Reconaissance Part Deux (Climatizing)

I didn't plan on spending long in Managua. I was going to meet with a couple organizations, a stop by the lawyer's office, and take in a little Pollo Campero before heading to Granada.

I had developed an obsession for Pollo Campero several years back in Costa Rica. After decades of Mexican KFC, El Campero was a welcome change. Mexican KFC is nothing like the coronel. They completely changed the recipe. I understand that they don't have Uncle Sam's genetically modified chickens with pumped up pecs to give a juicy 1/2 pound breast (how do they do that? I probably don't want to know), but the 11 herbs and spices shouldn't be open to local variation. Unfortunately, El Campero is subject to the same problem. I once drove from Tijuana to LA just to get some Campero for a poker game (of course, LA has everything!!). They changed the recipe! And no dados de queso! And I had to drive into the belly of the beast. Downtown LA! What a disappointment. Like Fearless Leader once said: "There's a saying in Texas. Fool me once, shame on you. But you fool me, I can't be fooled again. . ." Anyways, enough about food. I'll get to that in Granada.

We whizzed through Managua in Francisco's taxi. Everyone drove as I had expected; like Tijuana without all the gunfights. They really use the horn a lot here. I'll have to fix mine if I bring the car. In TJ, honking your horn can get you killed. In Managua, it's apparently some sophisticated form of communication. Long beeps, short beeps, almost like Morse Code. “Here I come careening at full speed into the roundabout! Make some room!” Followed by the chirpy responses, “hijo de puta!” Franciso maneuvered his ride into an inch of the chicken buses and the SUVs like he'd done it a few times before, so I didn't feel he needed my input. I put on my seatbelt and tried not to look. I didn't want to be screaming and waving my arms in terror every 30 seconds, so I just turned to Francisco and started chatting.

It turns out he's Nicaraguan. I know that doesn't come as a surprise to most of you, but at that moment it occurred to me that he was really Nicaraguan. He's been here, living all that stuff I've been reading about, watching on TV, hearing about in Silvio Rodriguez songs. His father died in the war. He came of age just as the war ended. He's lived, and worked, and suffered, and partied and gotten married, and had kids, and bought a cab, all while that newsreel has been running so far away. How does he manage to laugh so much? I'm still trying to figure these people out.

You see, the few Nicaraguans I knew were back in the States. I only knew two Nicaraguan families and from where I was sitting they were really rich. Hardly the face of people escaping civil war. I guess they were just middle class by U.S. standards, but I came from a pretty humble background so they seemed rich to me. The thing that really confounded me was that they didn't work. None of them worked. They always had very elegant parties with lots of French wine. Their cars were never more than a couple years old. Their Christmas tree always had an entire department store under it, waiting to be unwrapped. Curiously though, they never had a job in the several years I knew them. This was in the 80s, so in hindsight I imagine that they were former oligarchs turned refugees, and all that wealth probably was acquired by methods I would now find deplorable, but you have to remember that I was failing Spanish at the time, so I had no idea what was going on. I imagined Nicaragua as some sort of Central American version of Luxembourg, with everyone sitting around drinking French wine and listening to music. I'm sure I could have found Nicaragua on a globe, but I'm equally sure that I wouldn't have been able to point it out on a map of Central America. It was too small and far away for me to care, so long as they didn’t fulfill Reagan’s prophecy of marching to Texas in 7 days. If they did, I’d have 7 days to brush up on the subject.

I had a couple hours before my appointment, so I asked for the grand tour of Managua. We headed to old downtown Managua. I don't know why I expected to see skyscrapers, but Google Earth only gives you an overhead shot and everything looks like a skyscraper from above. Of course, the whole place had been leveled the same year I was born, so surely nobody would build skyscrapers anymore. The only skyscraper I saw was apparently abandoned. We headed to the National Cathedral, the one that was condemned by the earthquake. It was blazing hot and I still hadn't bought any shorts, but there were lots of shady trees and of course, Coca Cola. The Cathedral had a bright pink banner over the front proclaiming "2008! Año del Poder Ciudadano" while the Palacio Nacional had a big banner of Sandino proclaiming "estamos cumpliendo!" I wonder if they are. I've grown extremely cynical in my middle age. Big pictures with slogans, frankly, always give me the willies (unless it's Willie Nelson. For that Willie, we make an exception). Granted, I've spent the last decade looking at the diabolical grin of a known sociopath and drug trafficker staring at me from every billboard, light post, overpass and bumper in Tijuana (not to mention the back windows of every Chevy Suburban in Baja California). He lost his bid for governor, but many of the posters are still up. There are so many, I'm sure they'll be seeing that mug in Tijuana still plastered around town for years to come. I won't be seeing it because I'll be seeing Sandino. At least it's someone to admire, though I could do without all the advertising.

Francisco was giving me the tour of the various monuments. I could tell he was quite proud of the history. He was well versed on the names, the dates, the events. I was wondering about the feelings. Everyone seems so nice, but considering the history, I would expect everyone to be seething below the surface. Everyone has been so nice, but how can that be? I know, everyone I spoke to said they were the nicest people in the Americas, but let's face it, I AM A GRINGO, if only in Passport. Somehow I think my own tribe would at least be bitter, if not worse. I know old people that still hate the Japanese back in the States. I just don't sense that here. This is the first time I've traveled in a long time where I didn't feel the need to tell people I'm Canadian (if you’re a gringo, I highly recommend that tactic when traveling in Europe; it will save you a lot of grief).

