Valentine's Day in a Nicaraguan jail

A slip of paper wedged into the door handle of the closed police station read"El taxero es numero uno." I, however, was number thirteen and jealous of the taxi driver's genius. While I stood on line in the sun, he went to buy breakfast and then sat in his cab eating while reading the newspaper and listening to classic baladas.

How did we get here you ask? I don't know about taxero numero uno but at 5PM on Valentine's Day I backed into a (different) taxi in a gas station. I was going at a glacial pace but since I was driving a tank and he a microwave there was a little damage to his car.

As the taxi driver ran around the gas station telling everyone "I honked!" I totally cried and called my office.

As far as I'm aware, in the States we would have just exchanged insurance information and maybe called the police for a report. The system in Nicaragua, I suppose, is somewhat similar. My office called the insurance guy and the transit police who both arrived on scene...after an hour or so. The insurance adjuster took a statement and several pictures. I found it telling that the taxista had already met him before, having had several previous accidents...many of them in gas stations.

The policeman who showed up was evidently the wrong cop (?) so we had to wait for a new one. The new one had forgotten most of his supplies. He needed a clean white sheet of paper and a ruler to draw a diagram of our cars and their placements relative to each other and to the pumps.

They actually measured.

In situations like this you are not to move your car post-impact so that the diagram and measurements can be absolutely accurate. As you can imagine this makes it a little hazardous when accidents happen on the highway or involve pedestrians. 

Then we got all of our documents copied in triplicate. Luckily there was a copy shop across from the gas station and I had small change. The cop kept our drivers license and would have given us a form to tell us when to come pick them up but he had forgotten them. So we had to follow him (as he drove like a freaking maniac through rush hour traffic) to the police station which was hidden in Mercado Oriental, in a neighborhood I had been repeatedly warned against entering.

(No worries Mom, the office driver met me at the gas station, did the crazy driving to the police station, and made sure I knew what was going on.)

We sat there for a while comparing accident battle scars and sharing snacks until finally we got our paperwork back with an appointment at 8AM on Monday. The driver asked the taxista to arrive at 7:30 and we headed off. My driver asked if I didn't want to take advantage of his driving and go to the grocery store. I had a friend waiting for me at my house and I was going away for the weekend (and I'm slow on the uptake) so I emphatically said that I did NOT want to go to the grocery store. It wasn't until we stopped at the grocery store did I realize that the driver needed to buy dinner because it was 7:30PM on Valentine's Day and his wife had asked him to pick up something.

Then I dropped off my driver in his neighborhood where he told me in the same breath that "no worries this neighborhood is safe" but that I couldn't drop him off anywhere but right in front of his house because he "might get assaulted and robbed."

I drove home, had a romaaaaantic dinner at the mall with a Peace Corps buddy, and had a great weekend at the beach with her and three other peeps...and then returned to face the music at the police station Monday morning.

I was naive enough to think that our 8AM appointment card meant that everyone had a distinct time to sign paperwork and get their documents back. But the driver and I arrived at 7:30 to find a line already forming outside of the transit office. Not because people were afraid of missing their appointment but because everyone who had had an accident or traffic infraction in that part of the city over the entire weekend were to arrive at 8AM.

Except for the taxi driver involved in my incident. He was not there.

The office opened at 8:30 and as we walked in we were handed a number. I was lucky number 13. The 10x20ft room was packed with about 50 people (and five chairs). At least there was good ventilation. It seemed like a surprisingly friendly place as people involved in the same accident reunited, often greeting each other like long lost friends. My taxista finally arrived bearing number 45 and out of the warmness of my heart I invited him to share my number. We were called into another room where the office driver was quickly kicked out and I signed a document agreeing that the accident was my fault. The taxista was given his license back and told where to pay to get his accident report for insurance claims and was out of there like a shot. I was told that I had to pay a fine according to Ley 431 and bring the receipt back before I could pick up my license. (Looking it up later, it seems I had gotten in trouble for driving backwards in a public right of way. Which is ridiculous because it was a gas station and I was trying to change sides of the pump.)

We went back to my car where we found that one of the taillights had been popped out. The driver was so furious that he almost ran over a guy who was way too stoned to get out of the way. He was not way too stoned however not to harrass us by blowing kisses.

We drove like maniacs to the bank (which wasn't the one I thought the policewoman said to go to) but I didn't have my passport and therefore couldn't pay the bill. The driver obligingly paid for me (with my money). Then we went back to the police station where I jumped the line waving around my receipt and got my license back! YAY!

Next time "la chela es numero uno." Although I really hope there won't be a next time.

