Nica Adventures Part 1: Fear and Loathing in Managua

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Part One of My Nicaraguan Adventures (or Arrival in Hell)

Arrival into Managua's Augusto Sandino Airport was a much anticipated affair, as our plane circled the city no less than three times in a stomach turning power arc. Customs was easily cleared with a $5 US fee for a ninety day tourist Visa. There were the usual assortment of clambering and shouting cab drivers as we exited the airport. Most wanted $20 US for the trip into central Managua (or what we presumed to be the centre) but I was able to talk the fare down to $12. Spanish numbers came back with ease, but I wasn't really catching anything beyond hello. Fortunately, the cab driver knew of our hotel, because I don't think I was fully capable of providing directions. Managua, despite its extensive sprawl, has no system of street names or addresses, with the location of buildings and residences being given by their relationship to other buildings or reference points. Example: my house is two blocks down (west towards the setting sun in this instance) and one block towards the lake (north) of the statue of the Guerrilla with No Name (a famous statue). These reference points are fixed in the minds of Managua's citizenry and are used, regardless of whether said landmark still exists.























The cab ride provided a good perspective on the poverty of the city, while the humidity and smell of burning plastic took me back to past travels in Latin America. As the taxi weaved its way through the menage of barrios that comprises central Managua, I was struck by the absolute lack of infrastructure and order. I also became aware of the absolute impossibility of traversing Managua in anything other than a taxi.
As we neared our hotel (Hostel Los Felipes in Barrio Martha Quezada), the night air was punctuated by the harsh staccato of whistle blasts. Private security guards keeping an ever tooting vigil throughout the night. The Hostel Felipes was a welcoming place, and sold beer in the lobby. I had only the fortitude to quaff one cold bottle of Victoria Lager before collapsing into a sweaty sleep (in front of CSI on the TV no less), but the cold beer did relive some of the stress of my journey, and also provided some relief from the 30 plus degree night air.
Morning was also hot. We ignored the lady at the front desks advice to take taxis everywhere, and headed of to find a ATM to procure some local currency. Then we found a nice little breakfast place around the corner from our hotel. By noon, we were fully immersed into exploration of Managua on foot, and felt pretty relaxed. We checked out the ruins of the cathedral (destroyed in the earthquake of 1972), went to the national museum, and strolled along the waterfront promenade. We even jumped in a cab and went to an obscure museum dedicated to the preservation of 6000 year old footprints preserved in volcanic mud.

As most of Managua's sights can be visited in about 4 hours, we decided to hike (from our hotel) up a hill to a park with a volcanic crater lake. a brief rain shower aside, it was a pleasant day.
However, things turned a little ugly on the return trip, when a young thug tried to steal my backpack on a deserted street. He failed, primarily because he wasn't quite scary or big enough, but also because Kira's loud yelling of profanities in English is quite intimidating. The scuffle was almost at a resolution when a taxi pulled up to assist us. Neighborhood women also poured into the street to give moral support and to clarify that the locals don't care for these young thugs either. We quickly retreated to our hotel (somewhat shaken from the event) and had just decided to retreat to the poolside bar when the taxi driver who intervened earlier pulled up outside with the ruffian and two police officers (the Nicaraguan National Police force goes mostly on foot). They inquired if the now foaming ruffian in the red soccer jersey was indeed the assailant (which he was). He began screaming what must of been some very unfriendly and unsavory epithets in my direction, and received a pretty good slap in the face from the female police officer who was seated beside him. Bleeding from the lip and crying, he looked very pathetic and not at all scary.
The police insisted that we come to the local station, and scribbled some directions on a piece of paper to give to a cab driver, but Kira and I simply lacked the desire to pursue the matter further. Besides, a cab ride there and back would have meant a net loss from the attempted robbery, so we figured that we would be ahead of the game if we simply stuck to the hotel compound. We retired for poolside beers, and only ventured forth to eat at the Pollo Estrella across the street. Not exactly fine dinning (a kind of Nicaraguan KFC), but given the security situation, and the lack of desire to experience any more of Managua's charms that day, it seemed the best solution.























The next day we got up early, and had breakfast at the same small restaurant around the corner (Gallo pinto, eggs, tortillas)and packed our things and headed off to hail a cab. We made it about a half block when a youth came running after us and told us to come back to the hotel. We did this, and were quite rudely accused of stealing the towels from the room. This got rather heated, particularly when they threated to charge us 10$ per towel. Kira became a little unhinged, and quite savagely told the lady were to stuff that idea. I think I finely got my point put across (more diplomatically than Kira might have, that it was clearly a house keeping mix up). We were aloud to leave, although we didn't exactly get an apology.
We headed out for the bus station, firmly resolving to avoid Managua as much as is possible for the duration of our trip.