Cards by Day, Knives by Night [Nicaragua]
Dusty dirt streets, most heavily pot-holed, crisscross this barrio outside of Managua, known as Velloamacer. The streets are deserted this afternoon, sole witnesses acknowledging the presence of the tiny tin shacks, staggered, with no evidence of order, to the left and right. A steady quiet lack of movement hovers over the neighborhood. I felt uncomfortable.
An instinctual comfort returned a street later when Alvaro and I came upon a group of guys, all handsome, tanned, seemingly without a care in the world. They played cards sitting in dirt, leaning against the faded teal front of a small store. A rusted, tilting pole supported a net-less basketball hoop a few feet away, a diversion between hands.
The group didn’t pay us much attention. They knew Alvaro, my head-shaved guide and bodyguard. They couldn’t miss the strong muscles filling out his skin tight white t-shirt. These guys were gang members, arms tattooed to identify their loyalty.
The quiet of other streets was soon overtaken by their cackles as I began taking pictures, pushing one another aside, gang members lined up in an unstated, yet obvious, pecking order. They became nice guys, friendly guys, fun to be around. They were gang members. They didn’t work. Days were for lounging, silently broadcasting that they needn't work to their neighbors, from the quiet surrounding streets, now at work.
These guys played a different game at night, when bustle, hustle, and noise returned with each street’s inhabitants. It is a group game. It is extortion by knife. Gang members don’t need complex language to make their point known. Just a simple question rising from the bottom of the pecking order, the top bird hovering nearby for effect. “Hey, you want to help us out, don’t you?” No one resisted. To resist was not pointless. It was a known invitation to experience the point of a knife slicing flesh to form a scar, a visible reminder to friends and foes alike.
They were nice guys, handsome guys, friendly guys. They played cards by day, knives by night.
An instinctual comfort returned a street later when Alvaro and I came upon a group of guys, all handsome, tanned, seemingly without a care in the world. They played cards sitting in dirt, leaning against the faded teal front of a small store. A rusted, tilting pole supported a net-less basketball hoop a few feet away, a diversion between hands.
The group didn’t pay us much attention. They knew Alvaro, my head-shaved guide and bodyguard. They couldn’t miss the strong muscles filling out his skin tight white t-shirt. These guys were gang members, arms tattooed to identify their loyalty.
The quiet of other streets was soon overtaken by their cackles as I began taking pictures, pushing one another aside, gang members lined up in an unstated, yet obvious, pecking order. They became nice guys, friendly guys, fun to be around. They were gang members. They didn’t work. Days were for lounging, silently broadcasting that they needn't work to their neighbors, from the quiet surrounding streets, now at work.
These guys played a different game at night, when bustle, hustle, and noise returned with each street’s inhabitants. It is a group game. It is extortion by knife. Gang members don’t need complex language to make their point known. Just a simple question rising from the bottom of the pecking order, the top bird hovering nearby for effect. “Hey, you want to help us out, don’t you?” No one resisted. To resist was not pointless. It was a known invitation to experience the point of a knife slicing flesh to form a scar, a visible reminder to friends and foes alike.
They were nice guys, handsome guys, friendly guys. They played cards by day, knives by night.
posted by Rick Albertson at 7:23 AM
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