We rode on horseback, free as birds, and felt the wind in our faces. We all had a beer or two in our saddle bags and at least one under our belt as we clipped along at a good gallop. We laughed and told jokes, and by no means were we quiet. I had experience with horses, and the girl from Texas did too. The girl from Ohio said not so much, but the two Ticos said they did. Tico and Carlos were the only two who could settle our horses and control the others when the shooting started. We all jumped off our horses and held the reigns as we shook in our boots.
The tension shattered with the twig crack, followed by more gunfire sounding into the air. My friends and I, all teenagers aged 15 to 17, had never been faced with such a scenario—not with guns wielded by soldiers outside of banks or government buildings as the norm in North America.
These rapid shots left us paralyzed in shock and fear, with a stark realization washing over me: my life was in danger, and I needed to act. Sweat trickled down my neck, not from the 25°C humid heat but rather from the sheer terror of having an automatic weapon pointed directly at me. I was facing certain death and felt my bowels and urinary tract letting go. What could I do? I stood there and felt the trickle slide down my leg and into my boot. The shit in my underwear sitting in a clump smelled immediately, and I knew everyone else knew what was happening to me. My fear was beyond anything I had ever experienced, and my heart beat out of my chest. I couldn’t feel it beating; it must’ve been beating so fast.
I took one look at the man, dismounted my horse as fast as I could blink, and gave him a closer look without provoking aggravation or suspicion of threat. He was dishevelled, his teeth were grimy, and his facial hair nearly consumed his entire face. This wild, lost soldier was fighting a cause that had long since vanished: the occupation of the United States government in Nicaragua. He clung to the delusions of a world that no longer existed in the late 1980s.
Any other day, the scent of the man in front of me might have reminded someone of a wild beast foraging in the jungle or a male leaving his scent in the jungle by marking his territory. But on this day, the fearsome creature who stood before us—a group that included me, two Americans, and two Ticos—was a frail and pitiable figure, a man who had long since lost touch with reality. A Sandinista, of all things, in the heart of the bushland of Nicaragua, close to the Costa Rican border where we had wandered over by mistake while horseback riding. It was our error, but we were at his mercy now, and we knew it didn’t look great since he looked scary and was willing to do whatever it took to survive for his cause.
It was 1987, and I was an International Rotary Exchange Student. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to me, and I wasn’t to be put into harm’s way anywhere in this God-forsaken place by my Tico friends. Yet, here I was, struggling with the insurmountable fear that bubbled inside me; I panicked and raised my hands, desperately shouting the first words that came to mind.
“No, no, don’t do it! Soy canadiense, soy canadiense. Por favor. No. Por favor. No disparen. No disparen. Por favor. No.” I fell to my knees, repeating, “I’m Canadian. I’m Canadian. Please no. Please. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. Please, no.” Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, and I found it hard to breathe, wondering what caused the breathlessness, panic or imminent death that could’ve used a puffer to ease my spiralling mania.
I knelt, and I felt a puddle of mud form from my forehead pressed against the ground, the mix of my tears and the dirt beneath me becoming a painful reminder of my vulnerability. Aware that urine had already slid down my legs and into my socks and riding boots, and I was sure the shit in my pants was ready to fall out at any time, too.
I was acutely aware of the other’s presence, but for a long time, it felt like it was just him and me suspended in a horrifying moment of confrontation.
The odour of his unwashed body mingled with sweat, and the stench of urine and feces enveloped me. I must have sent the same scent back his way. I couldn’t discern if he was merely simple-minded or if his lack of education rendered him unable to grasp the seriousness of his actions. A frantic voice echoed inside my head; Jo, holy shit, this is for real. This is for Motherfucking Real. This isn’t a Hollywood movie. This is it! You’re going down in the middle of nowhere at 17. What the fuck! Why God?
My mind zigged and zagged like pool balls on a break. What options did I have but to negotiate? I hoped that being Canadian might evoke pity from him and that maybe he wouldn’t want to harm someone from a country known for its kindness and passivity towards other nations. I realized that if I somehow survived this, it might be because I was Canadian, and it was a fleeting chance I had to take. In desperation, I remembered the small Canadian flag draped across my shorts. I raised it for the soldier to see, and he nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing his grimy, now sweaty face.
With their fluency in Spanish, the Ticos did most of the negotiating while the rest of us pretended to act as calm as we could. I watched as Carlos handed over his and my money to the soldier. After receiving the cash, he stepped back, leaving us momentarily unharmed. He took Carlos’ and my beer and told us to get down on the ground and count to 20 with our noses to the ground. We counted to twenty—one, two, three, sobbing after each number we said aloud—and when we finally stood, he was already gone.
With relief, we hugged one another and emptied our pants into the bush. Then we retraced our steps cautiously, mindful that the soldier might follow us back to where we were staying. We didn’t want to risk him stealing livestock or worse. Instead of returning the way we’d come, we chose a different path, returning to the farm. Just before the others at the farm noticed anything, Carlos told the guards about the incident to one of the guards. He and his men stood diligently all night at their posts. He told us that it was unlikely the man could track the horses back this far, but you never know. That night, we all vowed to keep quiet about the incident. We talked it through amongst ourselves, trying to make sense of our shared fear.
Sometime before dawn, Carlos and I got up to feed the animals and water the horses for another horse ride. We heard a single shot far off into the bush about 3000 metres to the northeast. The direction we had gone when we crossed the border and met up with the soldier.
The guards returned with his body at dawn. He wasn’t expecting Carlos or me to be up. He apologized to both of us for having to see the dead man. He gave us back our money, and then they stripped the man down and took his body to the back of the farm and hung him naked for the animals to eat. He was hung along the fence row, and the pigs finished with him in less than an hour. The guards went out, untied his feet, and threw him into the muck so the pigs could finish him off for good. They burned his clothes, and they took his boots and drowned them in the lake with stones. There was nothing left of the soldier that I could tell.
Except I was wrong. That soldier remained with me and Carlos for years. We spoke about the incident and the man many times. We knew we were lucky, and we were glad, we said, that if we were to die, we would have died together. Dieing with your best friend is something a lot of people cannot say they’ve done unless they have been to war. The visions and the night sweats about the fear of dying stuck with me longer than I could handle. It made a shambles of my life for a while, and it fucked up my choices when it came to choosing men sometimes. But in the end, I got the help I needed and came through it unscathed.
As an adult reflecting on that day, I understand how profound that moment was in my life. It influenced my life from that day forward in many ways. The encounter improved my person and prepared me for the challenges ahead. I emerged more potent and resilient, with a skin that allowed me to navigate rough patches with courage. One moment of chaos became the impetus I needed to become the woman I am today I know the mistakes I’ve made, and I accept them as learning how to be the best woman I can be.