Middle aged men

Dirigentes campesinos

Yesterday he was arrested and jailed. They were clearing vines and shrubs from the coffee bushes when the former owner showed up with a policeman. They had an impressive looking document, a “letter of assignation” without much legal validity, but in the pastel colors of the government and signed by a commandant. The owner had a court order ruling that the estate not be touched before ownership was established. He was in jail four hours, then another judge was found who could be persuaded to release him.

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Papi, I want to go home


Roberto in the taxi, on the way to the bus station.

-Papa, I want to go home.

It´s Roberto. He is standing there, crying. He isn’t drunk, but he has been drinking.

It’s 10 o’clock. He already came by once before this morning. Then, he didn’t want to go home. He wanted to work all day so that he could go home with his pockets full of money. In order to save just a little face with his family back home in Esteli. But now here he is, back already, without a single coin in his pocket. Another day that started out full of determination and detoured to drink the moment he earned his first peso. Continue reading

Everything you never thought needed to know about being a farmer

Material para dirigentes campesinos

They are finally here. For all those of us who have wanted to start an agricultural cooperative but  cooperative but never could find the right end of the ball of string to start, finally a resource where you can get all the advice and information necessary to satisfy the farmer in us all.

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The vegetable garden war in Ciudad Sandino

Brigade 2008 i Ciudad Sandino

The Danish solidarity brigade has finished their village stay and their Easter vacation, and arrived to a barrio in Ciudad Sandino. They live with the local CPC (the citizen’s power committee) and work at a local kindergarden, improving a playground for the kindergarden and a little park for the barrio.

The experience has given them new insight into how Nicaraguan local politics work…

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“Good morning, little dad,” he calls from the gate with his hoarse voice.

Roberto is here again. He is sitting on the sidewalk, an empty look in his eyes, resting his battered face against the wall, smelling of cheap booze. He was beaten up a couple of weeks ago, his cheek is still swollen, full of sore crusts. He has a sandal on one foot. He has a brand new backpack in his lap, the price tag still on it.

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