Blogaragua! (Day Uno)

Buena!

Today is the first in a series of ten posts regarding my recent trip to Nicaragua, the Land of Pot Holes. Seriously, it was one of the bestest trips of my life. But how did it begin?

Well, after deciding on our destination, my traveling companions -- Lauren and Deena -- did much research. They purchased guide books and scoured online travel sites. They selected routes, hotels, and restaurants, often struggling to communicate in broken Spanish. I did nothing. This was awesome.

Normally, I'm the kind of person who does all the research. The kind who plans his own bachelor party trip to Amsterdam. The kind who doesn't simply stumble into a coffee shop but maps a route to Travel + Leisure's top-rated hash milkshake. But not on this trip, friends. The ladies wanted to do it all themselves and I was happy to stay out of the way.

My old backpack (actually won by my step-brother with Marlboro Adventure Miles via their Irony Awards Program) was in disrepair. So I headed to REI for a new one. This was the first signal that we were entering truly foreign territory. Flight 001 hipsters taking a voyage to trail mix hippieland. When the clerk suggested I purchase a special sheet to cover the bedding at less savory spots I scoffed, "I don't think we'll be staying anywhere like that". (Foreshadowing alert! Is it still foreshadowing if I let you know? Let's call it fiveshadowing.)

While we may have been impostors, the second I slipped on my new moisture-wicking hiking shorts, I loved playing the role. Rather than take a snooty taxi to LAX, backpacker Jared took the Red Line to Union Station and a three-dollar FlyAway bus. At the check-in line, I chuckled at all the yuppies with their foppish rolling luggage. "I'm going into the wild, fuckers! There is no Jared! I am Henry Uberscamp!"

The Uberscamp took a Continental flight to Houston and connected to Managua. There were meals on both flights. "Wow," I thought. "They don't have meals anymore. How exciting!" Well, amigos, free food is free for a reason. Both meals proudly boasted Ranch Dressing as an ingredient. Neither were salads. One was a pizza.

While I did no accommodation research, I spent the flight reading the Moon guide's history of Nicaragua. Lauren and Deena knew where to stay. I would know in which town to say we loved the Sandinistas and in which to say we loved the Contras.

Upon arrival I was approached by a taxi driver. I'd spent the flight memorizing how to tell him where I needed to go in Spanish. He gave me a price. Per the guidebook, I countered several dollars less, and he met me in the middle (Moon refers to this process as 'Jewing Down a Poor Man who Drives a Hyundai in a Third World Nation in order to Save Two Dollars').

I sat shotgun with my new friend, who asked if I was from Spain. When I told him I was American he was shocked -- my Spanish was so good. I tried to explain that I'd spent a lot of time practicing that one sentence... but my Spanish isn't so good. I took Spanish through Freshman year of college. Lauren studied abroad in Spain and Deena lived there briefly after college. Together we managed to get by, finishing a lot of each other's sentences. Pues...

Driving in Nicaragua is quite entertaining. Traffic signs, signals, and lanes are more of a suggestion type thing. And honking is totally the rage. You honk to let people know you're about to hit them, pass them, or come near them. You honk to say hi to a buddy. Sometimes you just honk.

Did I mention it was Christmas Eve? Because it was. And the Nica people celebrate the blessed birth of our lord and saviour by blowing shit up. Yes, Young Jeezy Day features fireworks, better known as tricky-tratas. This was the Managua I had just read about in the history book, its skies filled with light and smoke. The streets were lined with quaint stands selling fireworks to five-year-olds. We'd later encounter a bar in Granada called Three-Finger Jimmy's. My guess is little Jimmy loved la Navidad.

There are no street signs in Nicaragua. You give directions based on landmarks. For example: "Take me to the Royal Hotel, two blocks north and one east of the Central Plaza, across from the German Embassy in Bolonia". My driver took me to the general area, then began to ask people on the street for directions. You know how men classically hate to ask for directions? Well, Nicaraguans turn this cliche on its head. When asked for directions, men will pretend (as a matter of pride) to know the answer when they have no fucking clue. We drove around the same block for a half-hour until we finally found the place.

Lauren and Deena were already prepped for bed in our room, which was notable for its high ceilings and furniture desperate to keep up with the scale.



They'd arrived via Miami a couple hours ago, made a brief attempt at finding dinner, and upon discovering everyplace was closed settled on a delicious meal of crackers and crackers.



We were all exhausted and disoriented and maybe a little giddy. My beak was still sore from a kickboxing punch I'd received days earlier, making laughing painful. Through a tearful chuckle I confused my words, "my nose laughs everytime I hurt".

We passed out in our oversized Alice-in-Wonderland room, the world exploding just outside.