By Austin Blasingame, Jedidiah Artist
“Hell’s Gate-” The name given to the entrance of La Chureca, a trash dump community in Managua, Nicaragua. Passing through “Hells Gate” is like entering a portal; everything in your mind goes blurry and it feels like time stands still. There is a telephone line, marking the entrance, hanging about 15 feet above ground, displaying burnt toys, shoes and junk. The visuals are unlike any place I have ever seen. There are numerous fires filling the air with smoke and ash, garbage piled high: medals, cow bones, plastics, and men that look like they have been at war for days; they are covered head to toe with miss-matched clothing, bandannas covering their faces, and spears – unapproachable. For a full year I had wild and mysterious thoughts about “Hell’s Gate,” and was eager to step foot back in.
Tuesday morning, 9:30- I am one of 11 packed in a mini-van, windows shut and conversation evaporating as we turn the corner to see the familiar fires and activity at the entrance of La Chureca, “Hell’s Gate.” I actively scout the grey surroundings, taking everything in, conditions of the walls, health risks, ten workers (five younger males and five older,) all glancing towards our vans. I feel precarious, yet determined. I spot a wall, 100 ft long, every inch blackened by smoke and dirt.
Wed morning, 10:45- I am eager to get back to the wall after a long day of service inside the dump and only a few hours of sleep. Our group is large, and once again we are in mini-vans, only this time six of us exit the vehicles to set foot in “Hell’s Gate.” A middle aged worker, Luiz, is there to greet us. Brad Corrigan talks with him, takes my sketchbook and shows him the image I constructed, a montage of three stellar photos taken by photographers from the previous year, main image of worker shot by Luiz Maximiano. The local man seems to approve and moments later we are ushered into a cement factory, which exists on the other side of the enormous wall-none of us even had a clue it was there. The owner/manager reviews the sketch, asks us what our intentions are and after a few minutes of our broken Spanish, he approves. So far so good, Patrick Maxcy and I begin to brush the wall down, getting rid of 5 layers of soot and dirt. It is all happening so quickly, I can’t believe it. I ask myself, “Is it really this simple, no harassment. Is it going be this smooth? No way.”- The workers (10) linger about 20 steps back, what is going through their minds?
Because of the raw conditions of the wall and lack of preparation on the surface I am resorting to spray paint-the only medium that has a chance of sticking to the surface in a timely manner. The first strokes are down, the wall barely taking the paint, as it fights years of scum. I haven’t a clue to what move I am making next, other than creating some abstract design that feels appealing. It is a, “speed problem-” an act of spontaneity. I pick out the three most vibrant colors of spray paint that I found at a local hardware store the night before (brands I had never seen or used) and just start going off. The Color gives life to the wall, workers gather, some with looks of confusion, others screaming slang (can’t understand,) while others sit and admire quietly on the opposing wall, all while our crew moves about in various directions just taking it all in. Dump trucks fly by, smoke from assorted tire fires fill my lungs and irritate my eyes; the wind is constantly arousing weightless material, paper and ash, which is building a black mass on my skin.
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