Nicaragua: Soy chele... or I am white

Managua: first stop in Nicaragua. You could feel the humidity fighting to overwhelm the airports chugging airconditioners. The smell, once out of the plane, is of  warm mildew. Looking out the airport windows lush green burst from the ground and heat waves rise off the runways.  Sombre, dark, Nicaraguan faces greeted us. Ten dollars US to enter the country and then time for customs inspection. Once the customs folk realized there would be twenty bags of medical equipment to search they just waved the girls through; too much work. Heading out the airport doors the humidity, freed of airconditioning, greets us eagerly, clinging to our shirts and sticking to our pants.

Central Managua is a hard affair. The houses are made from cindercrete blocks roofed with corrugated tin; the fences all topped with circular rolls of razor wire. We are counselled to avoid walking around at night and to remain vigilant.

Our arrival coincides with a big FSLN (Frente Sandinista de Liberacion Nacional) celebration. People are in the streets sporting solidarity t-shirts, waving rhum in the air, buying and selling fried plantain chips, and drinking 'tona' the beer of Nicaragua. We decided to head back to the hostel once a song with "NO Gringo, NO Gringo" came on the speakers. We later learn that we are not Gringos but in fact chele, a term derived from the bastardization of the spanish word for milk: Leche. Roberto, our host at the hostel, says only americans are gringos; all other white people are chele, meaning pasty or white. Managua is shortlived as the girls head to the isle of Ometepe and the boys roll out to Grenada!

Roberto explaining "chele"

Grenada is some kinda beautiful compared to Managua. We stay in a beautiful hostel with a pool that we dip in four times a day; Nicaragua is hot. The houses all have pleasing  colonial colour pallettes. The streets are crowded and busy, reminiscent of Italy crossed with a little Morocco. Taxis beep constantly;  bikes and mopeds weave through people, buses, and trucks. That night, at the hostel, we end up drinking  rum with some americans. After the hostel session, Stephen and I, Vamos to a karaoke bar for a little Nicaraguan singing. Stephen proper mans up and sings 'Under the bridge' by RHCP. His performance is met with applause and lots of picture taking. I end up making Nicaraguan friends back outside the hostel, later on a drunk American from Louisiana threatens to break my face in. The Nicaraguans jump to my defence, they shout: "Alto Policia." The American retreated quickly; no need to threaten anyone with central american prisons twice.

Cokes to bribe guards

Granada

 The village of Los Angeles on the beautiful island of ometepe is our next stop. The ferry ride over to the island is fun. The young boys who crew the ferry blast us with questions in spanish. One of them is wearing a -Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire- shirt. He laughs when I ask to take his picture, he poses arms to his sides, looking like a young nicaraguan Will Smith. Him and his friend chant "Weel Smeeth." Our american friend, Jordan, who we met on our journey is able to speak spanish and converses with them, while I listen in. Later with  broken Spanish I try and talk to them, laughter ensues, followed by some form of mutual understanding.

Nica Will Smith

The island of ometepe is lush and verdant. The Volcano Concepcion climbs to the sky, its green dress of vegetation spreading around its base, gently swaying in the tropical breeze. The Islands highway is paved in brick and used by all: cows, farmers, horses, chickens,  cyclists, buses, and taxis. Chickens and pigs are everywhere scavenging food; lazy dogs look on with flies buzzing about their ears. Here time slows and becomes: "Nica time"; buses arrive when they want and sometimes not at all.

Concepcion

In Los Angeles Amanda's host family is wonderful and welcoming. The martriarch Angelita has ten kids and someone is always passing through. I feed the pig left over coconut rinds with one of the brothers. When I ask if the pig will eat the rinds he smiles and in slow laughing spanish says: " its a pig isn't it?"
The youngest brother francisco, a bike mechanic; explains, in spanish, the finer points of bike repair to me. He is quick to break out in glowing smile and likes to joke. He informs me that I am a fellow "Chistoso" (joker). Shortly after He abandons his repair work to show the girls salsa dancing.  During the dance lesson Tylie, a young girl of eight or nine, is constantly pushing me into Amanda exclaiming: "bailar" the spanish verb for dancing. Later when it comes to light that Amanda doesn't want to marry, her host mother smacks her on the bum while wagging her finger. Suffice to say marriage seems pretty important over here.

Amanda & Tylie

chancho (pig)

Nicaraguans eat a lot of gallo de pinto, rice and beans, along with fried plantain chips or fried battered plantain called tostones. These staples are accompanied by ensalata and varying proteins. Breakfast is gallo de pinto served with huevos (eggs) and queso, a salty fresh homemade cheese. Nicaraguan food is delicious, if at times plain, varying from overly salty, to excesively sweet, and pleasantly spicy.

Amanda falls ill a day before we depart the island. Her travellers sickness is all consuming, luckily she has the strength to make it to San Juan Del Sur. People tell me to stop sharing water with her; I inform them I most likely already have it so no worries. A few days later I fall ill as well.

view from Buena Ounda

Apart from our sickness San Juan is great. Much more touristy; white folks everywhere and international menu items on restaurant menus. We do some surfing at playa Maderas, and watch good surfers cruising the waves further out. We stay at the beautiful hostel Buena Ounda. It looks out over San Juan; the sunsets are magnificent. At night a cooling breeze blows over us while we sway in hammocks and the town lights twinkle below.

Hammocks Buena Ounda

chicken buses and Stephen's chele arm