Nicaragua: chromotherapy poverty
Managua has some scar to close in sutures still be seen on your skin. Central American capitals handle a disorder in the slow movement that has some appeal. Probably are not beautiful places from an aesthetic point of view but the complexity of coming and going one always finds a distraction for which meander.
Nicaragua's capital has all those virtues and flaws and adds character to a frenzy of color therapy created by Rosario Murillo, one poet turned into vice president who handles his decrees in fist, y rhyme towards.
I went to Nicaragua last November to cover an election where no elegy anything but the amount of power that would attribute the old revolutionary who like many found in his Messiahship an excuse to perpetuate their power. Almost, from a political point of view it is remarkable that Daniel Ortega was officially appointed as successor to his wife, Chayo, responsible for creating a place where reality is modified colored brushstrokes.
Responsible for creating a place where reality is modified colored brushstrokes
Managua because today is a succession of huge trees brightly colored lights that light up when night falls on its main avenues becoming ánimas, wells and street vendors in parts of a circus. Avenida Bolivar, from the roundabout Hugo Chavez and to Lake Xolotlán, is a frenzy of lights where some nights he walked almost partly blaming me that I liked.
Beside the lake is the fair the Port of Salvador Allende that shares space with the Plaza de Juan Pablo II and the bars and restaurants, across, Water Park. Life as a piñata in which everything fits and in which the heroes of independence and leftist revolutions throughout Latin America, duly established in another roundabout, share stage with the Polish Pope, probably father most conservative of the last hundred years. But in the world of Ortega and Murillo, created ad hoc for "paternalizar" homeland, the most important thing is not pester anyone seems logical to get the support of all.
In any case the center of Managua was attractive part me and part bizarro. I Walked with a certain calm in several days and saw his old Cathedral which is left with only its facade standing, Ruben Dario Theater or the National Palace where for years the Somoza, one of those families that bled the continent satraps in those hundred years of military and blood, They dug until the fear caused them to devolve power.
So light can not hide in any case the obscene poverty colonies
It is true that much light can not hide in any case the obscene poverty in colonies which came as a journalist without leaving space traveler. I was struck also see families with their children playing among the sources of the National Museum for hours when dawn miseries. Managua had a family life in their streets at night and that, compared to other parts of the environment, It is a clear symptom of welfare. Violence is measured from one place looking streets between moon and sun.
Then, with a fabulous driver I met, Jaime, with I did some friendship, I discovered elsewhere in the country. He was a former guerrilla who fought with the Sandinistas in the times of the Civil War and a devoted follower of Ortega and Murillo who was shaking his head when I asked: What do you think your children are the richest businessmen in the country, that does not betray the revolution? And the, I answered with a gesture upset: “No, That's not right "then, seeking some escape, tell me: "But at least the money and work stays here".
I wrote down in a notebook debt that never wear again it was mandatory
Together they arrived at the viewpoint of Catarina from where the blue waters of Laguna del Apoyo seen as the horses graze without lifting his head a foot from the ground. Then we walked through the city of Granada counting squares and beautiful streets, red-tiled colonial buildings and churches with wooden gates illustrious. When I lost count and ended up on the shore of a lake in which I was told there are islands where monkeys and men find refuge I understood that one morning was no time to know the place and wrote down in a notebook debt that never wear it was mandatory return.
The last thing I remember those great days in Nicaragua was the enormous kindness of the people, the celebration of the victory of the FSLN by a troop of young "envalentonadamente" poor and reignite a night. And it was not as trees Murillo, although its orange and yellow were almost more intense. I arrived at Masaya volcano, I sat on a rock from which the flow of lava from the bowels of the world looked and felt somehow lightweight tomorrow.
