Prior: After our completely too-brief stay in Jinotepe, we decided to take advantage of a hosting offer and a chance to meet up with some young Nicaraguans and spend a day in Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. Mom tells us to be safe, Engels tells us to call him if anything at all happens and he or someone he knows will be there to help us, and Miriam tells us what a disaster the city is. Still, we hop on a microbus without even time for a proper goodbye and arrive at a shopping mall outside the city in a little over a half hour.
Our home: Valerie picks us up at the shopping mall, a place her husband, Sebastien, suggested because "it´s a safe place, it´s modern." So we try not to look completely ridiculous standing outside a "modern" shopping mall with our big backpacks and disheveled looks and we're soon taken to our one-night home in Managua.
As we pull in, Valerie tells us almost apologetically how when her husband was assigned to Central America and they decided to live in Nicaragua, they found that they could rent this enormous house (with swimming pool, house cleaner, groundskeeper and 24 security guard) for the same price as a 2 room flat in Paris. So, they took the chance to live in luxury for a while and, what I think is nice at least, they receive guests every so often. When Sebastien replied to my request he asked, "We only have one queen size bed in the guest room, can you share it?" We had a good laugh about that. And when we arrived, we were quite astounded.
Where are we?: Valerie makes us an incredible salad for lunch; I can't
remember the last time I had feta cheese, and olives! Her and her husband refer to themselves as French diplomats, which is not the oddest thing about this couple. Still, they are incredibly kind to us. Valerie takes us to the market, a monstrous snaking thing, the vegetable piles in this market are the biggest I've seen, maybe 8 ft tall, papayas as big as my thighs, 2 ft high blocks of fresh cheese, an entire row of bright colored candies. I never really get tired of markets. Valerie says there's another market but it's too dangerous to go to, I read somewhere that you can get illegal abortions there even, but who knows.
Roll up the windows, lock the doors: Valerie gives us a "tour" of the city. Managua is a sad city, like a ghost without anything to haunt. People forced it into existence to end petty b
ickering and nature repeatedly destroyed it, with the city caught in the middle and without any say in the matter. Now it is an absolute mess of wide streets and shopping malls, with no center, no history, no beauty, and no sense. "People have to go to the mall just to be able to sit down and drink a coffee," Valerie tells us. People seem sad when they talk about this city. Even people who live and work here avoid it, which is surprisingly easy because it's almost as if it doesn't exist at all. We see monuments and flags and the National Palace, and a bizarre church with bubble structures all over the top with a lifesize Jesus inside who appears to be inside some sort of space bubble. We pass fragments of the old city, or rather of something that might have been a city had the earth not burned or shook violently.
Regalos: As we walk past the ruins of the old, once beautiful and impressive cathedral, children run up to us, pushing palm fronds that they have twisted into flowers into our hands. "I don't have any money," I repeat and try to hand a flower back to a girl, she had actually just dropped it into my bag. "I'm sorry, amiga, but not today." She follows me, insisting I take the flower, telling me it's a gift. "I really don't have any money today, amiga, sorry." But, oddly enough, she insists that it really is just a gift. She hands it to me and walks next to me for a few moments singing a song very quietly to me. The only words I can make out are, "Doy la rosa a la mas hermosa." Before she runs off I find out her name is Estacy.
Ok, where are we?: For dinner, we have an interesting psuedo-Nicaraguan experience. Meaning, we drink Nica beer, eat Nica cheese and nacatamales, and listen to a disc of a famous Nica folk musician, only we are from the States and our hosts are from France and we are sitting in a comfortable home that is carefully guarded from Nicas. During our dinner, a few couchsurfers show up to take us to a "summer party," so we toss the rest of the queso chontaleno in our mouths, down our beers and jump in the car.
The music is absurd and brings us hysterical memories of high school. The live band is much worse so we escape to a disco, where the music only worsens. How? At least we got to meet some cool folks. But, the night wears away slowly and the guard lets us in after a lengthy search for our home.
Departure: After a morning of dark, fresh coffee and toast with organic tamarind jam,
Sebastien takes us to the bus station. "Rivas!" We hop on, hop off to buy enchiladas (not like in Mexico, here they're fried empanadas stuffed with chicken and rice with cabbage thrown all over the top of them), and look up to see our bus rolling slowly backwards, with our bags on it. We run and jump on while it's still rolling, a burning hot enchilada in one hand and the other to steady our balance.
