One could argue that as a native Batistan my opinion of the events I am about to recount must necessarily be tainted by local prejudice and distorted by personal involvement. And, in a way, it would be true. But of one thing you can be sure of. I will tell you what happened as best as I and other Batistans remember, local prejudice or not.

Before I start my story, I must explain a couple of things about our village and its name as well as give you a brief description of the hero of the unusual events.

Named after a Jesuit priest, Padre Batista, our hamlet lies in the district of Jinotega, south of the Honduran border. Wedged into the backdrop of greenery, it differs little from dozens of other villages (if one is bold enough to call the cluster of huts a village) in the country. Following well-rooted but unwritten rules, we have erected a church for the consolation of the soul and an inn where we gather at dusk to douse deep sorrows with wine and to celebrate small triumphs with nacacatamales made from maize dough and stuffed with pork.

Batista, population 46, has carved a passage in the jungle from which tagua palms and mauritia trees periodically send scouting tendrils to reclaim the territory unlawfully appropriated by people. We are a tightly-knit community where not much happens apart from the occasional variations births and deaths and we reply completely on whatever we can wrench from the surrounding fields, catch in lakes and streams or pick from trees and bushes. Our women harvest cotton, weave cloth, bake corn tortillas and carry babies in hemp sacks tied to their backs. We, men, plant, weed and fish when necessary which leaves us quite a lot of time for storytelling or observing leaf-cutting ants that can strip a bush naked in a matter of hours.

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