The city of lights: not Paris but Managua

The week before Christmas all of the Nicaragua staff in our office was on forced vacation. Evidently they hoard their vacation days and we must pillage them periodically. I, however, was able to "work" from home. As the quotes indicate, it was a light workload but I thought it would be particularly disingenous to leave Managua so my days of updating our website and translating documents were peppered with adventures around my newest city home.

In general, I am not huge fans of zoos. (Except for of course the National Zoo where I volunteered for a while. Shout out to my Beaver Valley peeps!) But it's a neat way to "meet" some of the local wildlife and see what sort of public environmental education is going down. So on Tuesday I headed to the Managua zoo, which as their own website* points out, has installations that "are simple and back-to-basic due to the tight budget under which the zoo operates." This means cement cages for the stressed-out big cats. For some reason, though, the tapirs had some pretty sweet digs. It seems like the zoo is expanding and, as it does so, improving the facilities. Here's hoping the exotic animals get upgraded soon.

In the past, I've nerded my way backstage at certain zoos and museums. This time was no different but considerably more accidental. As I was walking past the water buffalo enclosure I got to watch the staff remove one of the animals and start leading/pushing it somewhere. I slowly realized that perhaps I shouldn't be allowed to be near while there while they're moving the animals, a realization brought to a conclusion when I saw that they had roped off the entrance to the part of the zoo I was in...evidently before checking if anyone was there! Anyone like me! Trapped with a ferocious water buffalo!

It's ok, I stepped over the barrier, ate some tostones, and drove home.

One note: their English language website lies about the price. It is C$100 for foreign adults. This sort of thing causes me to morph into my alter-ego and crusade for justice. Seriously. I've done this before. Why should I pay more than a national?


On Wednesday evening, I was going a little stir-crazy so I checked Via Nica to see what sort of solo activities I could do. On the schedule was a showing at the Cinemateca Nacional so I headed on down. I arrived early and the guys were just watching a dvd of Inception. I know that that movie is supposed to be mind-boggling but it's even harder to follow in your second language. Then promptly at 6, and with only one other person in the theater they put on the feature film: a short series of vignettes centering around a Managua bus route. A small crowd arrived about 2/3 of the way through so when the movie ended they just showed it again.


On Thursday evening I went to a lovely Christmas concert at the church I semi-regularly attend. It was kind of like having a stroke though because they sang all the traditional songs but in Spanish. Of course, you say. But my brain rebelled a little.

Saturday morning, two days before flying home for Christmas, I realized I had bought no gifts, except for a bottle of rum from the supermarket. (Which is actually higher quality for less money so there.) So I headed to Mercardo Huembes. I had only been there once with my driving instructor and I vaguely remembered that we made a left somewhere past a traffic circle. I found the market, parked my car and wandered the labyrinth. It's a pretty standard market selling everything from soup to nuts to books to ball gowns and it has a pretty nice artesania section. I wandered around for an hour buying earrings and bananas and then wandered around for another hour looking for my car.

On Saturday evening, I had the pleasure of hosting a couchsurfer, and literal surfer, from Venezuela. After taking in the sights at the supermarket and mall, we headed to Puerto Salvador Allende for dinner. The Port is the most recent attempt to revitalize some sort of functioning downtown. Running along the shores of Lake Managau and painted in the neon pastels (is that a contradiction?) that are the unofficial colors of Nicaragua, it hosts several restaurants, bars, and playgrounds for the kidlets. (Oxford comma!) After a surprisingly gigantic and delicious seafood meal (which had some unfortunate consequences for me. Damn garlic.) We wandered out to see the Christmas lights and full-sized Nativities that line the Avenida Bolivar up to the giant Hugo Chavez head.

The now defunct but sparkly National Cathedral.

Totally not kidding about the giant Chavez.

Two note: you may want to do this activity earlier in the evening and not at 11PM like us. Our spidey-senses were tingling.

The next morning, because the garlic was still wreaking havoc on the delicate ecosystem that is my gastrointestinal tract, we headed to Laguna de Apoyo, one of my frequent haunts. The Laguna is a crater lake about 40 minutes outside of the city. It's technically a protected area but there are a couple of little hostels where you can hang out for a day for $5. We chose the one with free coffee (but more gringos and no credit cards) instead of the one with inner tubes and more chairs (but with music blaring).

The ubiquitous tourist feet photo.

Then we headed to Granada for dinner, lamented the condition of the horses pulling carriages, and hung out at the waterfront a bit before driving back to Managua.

I may have also gone to see Hunger Games a few times that week. Could be that I also went to buy some jeans.

