The following are excerpts from Daniel's journals written while working and living in Central America during the late 80's. The last two pieces were written as "dear friends" letters, copied and mailed out to update many friends, family members and supporters of the FPI during the winter ('88-'89) footbag peace expedition.
...I am a footbag sewer by trade these days and an unrepentant player of this game known widely in the States as "Hacky Sack". But I didn't trek through Central America to make a spectacle or to promote my leather balls this winter. Though I was careful to pack plenty of footbags and sewing equipment, I felt strongly compelled by the current situation to focus my energy as a volunteer on several peace oriented projects. So it was I entered Central America for the sixth time, no longer a vagabonding young tourist, but rather as a carpenter, an escort and an activist. I felt I needed to offer myself directly in the struggle.
...Working as part of a "Sister City" delegation out of New Haven, Connecticut, I help repair and refurbish an old museum in Leon. Later, six of us carpenters help dig latrines at a nearby shanty town on the fringe of the city. Here our unexpected presence creates a great spectacle and we're hosted in dusty cardboard shacks like visiting royalty by throngs of curious and friendly Nicaraguans. For days we scratch down into the cotton-wasted hardpan, surrounded by an animated horde of kids and dogs who advise, heckle, help and ask endless questions about war, American politics and rock. Our digging efforts notwithstanding, friendship only fully blooms between us and the "Nicas" at break time when, scorched and weary, only b-a-s-e-b-a-l-l spelled relief...
...The Nicaraguans never fail to make time for their game of choice, baseball. Introduced by American marines at the beginning of the century, baseball has caught on and grown to be the sporting passion in this nation of three million. There's a grim irony in our waging a (proxy) war against fellow baseball lovers. This is, after all a country that virtually cannonized Roberto Clemente! The Contras are killing men and women who crowd around radios each October to take in the Series, for heavens sake!
...I'd wondered if hardship and hunger wouldn't defeat the gaming impulse. After years of war, losing friends and family, how could one still care abut sports? Yet, (as my colleague wrote) "I've never seen so many graceful, young athletes, many times playing with cut off tree limbs and balled up socks. There is an utterly miraculous thing that happens when you take to the street with a baseball or a frisbee. Its instant Pied Piper and miles of smiles!"
So it was probably inevitable that a gang of ballplaying teenagers would challenge us carpenters to nine innings one afternoon. The game is played in a rocky churchyard that passed for the neighborhood diamond. We are all immediately swept up in the friendly but very serious competition. The game stays close into the late innings with we New Englanders exploitng our size and strength for a slim lead. Holding a fleetfooted runner on first in the bottom of the 8th, I suddenly realized that somewhere in the course of the game we had ceased to be Gringos and Nicas. Absorbed in the contest we had shed our cultural roles and momentarily become just two determined baseball squads going all out to the end. They rough and tumbled us to victory as my apparent game winning homer rolled off the ancient church roof and was caught (local rules) in the bottom of the 9th.
...Central Americans hold some powerful and long standing stereotypes about us "gringos" and about our United States. Though largely ignorant of the specific details, people here have watched enough North American tourists, tycoons and military come and go over the years to draw some inevitable assumptions. Above all, we gringos are seen as worldly, wealthy, well travelled, priviledged and very powerful, the vaguard of finance, industry, fashion, music medicine and of course, armed might. Set against the backdrop of gnawing poverty and injustice, the presence today of (even well-meaning) gringo tourists serves to reinforce all of these stereotypes. In that desperate peasants are often compelled by circumstances (chronic underemployment) to peddle or beg a few centavos from passing foreigners, the subsequent interaction of cultures settles predictably into the mercenary realm. It is no exaggeration to say that in Central America, we North Americns are simultaneously admired, envied, feared and hated.
...Having grown weary of an extended stint as a human rights escort, I prepare to leave the smoke of Guatemala City for the beautiful highland departments of Chimaltenango, Solola and el Quiche. These regions were all hit hard by the massive counter insurgency campaigns in the early 80's and today, like much of Guatemala, remain under military occupation. Naively I thought I could just go there, keep a low profile, shoot pictures and perhaps talk with a few people about the situation. Except that its awful silly for me, a tall bearded, bespectacled gringo to hope to be able to mingle discreetly in rural, indigenous Guatemala.
