Leon

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“If Leon is as good as the trip getting there, I’ll be a happy camper”, I thought when I glanced out of the minivan and saw the rugged Momotombo volcano majestically rising out of the fresh Xolotlan lake, the little brother of the Cocibolca. I imagined how the former residents must have woken up to this stunning view every single day, before their city was hit by a series of natural disasters and they decided they had enough. Not only was Leon (Viejo) troubled by economic problems and violence, after a series of earthquakes ruined the city and volcanic lava and ashes covered what was left of it the citizens simply moved their hometown 30 kilometres west. To say that they found their well-deserved peace and quiet in their brand-new Leon would be a faulty conclusion, as further in history the city streets would form the battlefield of the civil war between the violent army of dictator Somoza (who got shot here) and the guerrillas fighting against the North-American domination.

I climbed out of our air-conditioned minivan and loaded myself, my mother and our luggage on a rickety bici-taxi. I tried not to feel guilty about the impoverished sweating driver pushing the 150 kg over the cobble stones and around the potholes in the street while thanking us for this work opportunity… because indeed, it’s a work opportunity: You can decide not to use their services, but then these people stand on the streets with their bicycle-taxi’s without making any money to feed their family.

I noticed how we drove past street art and FSNL-flags (Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional) reminding us of the former combats and bloodshed, sharply contrasting with the cheerful street life and vigorous market scenes yielded by the current residents.

After we checked into a cute colonial hotel and plunged into our soft king-size beds (one each) to recuperate from the draining heat, we put on our flip-flops to get a quick impression of the centre. Well, the former catholic Spanish conquerors can be proud, there is truly no lack of churches. We passed thirteen that day, the icing on the cake being the blinding white cathedral that was currently being restored by brave workers balancing on some ramshackle wooden scaffolds about ten meters above the ground. When my mother waved and they responded in the same fashion, her voice echoed over the plaza, screaming in Dutch they should godverdomme firmly hold on to the scaffolds to protect themselves from a tragic death.

We followed a small fragment of the mass and roamed passed the graves of the former elite of Leon, poet Ruben Dario being the king of the corpses.

A few days later we returned to the house of god again in order to see the light: right on top of it to be exact, where the white domes brightly reflect the sun and the friendly sights of Leon’s orange roof tiles and surrounding volcanoes catch the scarce shadows. The photo-friendly house of prayer and its richness of white and curvy structures brought us straight back to our beloved Greece. Thanks, Jesus.

Normally I like to explore the local cuisine of the country I’m travelling in, exploring markets to find unique unknown bites and snacks. Not in Central America though. After 5.5 months of rice, beans and cheese that shouldn’t be called cheese (for breakfast, lunch AND dinner), I am grateful for every opportunity to escape from this taste bud misery. Leon is an awesome location for fine dining, offering many trendy restaurants allowing to efficiently avoid the local eateries. So after some Polish pierogi with Bangladeshi naan in the brand-new Imbir restaurant we toasted on the absence of the beans and the availability of some decent coffee and red wine: Long live the spoilt tourists!

Yes spoilt tourists, that’s also what the Nica’s think. When I spent over a month in crazy expensive Costa Rica I got all pumped up about the supposedly dirt-cheap Nicaragua. So at least expecting a second Bolivia or South-East Asia, I was extremely disappointed with the local prices. Indeed, for the locals living is very cheap and in general local food (rice & beans, yeah!) and transport is highly affordable… but everything that has the slightest relation to tourism has to save the poignant poverty of the country. Hotels and hostels? I found cheaper in Argentina, Colombia, Peru, Ecuador and even in Chile and Panama. I saw tours for $50 - $60 which I did myself for a lousy $1,50 with public transport. Ah, you want to see a museum or a national park? Well, that’s 4x the local price for you, paleface! Interesting way of saying ‘thanks for coming all the way to my country’.

However, there were two museums worth paying four times the price for: The Ortiz-Gurdian and Museo de la Revolución. The first one housed the most interesting art collection I saw in the country so far. While translating a 2,5 hour tour from Spanish to Dutch, we were guided along the many intriguing pieces from Baroque’s claro oscuro (claire obsure) to modern expressionism and cubism. We even spotted some Picasso’s and Matisse’s! A great find.

