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An ice-cold Tona in my hands is the only respite from the heavy, stifling, heat and humidity. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, beads of sweat pooling and dripping from me. It’s not just the heat that is making me uncomfortable, it’s the intense gaze Carlos is directing at me, the type of gaze that seizes you, anchoring you in the moment. I am captivated by Carlos, despite the discomfort and his edgy uneasy movements he weaves an intense reality that is hard for me to fathom and hard for me to ignore. The story Carlos paints is of modern-day Nicaragua, a worn-torn impoverished country, a reality check for me and my western privilege, this story is a small insight into the livelihood of modern Central America. “So how serious is the civil war” perhaps a naive question, probably a naive question tumbles from my mouth before I can stop it. With only nationalistic pride in his voice Carlos leans back in his chair and asserts “I wouldn’t call it a civil war, the government has total control”. While slightly taken aback I am also totally enraptured, this is not the story I expected to hear when I met Carlos five minutes earlier. I was gaining an altogether different perspective from the tabloids and guide books of Nicaragua. Carlos is brimming with so much love for his mother country he is willing to die defending its honour, and willing to do that with firecrackers and words. Willing to tell me his story. “Many people just disappear, you can be arrested for simply flying a Nicaraguan flag” I take another gulp of my Tona, focusing my eyes on the label, a small distraction from those intense eyes piercing into mine. The naive images I had conjured of colourful Nicaraguan streets and guidebook photographs evaporate from my mind. A new image starts to formulate, one of unrest, one of poverty, one of inequality. Upon entering Nicaragua my group had been military searched, overlooked with harsh stares by a rifle-wielding general. A startling indication of what the next seven days would entail. Driving into Leon it had also become seemingly obvious the lack of people, the ramshackle houses and the abundance of locked doors, the aftermath of mass exodus. Despite friendly smiles and welcoming hospitality, a blanket of gloom seemed to permeate the streets. “We are fine, we are survivors, the people are returning but many have left” Carlos states somewhat optimistically. “But we still have very far to go.” Carlos' fight is for a better life, a fight that is still being fought behind closed doors. A passionate fight not for the faint-hearted. But only two days later, Carlos is forced to flee his country. We all hear the phone call, the words uttered: “The police are at my house”; we all see the fear and panic that shadows Carlos’ face. Unsure of what to say or do we all sit in silence, we stay in silence as our bags are unpacked from the car and only murmur a rushed goodbye. At dinner conversation is light, we all dance around the tense feeling in the room. Eventually, the news comes, Carlos is fleeing Nicaragua, the police have come to persecute him; his days here are numbered. He is now an enemy of the government. A political refugee. The picture I now carry in my mind of Nicaragua is not the colourful streets, its the eyes of a passionate man, his story, the memory of Carlos.