Everywhere I go, a feeling of tension and uncertainty floats in the air. I am painfully aware of the fearful, questioning stares around me. Once I've left the Pan American Highway, it becomes nearly impossible to appear in public without attracting uncomfortable attention, whispering, anxiety and fear. Here, I guess, you don't just pull into town and party with the locals...
Realizing that to continue my journey means to endure a lot of unpleasant attention and public "spectacle", I become intrigued with the concept of letting loose a real spectacle, but on my own terms. The obvious candidate is that which I've been discreetly hiding, el futbolito. The prankster in me says: If spectacle is inevitable, why not make it a good one?! I'm acutely aware that "coming out" with the footbag will heighten many-fold the attention I'm generating. Is this really desirable? ethical? safe? What right do I have, I wonder, to wander uninvited into these remote, Indian communities flaunting my priviledge and my sport? Besides, what relevance could footbag really have to a desperately poor, violence wracked country like this? Haven't we North Americans perpetrated enough of our schemes, toys and chauvinistic meddling here already? Though plagued by these doubts and questions, there's also a strong intuitive voice in me which keeps saying: "PLAY!"
...And so it is that I take to the street each day in the misty heights of Chimaltenango with no other earthly plan than to teach people footbag. I begin in the tiny village of Comalapa, an ancient place which in 1540 was the scene of a huge massacre of Indians by the Spanish conquerors. By the time the ancient bus bounces over the last dirt switchback, it is late afternoon in the mountains. I wander down to the plaza and try non-challantly to hang out, pretending that scores of Comalapans aren't now staring at me. Faking confidence, I strike up a conversation in Spanish with some of the locals loitering on the cracked basketball court.
"You fellas play any futbolito?", I inquire off handedly. "No? Wanna give it a try?" And as if it were the most natural thing, for some strange gringo to show up and play footbag in their village, I begin a solo kicking warmup right there on the cement. The boys are entranced by my game, so familiar yet completely new to them. Instantly, a circle forms and, sporting huge grins, they each take a try, mimicking my practiced, rythmic kicks. Typically, the Guatemalan Indians are already very talented at kicking games. Even the poorest, most remote villages have their requisite soccer (futbol) field with its sagging goal posts propped against the elements. In Guatemala, boys are weaned on soccer (girls play basketball) developing remarkable foot skills at an early age. It takes only a short time for my new buddies to adjust their timing and apply their natural reflexes to the tiny footbag.
Soon, a few older boys including several hot shot soccer players join in and pick up the pace. By now, the entire plaza is watching, laughing and commenting on the strange circle game. I am pleased to let the game go on for quite a while, relieved that it is no longer "gringo on parade" but rather futbolito, the game itself which has captivated the attention of "downtown" Comalapa. At dark I reclaim my practice bags and announce that I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. "Also," I add as an afterthought, "if anyone wants to learn how to make futbolitos, I will gladly teach you."
Dear Friends,
As most of you already know, the five of us have been occupied with the serious task of playing footbag, sewing and making a film in the streets of Central America...
...On a lazy afternoon at the Ministry of Culture in Guatemala City, all the government beaurocrats are chatting, primping and feigning business whenever a superior walks by. Finally, after an hour's wait, Mary and I finally gain a meeting with Don Julio Garcia, the head honcho. An Anglo-looking man with a manicured black beard, Don Julio listens intently as I briefly explain our footbag peace project and our desire for a letter of support. I finish the rap and Don Julio nods solemnly, then calls over an assistant to hear our story. "How then is this futbolito played?" inquires the assistant.
"Well" I begin slowly, "there are those in the States who've developed four competitive versions, but we prefer the popular, cooperative game played in a circle... "Imgine that", exclaims Señor Garcia, "four ways of playing el Futbolito! Yes, we can write you a letter. We will explain the Four Ways to the people of Guatemala!"
