Facelifts, Farming and Freediving

To preface, I am currently reading Hunter S Thompson’s Rum Diaries, about his time in Puerto Rico in the 1950s. MHDSRIP.

Many travelers I have encountered love Grenada. Grenada is the richer of the two original colonial centres in Nicaragua. Unlike Leon, Grenada is a wealthy city home to the middle and upper-class. Of course, as many travelers had noted, this makes for an aesthetically pleasing city. The Plaza in its heart is thoughtfully landscaped and clean. Skinny Japanese and fat American tourists lap the cities interior in horse drawn carriage. How quaint. Sure, it is a lovely city to be in but I found it difficult to get any real insight into Nicaragua, the second poorest country in the Western hemisphere. I needed to do something naughty, something to write home about, something Hunter S Thompson-esque.

By chance, I was in Grenada for the Annual Nicaraguan Poetry Festival. On Nicaragua’s currency, the Cordoba, appears Ruben Dario. Ruben Dario (1867-1916) considered one of the most important Latin American artists, changed the course of Spanish poetry with his writing. In Nicaragua he is a national hero.

On the final night of the festival I sat in the Plaza and listened to a recital. A small old man in a linen suit with a felt hat and waxed moustache, seventy going on fifty, read a Dario poem. It was about Autumn, I think. He spoke slowly and carefully slowly, clearing his throat now and then. For much of the reading he stared over the audience, eyes glazed over. I am sure that this was a poem he had an intimate relationship with. After the reading I went back to my hostel and showered.

I have not gone out much on this trip, but this night I was planning on ingesting some beautiful Nicaraguan rum and dancing. I may even get up to some Hunter S Thompson-esque activity. I left for town with excitement.

My brisk walk toward the Plaza was interrupted suddenly by the sight of finger food through a large window. A party celebrating the end of this year’s festival was in progress in a hall on the main Plaza. I peered deeper in and was shocked. I saw diamonds and pearls. I saw evening gowns and terrible haircuts. I saw catlike facelifts, incision scars still pink. Teaming with important and wealthy Nicaraguans, it was exactly what I was looking for.

Wearing jeans, a navy singlet and thongs, getting in presented a problem. I looked like some dude trying to look like an Aussie trucker. No problem though, I have got the ¨I know what the fuck I am doing and I am just gonna keep walking don’t try to stop me I am very important even if I do not look like it¨ walk pretty much down. If ever, now was the time to use it.

I got to the bar with only a dozen or so rejecting looks. Not a bad score. I ordered a Flor de Cana with lime and started to circulate awkwardly, free booze in hand. I confidently approached a tall young man wearing black rimmed glasses and a tasteful grey suit. I introduced myself in tipsy, but utterly correct Spanish, and he responded in near perfect English. I hate that. Jorge and I got on quite well. Granted, the conversation was lubricated liberally with rum.

Jorge told me about his business. His family owns land across many parts of Nicaragua. One of six brothers, he manages several farms but lives in Managua (the default capital) hundreds of kilometers away. He drives his Range Rover to visit the farms very rarely, once a month perhaps. His family cultivates cash crops, Jorge’s is a sesame seed farm. The bulk of his transactions are with large Japanese companies. At this point in the conversation I had a vicious craving for sushi. I of course did not ask him how much he earns, but I did ask about wages for his employees.

The workers on his farms choose to work their 6 hour day from 6am to 12 noon. They all work seven days a week. According to Jorge´s drunken calculations he pays his workers, on average, $30 US a month. I hope, for his sake at the very least, that Jorge is familiar with Nicaraguan labour laws which stipulate ¨The minimum wage is set through tripartite (business, government, and labor) negotiations … in agriculture and livestock must earn a minimum of C$450 (US$36.60) per month plus meals; the legal standard workweek is a maximum of 48 hours, with 1 day of rest week.¨

Granted, Jorge is a lovely person, and is in possession of the address for this blog. Hi Jorge, if you are reading. His mother however, is an uppity taught-faced dragon lady in red. Hi Carmen, if you are reading.

Okay, so the story doesn’t quite live up to Hunter’s work but I now have a clearer picture of what life is like for Nicaraguans. “Mission accomplished.”

After walking the rum from my veins in the morning I made my way to Leon. Leon is, in antithesis to Grenada, a working class city and home to the Sandinista party. Neither of the two prominent Ronalds, Reagan or Mac, are welcome here. It was my intention to spend no more than a couple of days in Leon. I needed to keep moving to the Bay Islands in Honduras. Again, plans change.

I quickly fell for the city. If time permitted I would have stayed in Leon for a number of months to do some volunteer work and/or teach English. During my 6 day stay in Leon I made friends with some people that had done exactly that. Tara from Canada was teaching English after falling in love with Leon the pervious year. Eric, from France, also. I did nothing particularly exciting in Leon. I visited Ruben Dario’s grave. I visited the wonderful galleries and museums a couple of times over. I walked the streets and chatted in Spanish to whoever would pretend to listen. I went for a swim at the local pool and tried some breath holds in preparation for the following week.

I am going to save the next installment, Freediving.

Vandalism in Leon