8 attack helicopter. Our medical needs were well looked after.

President Daniel Ortega, himself, dropped by the first Sunday. He arrived in a Russian biplane, an Antonov An-2, that looked like it had come from the second world war. I was impressed with his courage.

I really liked Daniel Ortega, he was cool. There was a certain sang froid in his manner and tons of boyish charm. Okay, he was accused of accepting a few too many gifts from a grateful people, but that's hardly exceptional in that part of the world. He was a damn sight less corrupt than his predecessor and never made much of a fortune out of the job.

He shared a few bottles of Czech beer with us - Czechoslovakia's much appreciated humanitarian contribution involved daily shipments of Pils Urquell. His English wasn't terrific, but he arrived with a sexy young translator. Central and South American leaders accept young women as fringe benefits and Daniel sure didn't pass that up while building a socialist paradise.

Our guides were a pair from the Sandanista Youth, wearing the ubiquitous red neck scarves. They'd nicked the idea from Comsomol and I wanted one too. I still have it.

The woman, Maria, was cool and the only reason I would've stayed on if I was allowed. Frankly, it was far too hot and picking coffee lost its attraction after a week or two.

Maria had been educated in the US and Poland, for some reason. Poland is bleak, and I can understand why she wanted to come home to the Caribbean. She was 22, idealistic and happily married, unfortunately.

Our Cuban doctor friends had a habit of practicing at an improvised rifle range 6am every morning and far too close to our camp. They substituted accuracy for volume, insisting on blowing shit out of the targets on full automatic. I pity any Contra coming down from the hills dressed as a hay bale - they'd be shredded.

A doctor called Alessandro taught me to strip down an AK-47 in 40 seconds and basic triage. He really WAS a doctor. I reckon I could still strip down an AK-47, shoot it, and stop the bleeding afterwards.

I was once pompously labelled 'naive' by a snooty American on an Author's message board. I volunteered 'notorious', but he wouldn't buy it.

"You guys lost!" he declared, triumphantly.

So glad of that. Now the world can be at peace.

Notorious Don