"Well actually sir, we really need you to mention the film project so people in the departments will understand why we're carrying this camera..." I try diplomtically to shift their attention back to our peace expedition.
"Yes of course," he continues with growing excitement. "Now tell me once again these Four Ways and I will write them down..." And so it went, us bemused and enduring the Señor 's good intentions and evangelical zeal in the far reaches of this sweaty ministry building. After taking our name, the title of our project and sending his helper off to craft the letter, Don Julio chats politely with us still trying to elicit more information about the Four Ways. Finally, I'm struck with an idea...
"Señor Garcia, si usted lo quiere, nosotros podrí amos hacer una demostración de este futbolito" ("If you'd like we could do a demonstration of ths futbolito.") "Sería magní fico, pero ¿cuando?" ("That would be magnificent, but when?") "Ahora mismo!" ("Right now") I respond, eyeing Mary with a grin.
With a word el Señor calls together about 25 office workers who gather in an expectant half circle around the two strange gringos. Tables are moved and a cursory explanation is offered. Then, we proceed with a short display of basic kicking skills, a few head stalls and take a bow. The place erupts in pandemonium! In seconds three new futbolitos are snatched away. Ministry employees scurry around looking for free space between the desks. Chattering and laughing wildly, others find paper balls and anything remotely kickable and begin to practice. A portly man practically demands a futbolito for his school. A woman with high heels steps in, grabs it and starts kicking excitedly.
Meanwhile Señor Garcia snaps shut his briefcase and bids us goodbye with the authority of a job well done. Mary and I collapse in sweaty heaps on a couch answering questions and shaking hands. Within moments we are offered gigs at a school, a prison, a staff party and the heartfelt friendship of a sweet employee named Gilda. At long last our letter of support arrives. Miraculously, it contains no mention of the Four Ways! Giggling deliriously and slapping each other with joy, Mary and I run down the stairs and escape again into the city...
Our time in the Guatemalan capital is spent running chores and trying not to inhale the air which is toxic by any standard. We perform for a talent show at the nation's largest prison and at halftime of a soccer match in the national stadium. Later we go on morning talk television and get written up in "La Prensa Libre", one the two right wing dailies. We are fortunate to meet twice with our dear friend Karen, who's been living here doing solidarity work in Guatemala for years. But our real agenda is to share el futbolito with the indigenous villages in the highlands. So, after a week in the smoke we depart with high hopes for El Quiche...
...The day after we arrived in Guatemala, 21 peasants were kidnapped in Itzapa, Chimaltenango. The papers reported the incident in gory detail declaring the guerrillas responsible. The following day all 21 were found dead many miles from their village. The story held front page for several days without any variation of the official account. Then on market day in Zacualpa (a remote village historically victimized by represson) we noticed little fliers all over the ground with a cartoon of a grinning, Fidel guerrilla shooting dead an Indian peasant with 20 caskets in the background. "How many more of you will be victims?" it read. On the back in bold purple ink: "Unify yourselves with the army civil patrol! The army supports you!" But the questions hang latent for anyone who dares to ponder yet in this supposed democracy: Why would the guerrillas murder 21 campesino villagers? What vehicles could they have used to transport 21 kidnapped people? Why do the papers not print anything but the official account? profiles of the dead villagers? interviews with survivors? And who would dare to speak? Who could write these profiles? Who would interview these survivors if they were foolish enough to share their bitter secrets?
...Boarding an ancient Bluebird school bus at 3:00 AM in the backwaters of mountainous Quiche and riding cram-packed over the worst dirt road ever conceived must be the quintessential Guatemala experience. In the darkness the smell of bodies blends with the dust and the too-loud, sappy love songs, melding us with all humanity in a haunting epic of passion and suffering...
