When The Kite String Goes Pop

°°°While on the plane, I choose to make an exception to an old rule as specified here. My golden tenet regarding breast feeding shall henceforth be altered as such: When trapped inside a pressurized tube soaring high above the cumulus line with no chance of escape, mothers can now whip out their teats to silence their unholy demon seeds under these dire circumstances. Your welcome.

°°°I arrive in Miami and feel like I’ve been hit with a jolt of the old Colombian marching powder. I’m beside myself with relief. It’s one thing to feel the warmth again after weathering months of spring but it’s quite another to go from minus two billion degrees to stepping onto the set of fucking Baywatch. I didn’t care how much exhaust I was breathing on the airport taxi stand…I felt like Tim Robbins at the end of Shawshank Redemption.

°°°After 3 hours at Miami international airport, I board my flight to Managua. Since I’m sometimes told (often by individuals belonging to a lesser God) that I tend to brood on the negative, here is a little nugget of gushy goodness to shut them up–Flying with Taca Airlines is the shit! The staff is so friendly, organized and the airline gives you free beer (or whiskey) and free food too. Sure, you’ll only stomach 3 bites of the meal, but it’s the thought that counts.

°°°Managua’s airport is like none I’ve ever seen. It kind of has this vibe of a renovated warehouse-cum-artists loft only without the artist or the art work.

°°°As I expected, when I stepped out of the airport I was the shit and the taxi drivers my flies. I’m well aware of their reputation for guileless scam artistry and resort to waving several of them off until I can back away and get a better idea of the action milling on the taxi stand.

Finally, I settle on a price and choose to go for it. I regret it almost instantly. The windows are so dark it’s like looking at Kitt from Knight Rider. I get in and look forward to tossing off the ruck sack and enjoying my first Nicaraguan meal. My driver quickly introduces me to a very different style of driving culture. We’re talking about suicide jay-walkers, who’s attempts are thwarted by furious honking and a show-no-mercy stomping of the gas pedal.

As we close in on town, the point of the tinted windows becomes clear. Kids were waiting at each street corner, cup in hand, and my driver made sure to keep my windows up to prevent them from approaching me.

At one stop, two boys no older than six each, approached a black jeep, just one car over from my cab. The man in the jeep said something to the boys and that’s when they started whistling towards the back of the traffic like crazy. Suddenly another runt materialized out of nowhere, brandishing a lead pipe, though he didn’t appear keen on using his weapon. Instead, he joined the other two boys in a chorus of whistling.

‘Oh shit,’ I thought, ‘That guy in the jeeps gonna get it’. I told myself that in recalling the time I saw a tourist get swarmed by gypsy kids in Brussels. Eventually, no mob showed up, just a middle aged woman who sold the man lemonade.

My hostel proves to have been the right choice. Swimming pool, close by to a supermarket and other goodies, I can’t wait to get the ball rolling.

--John Breese
NinjaHobo.com

written by  NinjaHobo on January 30, 2009 from Managua, Nicaragua
from the travel blog: Nicaragua is the Cure
tagged Nicaragua and Managua
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