Reconnaissance

After many false starts, aborted departure attempts, and what was beginning to seem like a cosmic conspiracy to cancel my trip, I finally decided to just pack a bag and go. I had absorbed all the info I could from the nicaliving forums. I referenced and cross referenced everything I could in English and Spanish. I made contact with people via email, telephone, even through friends. Google Earth has really poor resolution over Granada. I had absorbed as much as I could remotely. It was time to put some shoes on the ground.

I arrived in Managua late in the evening. Man was it hot for 10:30 at night. I had the fireplace going when I left Baja. I hadn't even packed a pair of shorts. If I'm always freezing in San Jose, how is it that I finally managed to find some heat in Central America? Oh yeah, now I remember. In the tropics it's all about altitude. San Jose this isn't. So far so good.

I cruised past the curbside cabs at the airport (pricey!) and took a short hop (about 100 meters) to the main boulevard in front of the airport. There, I was greeted by several taxi drivers who were all too enthusiastic to take me to my destination, but they didn't put up much of a fight once one of them got to my bag first. His name was Francisco. As big as a linebacker with the voice of a kindergarten teacher. Very relaxed, friendly and professional. He also was about my same complexion. You see, I'm that odd shade of brown that helps me look like a local almost anywhere in the Americas. My Spanish is good enough to not sound like a gringo, and I tend to absorb the local accent after a few conversations (I do the same thing in English; it must stem from a desire to want to fit in). He threw my bag in the trunk. I shot off a quick text message to my wife back home with the taxi's license plate as I hopped into the front seat. I figured Nicaragua is probably the safest place I've been in decades, but you should always leave breadcrumbs.

The truth is, I didn't even know where I was going to stay. The first thing I noticed while planning this trip was that Nicaragua really isn't on the internet. I mean, it is there, it's just not really there yet. You can always find $100 per night hotels on the net, even in smaller towns than Managua, but what's the point of coming to Nicaragua if I'm going to spend $100 per night? Besides, the only people you ever meet in the bars of those hotels are businessmen (boring), tourists (embarrassing), and hookers (icky). Backpackers are usually a better source of info in this type of location, and backpackers are CHEAP. I named off a hotel that I vaguely remembered from the net and Francisco responded, almost on queue, that he knew a better place. Well, at least that works everywhere I've been. The cab drivers inevitably get a kickback from some small hotel. That small hotel is usually more my style. It's true, it works anywhere in the world. Give it a try.

We pulled up to the Don Quixote (foreshadowing, perhaps?) around 11 p.m. It was small, run down, and absolutely lovely. There was a security guard out front playing what I thought to be chess with a young man. Turns out they were playing checkers with chess pieces. Hey, it's a nation of poets, chess wasn't a far out assumption. I took a look around, confirmed that there was AC in the room, and paid Francisco for the cab. He seemed like a good enough guy, so I got his number and asked if he would be available the next day to take me around on some errands. He said he'd be happy to oblige and was on his way.

The young man behind the counter (another very friendly linebacker; diabetes must be rampant here, I thought) saw my passport and immediately started talking to me in English. I used to hate that. I hate being taken for a tourist, though I've hardly ever been a local my entire life. Nowadays I don't mind because last time I was in North Carolina I noticed that my waitress spoke Spanish so I immediately started speaking in Spanish. Partly as a way to quickly establish rapport (the first step in any patient encounter; it becomes a reflex) and partly to cheese the other patrons around me. I like the novelty of speaking Spanish in front of a bunch of hicks. I used to be a monolingual American, so I like to show that I've outgrown them.

I answered back in English and then immediately transitioned into Spanish. I'm actually more comfortable in Spanish these days. For a guy that never learned Spanish until adulthood (I failed it in high school), my Castellano is quite impressive. I can spice it up like a Cuban or a Chilango, or go real proper like an accountant in Jalisco. He answered back in English, but I wouldn't budge. I just think it's rude to speak English in a Spanish speaking country if you're perfectly capable of speaking Spanish, and there were other people around. His English was good enough that he must have spent some time up north. We continued back and forth showing off our second language skills. I really enjoyed that.

The room was definitely not the Radisson. Good! I hate the Radisson. You ever notice that no matter where you are in the world, all Radissons look the same? Don't get me wrong, they're lovely and soft and smell nice. But what's the point in getting into an aluminum tube, climbing six miles up in the sky and traversing the planet at the speed of a rifle bullet if you're just gonna see the same thing on the other end? This room had a bed (always desirable), a chair (which quickly became my laptop stand, a wardrobe (I always unpack) and a T.V. I don't have a T.V. at home, but it's always nice to turn on local stations when traveling to glean some local information. Never mind, it's as bad as T.V. back home. Oh, they had one other thing . . . GREAT WIFI! Fast, clean, strong signal. That's all a man needs in the 21st century. The Radisson charges $10 to use their WiFi. Don Quixote throws it in for free, like it should be. There are some things the corporate world still don't understand. Emails back home, a little VOIP to the wife, check on the business and time for bed. 3 hours in Nicaragua, and so far I've seen nothing but the airport. It's been a long day and I can only imagine how hot it's gonna be tomorrow.

Let me just point out that Francisco is more punctual than a German. I really hadn't expected that. I've been living in Latin America for 17 years and if there's one thing I've come to expect, I mean really expect, it's tardiness. I went to the lobby 15 minutes before 11 and there he was, ready to go. I really expected that if I said 11, he would show up around 11:30. That's the way it always goes in Latin America. Surely Nicaragua was no different. I didn't want him sitting there waiting for me like a Sherpa, so I passed on the gallo pinto and grabbed a Coke from the lobby fridge. Real sugar in a glass bottle, the way God intended. We headed out to Managua under all the brightness mother nature can throw at her. No clouds in the sky. Today was going to be a scorcher.

To be continued . . .