Slowly, painfully we gain a more intimate view of the life, the history, the poverty and the struggle of the Guatemalan people. Ironically, each day of this footbag brigade convinces me that the work we are doing really centers on ourselves and our North American compatriots. We come unexpected, we play and share, create a few fleeting spectacles and leave a few hundred leather balls among the indigenous people... And then, we are gone... Even if this little game were to catch on here (which is possible) what real difference could it make in the lives and destiny of these people? I guess the answer is... sometimes one must travel thousands of miles and plunge headlong into a "journey", a group experience, a project or a sport, as if these were in fact our ultimate purposes in life. Its difficult to think of returning home, speaking to others, political organizing or networking. For now, we are simply five young hack athletes kicking in the streets of Central America, sharing what we love with brown skinned strangers. Whether or not this is futile, or arrogant, or absurd, or trivial, or naive, we go forward as if it mattered... on faith.
In Joyabaj, Quiche we hit the streets again, our arrival coinciding perfectly with la Fiesta de la Concepctión, a colorful mix of street dancing, fireworks, and religion. In two days the town is awash with at least fifty futbolitos and everywhere we go we are swarmed by jubilant patojos (kids). John teaches footbag making to an entire family from Chichicastenengo. Robbie is adopted by a religious musical group whom he films (and plays back to on a borrowed T.V.).
In between kicking sessions our favorite "juice" bag is stolen in a crowd. When I realize the theft I get real serious and inform the crowd about its loss. They all commiserate and assure us that they didn't take it. Suspicion quickly falls on Juaquin, who had borrowed the "juice" and then left on his bicycle. Along with a number of young friends, I walk crosstown to talk to Juaquin, who denies having the footbag. By now word of the theft spreads all over town. Everyone is indigant! Even a withered old woman stops me on the street to inquire about the stolen footbag. With the collective conscience of Joyabaj mobilized, I retire for lunch resigned to accept the fate of the "juice".... Three hours later I return to our rooms to find several young friends - and Juaquin - with the missing sack! A story is offered and accepted and a promised reward (a bag of leather) is exchanged. Needless to say, the street party begins anew with the entire plaza remaining "fertile with fut" well into the darkening hours!
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...We had no expectations that Honduras would be such a stunningly beautiful place. Immediately upon crossing the border we begin a dramatic winding bus ride into lush green mountains adorned by misty conifers and small, well-kept farms... Unfortunately, the two Honduran cities are quite another thing entirely. Arriving late and exhausted in San Pedro Sula, we accidently take rooms above the drunkenest, loudest street and end up listening to raunchy bar songs and street fights all night long... Leaving Tegucigalpa the next day, we are again startled by the sheer beauty of this country we knew only as a U.S. client state and "backward banana republic". Tall expansive mountains covered by cloud forests and cornfields give way to a high, desert basin, then more spectacular mountains. Liza befriends a young boy, Fernando and his old mother and before long they have promised us a place to stay in San Marcos... We ride onward into the gathering dusk, each of us lost in our thoughts. Lights from some faraway city glimmer on the northern horizon and even farther away, hanging almost imperceptible in the twilight sky, is the perfect cone of a huge volcano...
...After the inconvenience and anxiety of crossing the imaginary line we call a "national boundary", we arrive at long last in Nicaragua. We walk freely into this revolutionary nation with hardly anyone taking note of our presence. However, there is a distinctly different feeling in the air: the quality of scarcity penetrates everything beginning with the absence of a bus to carry us southward. Finally we secure a ride in an already crowded pickup truck and arrive at the bus yard of the first interior town. Many people are sitting quietly around the periphery of the scorched depot waiting for what might have been hours or days for trucks to carry them elsewhere. Of course we are instantly noticed and carefully observed by these Nicaraguans (mostly women, children, and elders). Robbie diplomatically strikes up a conversation with a friendly man explaining briefly who we are. Liza and I casually kick a footbag by way of illustration. As usual, there are smiles and curiousity is generated. However, this time it is overshadowed by an unmistakable feeling of stress and hardship. I feel suddenly very self-conscious, almost obscene appearing here with all our backpacks and toys.