Now that I'm back in Managua, I would still like to check out the National Arboretum, Huellas de Acahualinca (prehistoric footprints), and the municipal trash dump because some guy on the official Managua website said that "Hundreds of 'cheles' (although not all) from NGOS visit the area to produce photos of Nicaraguans in conditions of poverty and then use them to illustrate their promotional brochures." So I have to get on that bandwagon. Of course, this blurb comes from the same guy who highlighted all of the cockfighting arenas in the city.

Adventures in driving

Upon being hired, I was told that I would need to learn to drive a stick shift. This did not worry me as my entire family can drive stick, I had once driven hay rides (on an ancient tractor with two gear shifts), and I took a crash stick-shift course before going to Bolivia... just in case. Of course that was seven years ago. So I called a friend with a car ideal for learning on (ie old) and set out. By set out, I mean we lurched around a parking lot for an hour. 

I then went home for a family gathering and made my brother and then my brother-in-law take me around town. My brother-in-law is from India and learned stick shift by just buying one and lurching off the lot. A brilliant metallurgic engineer, I would not point to driving skill as his top quality. (See here for a related anecdote.) But with a minimal amount of yelling and a couple of stalls, everyone survived. And we stopped for really good Mexican food. I was all set to borrow my Dad’s car and just drive it back to New Haven, learning as I went. My Mom nixed this idea citing her own nerve-wracking learning experience and, while I hesitate to admit it, she was probably right. But then...I broke my ankle. And could not drive (or walk really) at. all.

So I arrived to Managua, city of a thousand traffic circles, without having mastered the manual transmission. Two weeks in, my colleague took me for a driving test in a diesel truck. The official evaluation was that I had trouble with hills and did not understand how traffic circles work but with a week of supervised driving I should be all set. What I didn’t realize that driving a light car would be totally different. Jeeps, like I practiced on in the States, and trucks (particularly diesel) are very forgiving. On the Yaris (a lovely Toyota specimen), however, the point between sitting still on purpose (for example, at a stoplight) and sitting still by accident (stalling) is very very fine. I was very lucky to have two CouchSurfers staying with me, one of whom was also learning to drive stick and could empathize when I would arrive home and need to cry before doing anything else.

I stalled all around Managua until finally my colleague told me that I would need to get remedial lessons. Evidently because we have a car with official plates it is very bad form to be driving poorly. He said that someone could mention it to the police or even the government and it could come back to hurt the agency. Well color me penitent. Enter Douglas (pronounced Doog-las) of La Escuela de Manejo Llave de Progreso. One of the first things he asked me was if we would have trouble communicating to which I responded with a resounding, “What?”

Our first lesson was unremarkable except for the fact that we drove around the city for two hours with the windows down. A colleague had just finished telling me that driving with the windows down was a surefire route to getting mugged... in addition to sunburned. I arrived at work having sweat through my clothes, with one conspicuously red shoulder, and, luckily, my wallet intact. The second lesson was on Saturday morning so I asked to drive to El Malecon, which google translate tells me means jetty but I don’t know what jetty means in English. Anyhoo, we drove to the shores of Lake Managua where the old city center was. Think of your average small town and you can imagine the village green or plaza with its church and municipal buildings. In a city that area would probably be the “downtown.” Managua was no different. The Malecon houses the National Cathedral, the People’s House, and the National Museum. However, it is not the bustling center of activity that one might expect. In 1972, a huge earthquake destroyed 90% of the city and killed more than 19,000 people (sez Wikipedia). The city was rebuilt haphazardly and largely sprawling away from the center. The cathedral, while still standing, is a shell of a building scarred by gunfire. Efforts have been made to revitalize the area with a new waterfront and government buildings but it is largely empty of people and cars... except newbie drivers and their instructors. There were lots of those. We waved to Daniel Ortega and then continued on our merry way to tour the rest of the lakes in town, one of which was used as a spot to “disappear” political dissidents and revolutionaries.

The next morning Dooglas suggested that I drive as if I know Managua and he’d correct me if I got lost...that lasted all of five minutes. He quizzes me on which highways and rotundas we took to get to a certain place and I always get it wrong. In fact when I asked for a progress assessment he said he is not concerned about my driving skills but by the fact that I never have any idea of where we’re going. Guys, have you seen a map of Managua?

Anyhoo, I was supposed to blindly find my way to the markets. I wanted to see where I could buy fresh and cheap veggies because the grocery store is a little ridiculous and not very fun. So an hour later, I was explaining to Dooglas the concept of “Baptism by fire” as I backed up the wrong way through narrow market stalls to avoid being squashed by a bus.

I asked Dooglas if he didn’t find his job stressful and he answered that he really enjoyed it. However, I did notice that after our first lesson he brought a Bible. Maybe I should try that...cuz I sweat right through all my clothes and feel an intense need for a drink post-lessons. Three more hours of lessons to go!