After a long morning/early afternoon of goodbyes, Julio, James, Christina and I hopped into a taxi outside of our barbed wire gate. I don’t know if I was just grumpy, lonely, homesick, or actually had good reason to feel frustrated, but my last couple weeks in La Prusia were not the best that I’ve had in my trip. Saying goodbye to the project was easier than I thought it’d be, but saying goodbye to the Nicas was tougher. I would miss Andres, our jefe on the worksite, and his constant sexual jokes – me being his mujer, asking me if I liked the sexo rudo, and eye-fucking every single female volunteer that set foot on the site. I would miss Mula, Aleman, and Ale. Through all the verga and maricon jokes I realized that you couldn’t say these guys weren’t genuine and good-natured.
The rest of Friday was pretty laid back. Our microbus rides were typical – dangerously fast and weaving the whole way – and we got a cheap cab ride to our hostel. To me, Granada always seemed desperate. There were the vacationing foreigners living large on the weak Cordoba while beggars lined the street and children tried to trade palm leave grasshoppers for greasy enchiladas. If you were a tourist, you were a dollar sign. Leon seemed more developed. The streets weren’t as dirty. There were banks, Radioshacks, a large, modern grocery store, a university.
We took our time getting up the next morning. We scrapped the beach plan and opted for a day at the museums. First up, Museo de los Heroes de la Revolucion. Our smiling guide David ushered us in to a tall room sparsely lined with photos of key revolutionary figures – the original revolutionary Sandino, a few others I can’t recall, Che Guevara and Castro, and a “Vote for Daniel Ortega” poster, Nicaragua’s “next president,” according to David. The normal gallery was off-limits today as the group was giving free eye exams in the normal photo gallery. Upstairs, David proudly told us stories of how the revolutionaries took this building, how within these walls and on these surrounding streets they fought thousands of Somoza’s men. On the roof, overlooking the city-turned-battlefield-turned-city-again, David, still wearing his plastic, politician smile, told us that the revolution couldn’t be stopped because the people were fighting for love.
As we left, it was obvious that Julio was enamored by the idea of the revolution. His eyes glimmered as he retold stories he had read of 11 year-old heroes and teenage soldiers taking up arms at their own will to fight the dictatorship. For me, my mind traveled to the years just after the revolution, when the FSLN shot themselves and Nicaragua in the foot time and time again trying to impose their ideals. The Contra War was funded by the US to destabilize the revolutionary government, but the Sandinistas’ abuses of indigenous communities, censoring of the press, control of farm production and bad relations with the Catholic Church drove more and more of their population to the Contra side. From what I read, most people just wanted to go on with their lives. The way David spoke of these things made it all too simple, too one-side and too storybook. They took out the tyrant, but Nicaragua still seems far from a happy ending.
We stopped at Ruben Dario’s house, a museum dedicated to the life of Nicaragua’s most famed poets and one of the most influential men ever on the Spanish language (so they tell me). Afterwards, we wandered away from the colonial structures typical to Leon to the indigenous barrio of the Sutiaba. There, houses were made of brick and Spanish wasn’t the first language spoken. We found the 600 year old tamarind tree and next door we found a sign that said “Sopa de Res.” We were ushered into a dirt backyard where we ordered the soup. Our plastic table and chairs were brought out and we were seated in the shade. Our bowls of soup were more like mixing bowls and we used ladles to scoop out the broth, plantains, potatoes, yucca, and the generous bones of meat. Not a bad deal for $1.25.
Back at our hostel, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade distracted us from our game of pool. It was the first time I had watched TV in two months. Someone flipped the channel to FoxNews where the reporters were waiting in Hawaii for the 8 ft tsunami waves to touch shore. It was a good thing we chose not to head to the beach that day. I heard someone say, “Oh no. They’re going to forget about Haiti now.”
After a nap and some internet, I decided it was time we tried some Nacatamales – super-sized tamales stuffed with meat, rice, cheese, a couple veggies, and God knows what else. As I paid for my internet, I asked the heavyset, glasses wearing worker where I could find a Nacatamal. He told me it was a twelve block walk, but that he could take me on his motorcycle. I said ok.
I didn’t speak on the way there. Leon’s normally hot air felt cool as it rushed by my face. My hands felt like they’d slip off at any moment as Ernesto changed speeds and avoided traffic on all sides. We passed a few signs that said “Nacatamales de venta,” and I wondered why we didn’t stop. We parked in front of a house with a tall iron gate where people were casually entering and leaving. We walked into the backyard and there was a line of people waiting to quickly place their order, get their steaming, stuffed banana leaves, and get the hell out of there. Ernesto told me these were famed to be the best Nacatamales in town.
After ordering, we were back on the bike. The bag was too hot to put on my lap, so I had to dangle it on the side. I asked Ernesto if this was something he did all the time. He said no. He told me he was a lawyer, but in Nicaragua you have to make money any way you can. That includes taking a gringo for a fifteen minute motorbike ride halfway across town to get some indigenous Nicaraguan food.
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