We are saved the continuation of the footbag session by the arrival of a large flatbed truck which carries us and 50 odd Nicaraguans another 20 kilometers into the interior. Stranded again for several hours in the hot sun, we hitchhike without success, chat and play with several dozen Nica kids who come out to join us on the highway. This roadside interlude, like so many others, becomes a whole story in itself and when an army truck finally pulls over for us, it is with real sadness that we say goodbye and climb aboard.
Being in Nicaragua is a challenge to all of the senses. At first one is harshly assaulted by the incredible dilapidation and omnipresent poverty. However, after several days there is another quality which emerges through the pervasive scarcity: the feeling of ganas (spirit or desire). Whether you agree with the Sandinista cause, disagree or ride the fence, there is no denying the emotional, social and spiritual intensity generated by the Revolution. People here are awake. They are connected to their world and to each other on an intimate, dynamic level. They have an acute awareness of the big picture. Whether party militants or simple peasants, they are personally cognizant of history as a fluid entity relevant to their lives. They seem to believe in themselves, believe in their future.
We've been warmly welcomed in Condega, a small, heroic town in the far north of Nicaragua. Here, our friend Anne Perkins of Wendell (Mass.) helped to build a school complex last year with the "Brigada Companeras". The school was named after Moises Cordoba, a well-known local who was ambushed and murdered a year ago by the Contras as he drove out to deliver an amnesty agreement. Fighting has mostly subsided near here with a tenuous cease fire lingering from Sapoa and the change in U.S. administrations. Contra attacks continue in the mountains with daily civilian casualties and significant economic loss... Each day I awake burdened anew with the knowledge that Bush will be innaugurated next month...
...We've thrown ourselves with renewed vigor into the futbolito mission, sharing and teaching at the Ministry of Education, with a farming cooperative, and even hanging out for a day with a platoon of soldiers. Everywhere we go we leave footbags, needles, templates, smiles and new friends. Robbie continues tirelessly collecting awesome film footage and interviews with Central Americans of all stripes. (Ironically, this is the first country we've been in where people seem to feel safe enough to express anti-government opinions.) In the time that remains to us we are planning footbag gigs in Esteli, with the Nicaraguan Institute for Sports, with a sewing cooperative and with the Mothers of the Heroes and Martyrs. Then we're off to Matagalpa to visit a coffee cooperative and pay respects at Ben Linder's grave...
Thank you all for your support and your caring. We hope this letter finds each of you warm and well. We send thoughts for Peace in the New Year.
Daniel Botkin, for the Footbag Peace Initiative
(Robbie Leppzer, Liza Wheeler, John Gould, Mary Mastro & John Hawes)
March 25, 1989
Dear Friends and Supporters of the FPI,
It is with great joy and sadness that I write this latest newsletter about the Footbag Peace Initiative. Although the filming ended in January with the departure of Robbie, four of us (Liza, Mary, Tis and I) lingered in Central America, myself until early March. As you perhaps gathered from our first letter, our experiences as futbolitistas por la paz were provocative, transformational and fun. We each, I believe, have been permanently changed by thisencounter. Now we face the significant challenge of returning to gringoland and incorporating this episode into our lives and our work.
Standing mezmerized in a supermarket in front of twelve varieties of toilet paper I can only think of my Indian friends in San Pedro, Guatemala. Teresa, Ventura and their four lovely children living in that simple, ancient, lakeside village ...
...Footbag turned out to be a great medium for us to go public in Central America. As non-partisan, noncommercial emmisaries, we were universally welcomed with great affection and openess. People everywhere were refreshed and appreciative to meet American visitors who were neither mercenaries, military, nor typical tourists! Thousands of Central Americans had an experience this winter of playful, sweaty communion with some unusal norteamericanos - a small thing for sure, compared to the magnitude of the problems facing the region today. However, we knew from the start that our's was partly a propaganda mission: to advertise the possibility of gringo/latino friendship using a symbolic, cultural link...