I wasn't really absorbing all the info. I figured I'll learn it all from Wikipedia. It was nice to see the actual stones, though. The real life Managua, Nicaragua. It wasn't pretty. I didn't expect it to be. However, it wasn't what I expected it to be either. I really expected something closer to Guatemala City (thank goodness it wasn’t), but the lack of pedestrian traffic was a little disheartening. We zipped up to the park on the hill (I know, I still have to learn all the names, but I told you I wasn't planning on being in Managua long). The one with the big silhouette of Sandino. I knew it was Sandino because I could tell by the hat. Salman Rushdie once wrote that Sandino had become his hat. Well, it certainly helped me get oriented when I saw a billboard. The park, though obviously important to the history of Nicaragua, I could really have done without. The view was lovely, until I remembered that I was standing on top of Samoza's torture chambers. I guess you have to keep it alive to remind people how low mankind can sink, but hopefully someday that won't be necessary and they can raze the place. Plant some flowers or something. More striking than that was the view behind the park. No, not the laguna. Beyond that. Francisco said "that's the new downtown." The streets were wide and I think I picked out an Office Depot and a Carl's Jr. Yeah. Definitely don't want to spend too much time in Managua. But this is where the paperwork gets done!

Time to shuffle off to see Paul Tiffer. I originally had an appointment with another attorney (who shall remain nameless) that someone else had recommended. However, after a month of communicating and planning my trip, he hadn't answered my 3rd email in 3 days. Oh well. Nicaliving all raved about Paul Tiffer, so I called him earlier that morning. He made the appointment and I strolled into his office right on time. Ahhhh, air conditioning. I had been out for several hours and didn't realize it was so hot. I hope some of this sweat evaporates. I look very unprofessional.

Let me state up front that I haven't gotten anything officially filed, so I don't know how effective Dr. Tiffer is, but he certainly gave me a good vibe. I'll be back to see him and I'll rave like the rest of you if he can get all my paperwork through on the first try. We had a very constructive conversation on all the legal things I need to do, along with what I considered to be even more constructive conversation on life in general in Nicaragua. Schools for the kids, commuting, nice towns to live, and handguns. He knew his handguns. Back in Mexico, only the crooks and the cops (synonyms, really) have firearms. Here, I was getting tips on where to buy ammo from my lawyer. I ate up much more of his time than any free consultation should take. I really needed to eat something. I had been doing nothing but drinking kosher Coca Cola the whole day. This lack of high fructose corn syrup is gonna put me into a coma! Paul and I parted ways and I headed out into the blast furnace called Managua. Francisco was there parked in the shade, waiting patiently.

Apparently this was rush hour, as there were an inordinate number or people riding on the outside of the busses, a sign of peak usage from Olongapo City to Calcutta to Ciudad Juarez. I was in desperate need to check my email (desperate meaning at least 4 hours had transpired) so we inched our way back to Don Quixote. At this pace I was able to take in some of the geography. I located a Pollo Campero near home, and Francisco pointed out that this is where the mariachi were in the evening. Where there's mariachi, there's tequila, and then there's me! Wait a minute. Is there tequila? Or is there rum? Last time my wife and I decided to drink mojitos and dance salsa, we were both praying at the porcelain altar the next day. I swore off the stuff. Just thinking about it caused nausea. Well, if I'm going to live here, I'd better get my liver trained. I went back to my room and put on a fresh set of clothing. I don't mind changing 5 times a day, as long as it is for a good cause. Live mariachi is always a good cause. I responded to a few emails from "back in the world" and headed out to make trouble. At my age, making trouble means eating food that every course in medical school taught me to avoid, then drinking. It's only really trouble for me.

I headed to the Pollo Campero I spotted earlier. About a 2km walk, which shouldn't be a big deal to this ex-marine, but I never had to go on a forced march through an oven (not a humid one, at least). Just press on, I told myself. Sooner or later my African genes will remember. No matter how bad it gets, it's still better than Breckenridge in February. Press on. I picked up a two piece meal with the dados de queso (the way nature intended) and contemplated the scene outside. The mariachis were getting set up as the sun slowly disappeared over the horizon. Nothing like watching a trumpeter empty out his spit valve while you're enjoying dinner. It wasn't as good as I remember anyway, or maybe they use a different recipe than in Costa Rica. Oh corporate franchises, you always seem to disappoint me! Why is it that the only franchise product in the world that is consistent is a crappy McDonalds hamburger?

I decided that I would have to try the famous Flor de Caña. If I can't stand the local drink, I'll probably need to reconsider that job offer in Uruguay. I went in to the bar across the street (again with the names, there was a casino at the same intersection if that helps). The mariachi started up and the shots arrived. I have to admit, the 7 year old stuff tasted more like whiskey than rum. I can get used to this, but not that night. A couple shots and a beer and I was out the door. I was, after all, traveling alone. It's not wise to get wasted and sing Volver Volver in front of strangers. I cruised out on to the street and headed back to base. Where was it again? Wait, that street looks familiar, though it was light out when I left. Let's hope those famous Nicaraguan crimes rates are as low as the CIA says they are.

Back at the Quixote I had left the AC on full blast. I walked into my room and I was back in Breckenridge. A noisy Breckenridge, with no snowboard. I'm sure I felt the sweat on my back freeze up. It literally gave me chills within 10 seconds of being in the room. I turned the AC off and enjoyed the silence. That was the last time I used AC in Nicaragua. I guess the rum woke up the African genes. I left my room door open to let all that cold air out and grabbed a Coke from the lobby fridge. I went outside for a game of checkers with the security guard. There was a nice breeze blowing from somewhere; I didn't know which way was north, but it smelled like the ocean, or was it the lake? The palm trees made a gentle hiss as they swayed in the breeze. Airplanes made their way into Sandino International as I contemplated the day ahead. Tomorrow I would head to Granada. Then I would know if this trip was the right thing to do, or just a silly pipe dream. I hope my research was correct because I really like this place so far.