Photos: An historic building in Managua controlled by military. I know that's a lame discription, but no one I met knew its name (left). Hotel Mariposa in La Concepcion, the proverbial getaway within getaways.
Judy is an older, ex-pat English woman, trying in her own saintly liberal way to save Central America in her retirement. She lives with her adopted, disabled Nicaraguan daughter in the country outside Managua and runs an eco-hotel and Spanish school. She grows her own produce amidst the tropical vegetation surrounding the hotel, serves only vegetarian meals, and runs the electricity and hot water heater by solar power. She pays local handymen and teachers livable wages to maintain the hotel and teach visiting students, and she adopts and nurses stray animals – dogs, cats, horses, and countless birds that don’t have to worry about being eaten. The chickens will be raised and distributed amongst local poor Nica families. She serves as caretaker, chef, guide, animal-mediator, and friend to the hotel and all under its hotel roof. I’m staying in her piece of jungle paradise for the weekend as a respite from the concrete jungle capital.
Before I continue about the tropical hippie haven, allow me to digress to the art of Managuan taxi patronage. Firstly, before I induce panic, let me assure worriers that nothing horrific has occurred to me during any of my rides and I haven’t been terribly frightened. Normal taxi behaviors need to be modified, however, to help obscure the flashing dollar sign hovering over my American head, because being white (un chele, aka gringo in Nicaragua) means I’m rich, and therefore more likely to be ribbed off or robbed. The stress is compounded because taxis are unmetered, poorly regulated, and buildings do not have numbers and streets have no names (the U2 song was referring to Managua, according to Judy). Also, using them is absolutely required because of the distances and abysmal bussing situation. When you hail a cab you first very confidently tell him where you want to go. You do not get in the cab. Since streets lack names, you give a direction by stating the barrio name, the nearest landmark, and how many blocks towards or away from the lake it is located. If he knows where it is, he’ll give you a price. This will always be way higher than is sanely reasonable. You very confidently counter his offer and if he changes his mind you can now get into the cab. Be sure to sit directly behind him and lock the door. If the price is bad, you send him on his way and hail another. Also, you need to say “Solamente yo,” or he’ll stop and pick up other people along the way, who may or may not be accomplices to aid in a robbery. You do not answer your cell phone in a cab, just as you wouldn’t foolishly work on your laptop. Every cab ride I’ve taken has been perfectly enjoyable, and most of these rules apply to after dusk hours. The reason you sit directly behind the driver is to make it more difficult for him to wield a knife and, of course, a final note - do not tip.
Let’s return to the happy hippie hotel, its lack of cabbies, and its general quiet peacefulness. The furnishings are not luxurious – simple wooden furniture, all constructed by local craftsmen, of course – but it’s far nicer than my city arrangements, and you sure can’t beat the hot shower. I have a private room, towels, blankets, and fancy ceiling fan. $25/night well spent. After dinner a group of us shared wine and celebratory champagne for a departing student at the end of his three-week stay. Judy shared good reads from her library. We chatted foreign policy, immigration, and world history. I listened closely, soaked in the starlight, contributed my bit to the discussion, and melted peacefully. A bit of gentleness in the eye of the world’s storm.
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