... In Esteli we find rooms and hit the street to do our thing. Arriving at the park before the others, I strike up a casual conversation with a young cigarette vendor named Ivan. Soon he starts with a familiar rap about the USA having tons of great things. He asks me to read all the labels on the imported (smuggled) U.S. cigarettes. He tells me of his aunt in Los Angeles and his hope to emigrate (to avoid mandatory service in the Sandinista army). Finally, getting kind of irritated, I try to give Ivan another picture of North America, explaining some of the less fortunate aspects of the gringo culture. But, Ivan will have none of this and insists that we in the States have everything while Nicaragua has shit. As illustration, he withdraws a huge wad of cordoba (Nicaraguan) bills and begins to count tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds. When he finishes, snapping through the wad he looks up and reminds me, "It's not even worth one dollar!"
Searching for a response I respond, "You're right. We in the States do have many fine products and materials, but you Nicaraguans have heart!" My friend smiles weakly but I could tell that his mind was not changed. The following day, I redeem myself with sad Ivan by teaching him to sew a footbag amidst a crowd of others who were waiting to sew. When he realizes how easy it is a huge smile fills his face. Knowing that I am giving Ivan one more gringo product to covet, I can't help feeling good seeing him momentarily shed his gloom and enjoy himself there in the park ...
... I go to talk politics late at night with a new friend, ex-Frente (Sandinista) fighter from the insurrection, Paco. He takes me instead to the wake of a farmer friend murdered earlier in the day by an unknown visitor. Nobody seems to know who killed this man, or rather, nobody says what they know. Instead, all the mourners at this ghostly midnight affair sip incredibly sweet black coffee and mumble vague platitudes to no one in particular. Paco tells me that this is a regular occurance in Matiguas with killings occurring every week. Some blame the Contra, but others think the violence is being committed by irresponsible Sandinista soldiers meting out jungle justice. In any case, the whole town is sick of it. The next day, no one meets my gaze when I say "buenos dias".
I meet and talk with many young men who are or were in the army... A cherub-faced Sandinista soldier giggles nervously as he explains to me that he has only 35 days left of his two year obligatory service. "The last few weeks are the most dangerous," he explains to me, "because thats when a compa starts to get overconfident that he isn't going to die..." I don't know what else to say besides good luck. I give the kid a futbolito to take to the mountains. I picture him playing with it in between maneuvers. He smiles shyly over his shoulder as he leaves ...
Another young soldier, on leave after a hernia operation, shows me around his birthplace, the lovely Pacific port town of San Juan del Sur. He relates to me experiences as a child seeing his first corpse on the street, a victim of the hated Guardia. Later, as a soldier in the mountains he was still not accostomed to the proximity with death and he developed an ulcer from tension and the combat diet...
... Another ex-compa (also with an ulcer) describes how he was lucky to have landed the job of driver in the army rather than foot soldier. This was a relatively safer role, he explained, only the cargo that he carried was dead and wounded comrades. He says one word when I ask him gently to describe it. "Horrible..." (Its spelled the same in both languages).
The Contra war has taken a horrible toll on Nicaragua. The U.S. funded army has been mostly repulsed, however, the moral and economic damage that the war has left makes you wonder if the bastards weren't successful after all... Having spent most of its scant resources on defense since the early 80's, the nation's economy is completely shot. Inflation like we've never dreamed of runs rampant with major price rises occuring practically every Monday. You cannot live on an average salary. Many people feel desperate and are resorting to whatever they can to survive. The feeling of anger, fear and disgust permeates the poorer quarters, feeding and growing on itself. Even many working class people who have given their sweat and blood and who understood the historical necessity for sacrifice are losing patience with the Sandinistas. Record numbers of Nicaraguans have left or seek to leave for other shores. There is some hope generated by the Central American leaders' recent agreement to disband the Contra. Also, there are faint indications of a desire to normalize relations coming from Washington. Regardless of what Bush does in Central America, Nicaragua will survive and maintain its sovereignty. Except, one would wish relief from suffering for people who have suffered for so long...
