"Freedom is having nothing to lose"
Nicaragua was originally a major highlight and priority of the trip for me. From what I'd heard from friends who'd been there, from what I learned in school, from the vivid romanticizing of my own imagination that filled in all the gaps, Nicaragua was going to be my country. So I fall too easily for countries with tumultuous revolutionary histories. I let myself be seduced by the fervor of violent civil wars fueled by abstract idealisms, anti-U.S. imperialism and bearded guerilla icons in humid climates. I dreamed Nicaragua today would look like the Nicaragua during the 70s and 80s when the nation (and I mean nation) peaked in intellectual prosperity and progressive social justice. I know better than to build expectations about the places I travel to, and I earnestly avoided doing so with Nicaragua. Without expectations, you're always surprised. With expectations, you're always surprised. Hopefully pleasantly. Nicaragua was no different.
Our first impression of Nicaragua was in no way an ideal one. We arrived in Managua at night and exited the bus terminal, conveniently located in the sketchy outskirts of town. As we emerged, a motley crew of disgruntled, disheveled taxi drivers were clinging to the locked chain link gate like visiting hours at a correctional facility and shouting that at that hour, it was taxi or inevitable mugging. The warnings from locals didn't stop there. After finding a cheap motel, the three of us (Annie, myself, and an Austrian drifter/stainless steel craftsman we picked up in El Salvador) wandered the environs for some cheap eats. We walked a few steps in one direction and were told by passer-by that that way was dangerous, and that we should go this way straight up there was safer but not down that way (pointing right) because it's very dangerous there and you can go there (pointing left) but not too far because it gets very very dangerous and never ever go in the direction we were first going because there lies certain death. It was almost comical and the incessant warnings a bit dubious. Having never heard of prevalent crime specifically in Managua and not sensing any immediate need to be more alert than usual, I wondered if it was all some wide-spread civilian effort to detract tourism from Nicaragua. Whatever. We finally found a small eatery, got our cold beer, and left Nicaragua a week later without a single cordoba (1/20 of a dollar) stolen.
Leon, Nicaragua
Largest cathedral in Central America
People-watching from a cafe
Comida Corriente: beans and rice(surprise?), tortillas, chicken, enchilada
Granada, Nicaragua
girl making a hammock
Kamille Goes to a Nicaraguan Clinic
After a couple weeks of avoiding professional medical care for an aggravating rash on my leg, I finally got my ass to a doctor. The burning, bumpy, itching mass on my ankle had spread to my calf, knee, behind my other knee and other ankle. Despite my pride, what ultimately pushed me to do something, on top of Annie's maternal nagging, was the realization that it was spreading upward and the irritation might reach a sacred place that would prove truly unbearable, especially on long bus rides. The likely culprit was some allergy (though to what remains a mystery) but considering my time spent in pretty remote areas, exposure to mangy street dogs, and the fact that I'd never had a rash like this before, it could've been an infection or flesh-eating jungle parasite for all I knew. I planned to go to a hospital just outside of Granada but was told of a health center close by. About a block away from the Centro de Salud, I realized I left my wallet in my backpack. It was probably the mid-day heat plus I wasn't terribly excited to walk all the way back and have to hear the whistles and hisses I had just endured, so I walked in anyway already feeling defeated on top of being sweaty. The "clinic" looked like a make-shift preschool you'd find in a slum. There were medical informational posters like those you'd find in any pediatric office, but these were hand-written with markers. After begging the receptionist to just let me see a doctor so he/she could look at my rash rather than wait 2 hours for an official appointment, I was led to an open door at the end of a short hallway. Standing in the doorway was an middle-aged woman in a labcoat holding a stack of files. Assuming she was the doctor, I immediately started rambling off my symptoms, pointing frantically at the lesions in question, when she shook her head and nodded at another woman seated at the desk. The middle-aged woman was just a nurse. I sat at the desk across the other woman who had to have been around my age and clad in American Eagle knock-offs. This was my doctor. She asked for my name, age and where I was from, writing everything down on a clipboard. I was waiting to hear a request for international medical insurance information or a co-payment, neither of which I could provide without my wallet. I was waiting for a stack of paperwork to fill out asking for my medical history, why I was in this country, if I had something to declare, any kind of bureaucratic procedure that made the simple act of speaking to an expert such a cumbersome drag back in the States. But no, not here. Name, age, origin. Everything she needed to give me all the information her education and training could provide with sincere intent to conquer my ailments. She thought it was an allergic reaction and she prescribed the usual pharmaceutical remedies for such. She scribbled the prescriptions on post-its, instructed me on dosage, and told me to go a couple doors down to pick up the medicine. That was it. No consultation fee, no phone numbers of insurance companies, not even a glare of recognition at the slight irony that here I was, an American sucking up their FREE supplies. This American benefiting from free medical services brought to me by the same socialist cause demonized by the U.S. administration in the 80s, enough to instigate a blooooody civil war. And here I was with my free drugs, my free and hassle-free clinical visit, totally indiscriminate the way health care should be, in one of the poorest countries in the Western hemisphere. It was amazing. Three days later, the rash disappeared completely.
Consultation with doctor concerning rash: free
Prescribed Antihistamine: free
Experiencing the unrivaled glory of a socialist healthcare system: PRICELESS
Our couchsurfing host in Granada was one of the most interesting we've had so far. He was an unabashadly self-described anti-Nica gringo with a house that looked like some club-owner's diggs in Miami. An L.A. native (and very much so what with his frequent plastic surgery visits and flashy candor), he bluntly shared his negative experiences as an expat from numerous robbings to dog-nappings. He lives with a nice Canadian named Doug who, having more positive opinions on Nicas, seems to be the yin to his yang. To make the day in Nicaragua go by faster, he gets high or throws away money at a casino in the next town, which he took us to one night. I use the word "casino" loosely as it is more a room of 30 or so slot machines, more than half of which are digitized. Annie and I profited about 25 cents and had 3 sandwiches and 3 drinks each- all of which were free.
Isla de Ometepe, Lago de Nicaragua
I tell you, there is nothing like midnight skinny dipping in a freshwater lake that looks like an ocean
The view from our window at the hostel
Praying Mantis poised to mate with Keen elasticord