Our home: Valerie picks us up at the shopping mall, a place her husband, Sebastien, suggested because "it´s a safe place, it´s modern." So we try not to look completely ridiculous standing outside a "modern" shopping mall with our big backpacks and disheveled looks and we're soon taken to our one-night home in Managua.
As we pull in, Valerie tells us almost apologetically how when her husband was assigned to Central America and they decided to live in Nicaragua, they found that they could rent this enormous house (with swimming pool, house cleaner, groundskeeper and 24 security guard) for the same price as a 2 room flat in Paris. So, they took the chance to live in luxury for a while and, what I think is nice at least, they receive guests every so often. When Sebastien replied to my request he asked, "We only have one queen size bed in the guest room, can you share it?" We had a good laugh about that. And when we arrived, we were quite astounded.
Where are we?: Valerie makes us an incredible salad for lunch; I can't
remember the last time I had feta cheese, and olives! Her and her husband refer to themselves as French diplomats, which is not the oddest thing about this couple. Still, they are incredibly kind to us. Valerie takes us to the market, a monstrous snaking thing, the vegetable piles in this market are the biggest I've seen, maybe 8 ft tall, papayas as big as my thighs, 2 ft high blocks of fresh cheese, an entire row of bright colored candies. I never really get tired of markets. Valerie says there's another market but it's too dangerous to go to, I read somewhere that you can get illegal abortions there even, but who knows.Roll up the windows, lock the doors: Valerie gives us a "tour" of the city. Managua is a sad city, like a ghost without anything to haunt. People forced it into existence to end petty b
ickering and nature repeatedly destroyed it, with the city caught in the middle and without any say in the matter. Now it is an absolute mess of wide streets and shopping malls, with no center, no history, no beauty, and no sense. "People have to go to the mall just to be able to sit down and drink a coffee," Valerie tells us. People seem sad when they talk about this city. Even people who live and work here avoid it, which is surprisingly easy because it's almost as if it doesn't exist at all. We see monuments and flags and the National Palace, and a bizarre church with bubble structures all over the top with a lifesize Jesus inside who appears to be inside some sort of space bubble. We pass fragments of the old city, or rather of something that might have been a city had the earth not burned or shook violently.
Regalos: As we walk past the ruins of the old, once beautiful and impressive cathedral, children run up to us, pushing palm fronds that they have twisted into flowers into our hands. "I don't have any money," I repeat and try to hand a flower back to a girl, she had actually just dropped it into my bag. "I'm sorry, amiga, but not today." She follows me, insisting I take the flower, telling me it's a gift. "I really don't have any money today, amiga, sorry." But, oddly enough, she insists that it really is just a gift. She hands it to me and walks next to me for a few moments singing a song very quietly to me. The only words I can make out are, "Doy la rosa a la mas hermosa." Before she runs off I find out her name is Estacy.Ok, where are we?: For dinner, we have an interesting psuedo-Nicaraguan experience. Meaning, we drink Nica beer, eat Nica cheese and nacatamales, and listen to a disc of a famous Nica folk musician, only we are from the States and our hosts are from France and we are sitting in a comfortable home that is carefully guarded from Nicas. During our dinner, a few couchsurfers show up to take us to a "summer party," so we toss the rest of the queso chontaleno in our mouths, down our beers and jump in the car.
The music is absurd and brings us hysterical memories of high school. The live band is much worse so we escape to a disco, where the music only worsens. How? At least we got to meet some cool folks. But, the night wears away slowly and the guard lets us in after a lengthy search for our home.
Departure: After a morning of dark, fresh coffee and toast with organic tamarind jam,
Sebastien takes us to the bus station. "Rivas!" We hop on, hop off to buy enchiladas (not like in Mexico, here they're fried empanadas stuffed with chicken and rice with cabbage thrown all over the top of them), and look up to see our bus rolling slowly backwards, with our bags on it. We run and jump on while it's still rolling, a burning hot enchilada in one hand and the other to steady our balance.