I, for one, have been smitten very hard this time by Nicaragua. The mixture of tragedy and beauty, heroism and desperation grabs me and, not surprisingly, I've grown to love and hate this place deeply... The weariness and frustration straining the faces of poor people the day the price of everything doubled unexpectedly... The brutal chaos of fighting for room on an already crowded bus as it rolls dangerously out of the station... The unsung heroism of a proud old woman giving up her seat on a three hour ride to a young mother with her baby... The stunning grace of a bouyant campesino lad who comes upon us trekking in the hills, riding the pure ass of his loaded nag. Before we exchange ten words he coaxes Robbie up onto his spare horse and whips them off prancing along the mountain trail!
On our final "official" day together we climb together to a marvelous vista where together we sew a final, ceremonial sack. A rapid-forming tropical storm sprays us with cool, cleansing "brisa", then blows over to more shining sun... Now it is over. The Footbag Peace Initiative has completed its first goal and returned Stateside. After three weeks accompanying my sister Laura in Nicaragua (she is a physical therapist who was volunteering and donating equipment) and two weeks depressurizing in Guatemala, I have returned to face the vestiges of winter and my life in America.
As I sit here in Wendell at my typewriter, it is not without deep questions that I look back on our experience of footbagging for peace. Juxtaposed against the affection, fun and excitement we shared in Central America is the current news of the election farce in El Salvador, growing repression in Guatemala and further hardship in Nicaragua. I guess each of us must choose the energy we give to and take from the world, in work, in relationships and in practice. I have no doubt that for us today, this project was the best contribution we could make. Even so, certain questions still linger...
We realized early on that our vision required a substantial leap of faith. Now, as we review the film images collected in Central America, we sense the broad potential of the seeds we planted. A little leather ball gave us the chance to make soulful, joyous connections with thousands. Using the power of our collective imagination (and Robbie's camera) we painted a potent image of what is possible between so called enemies in the world...
But for me, our success has gone bittersweet as I return badly injured in both knees. After our group had split up I was jamming hard one January night in Costa Rica with my partner, "Tis". I noticed a sort of numbness under my right kneecap. The following day I told Tis I couldn't play anymore and tried stretching out my legs. But after watching my buddie play solo for a while, I decided to try a few kicks to see how it felt. A little led to a lot, and once warm, the numb sensation in my knee vanished! Kicking with more confidence and mastery than ever, I went on dancing and leaping and spinning (catastophically) all afternoon and much of the evening. Tis grew tired and quit, but I was performing for the crowd and showing the world that I was Danny Dog, the unstoppable wizard of sack... Ten minutes after quitting that night, I could barely walk.
I strugggled for six more weeks to get around and survive in Central America, dealing not only with my painful injury, but also with a deep depression over my dreadful mistake. Finally, in February, I took refuge in San Pedro, an Indian village in Guatemala where I tried to slow down, lick my wounds and recoup.
Now, two months later, I'm home again trying to put the pieces back together. An orthopedic surgeon confirms that I have severe chondromalacia (a problem I first developed as a bike touring fanatic at 23) an erosion of articular cartilage in the knee joint under the patella, a kind of injury-induced arthritis. With drugs, therapy and time, they say, I'll be able to manage the injury and hopefully rehabilitate my knees, once again. But the way I feel now, its hard to imagine ever kicking a footbag. It's gonna be a while before I recapture my light spirit.
Like a fool, I let myself get addicted to the medium and temporarily forgot the message, the real point of all our work. I let myself be seduced by the thrill of being the star, the footbag rogue. The karma of being an excellent player and street performer gobbled me up and swallowed me whole.
It hurts to think of giving up sports and physical activities. Worse is the feeling of personal failure at having pissed away my health at so inopportune a moment. Because I sustained such a dumb, avoidable injury, it has been excruciatingly hard for me to accept it, learn from it, forgive myself and move on. The FPI was just getting going and we had numerous plans brewing (a Soviet brigade, South America, etc.) Surely, other athletes could continue this work... but will they?
I want to take this space to thank the many people who've supported us in our work this winter. My brother Steven, especially has been an invaluable support and contact resource. Also a sincere thanks to all of you who sent letters and contributions (totalling nearly $900). You were in our thoughts as we interacted in Central America this winter. We represented you well south of the border.
In Peace and Healing,
Daniel Botkin
FPI Coordinator
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