In the other we got grabbed by the arm by a 62-year old veteran, doing everything in his power to keep his story and essential contribution to the national history alive. Articulating clear and slowly and every now and then making me repeat what he said so I would translate it correctly to my mother, he assured we would never forget the details of the struggle that happened on the grounds we were standing on.

He explained how the Somozas slowly took every part of freedom away and allowed the USA to do what they always do everywhere in the world: meddle into politics that are not theirs in order to benefit their own economical ambitions.

After Somoza killed the one and only who dared to stand up against this domination, Augusto Cesar Sandino, a front was formed to continue the battle: The Sandinistas were born.

Proudly he pointed at the youthful face of an adolescent boy, armed to the teeth… Yes, the man talking to us joined the army when he was only 16 years old, like many others. Sadly he showed the photos of his friends and comrades, all tortured, murdered or shot in combat, one of them being Rigoberto who killed one descendent of the Somoza presidential family right in this building… a wall full of bullets still reminding us of this event. He grabbed me by the hand and took us upstairs, the former headquarters of the US-backed presidential army (the National Guard; Guarda Nacional). He explained how the local women and guerillistas got dragged in and got raped by everyone who cared enough to put their pants down. On the central balcony he demonstrated how he once stood on the streets where we were now looking down on and saw the enemy shooting from this spot on everything that walked: men, women, civilians, children… and then he pointed at the place where his family got murdered, right in front of his eyes. Through my tears I glanced at my mother, who also didn’t know how to emotionally deal with this man’s memories. The history in which he still lives every day is hard to grasp. The colourful streets of Leon were once a massacre…

And then the man put up his hand and asked for some extra money, because it’s still tourism of course and that’s not free in Nicaragua. Well played, old man, well played.

Two other museums I visited, of a whole other calibre, were the Ruben Dario House and the Museo de Leyendas y Tradiciones. I have nothing against a good old poem and as the guy is considered a local legend - or better: together with Sandino, the ‘father of the nation’ - I thought I might as well check out his former house. Why? No idea. Just like every other person he has a bed, a couch, some cosy family snapshots and even a urinal. Well, that’s a relief. Guided around by a giggling teenager who truly uttered not one understandable Spanish word I was figuring out how to leave a.s.a.p. without raising any suspicions on why I came here in the first place.

After I managed my escape I sought some comfort in the legends and traditions abound in Leon. Let’s start with the interesting part: The museum is housed in the former Somoza prison where political opponents got tortured and murdered, remembering a painful but essential phase in the Nicaraguan history. Why the former cells are filled up with some embarrassingly amateurish hand-manufactured dolls and plastic Halloween-style decorations no man knows. The stuffed puppets that I probably could have improved as a 5-year old symbolized the myths a man in (this time) un-understandable English explained to me. I didn’t understand much of what he tried to point out, but I picked up there was some ugly single chick that killed the local horny men by slapping their skulls in between her giant tits… and many beautiful women died after they humped some Spanish conqueror. Good to know, hands off the Spanish.

Another one in the category ‘nahhh’ is Leon Viejo. As I’m a history enthusiast and visited the Italian Pompeii twice I figured the ruins of the old town would be a must-see for me. After a humpy-bumpy chickenbus journey and a 15-KM wild ride in a tuktuk (motorito) which I was squeezed into with a total of six adults, I found just that: ruins. Adequate description, thanks. However, where in Pompeii the street plan is almost completely preserved and even the petrified corpses of the former inhabitants and their pets can be admired, here I found nothing of that kind. The passionless, uninspired guide nodded her head to some bricks and mumbled a house stood there once. Not a small house, a big house. Really? Wow. On the fort, which was now nothing more than a pile of sand with some grass on it, I had a nice view on the Momotombo, which I later saw from even closer up in the village… without the $5 entrance price ($2 for locals. Of course.)

This place was not worth the effort, money and honestly, not even the time.

If you’re up for a splendid day trip, head to the Hervidores de San Jacinto instead.

No need to pay $40 for a tour, a $1 bus and a $2 entrance brings you the same experience without the crowds. After a friendly old chap carefully guided us all the way to the entrance, two little schoolgirls grabbed our legs to convince us of their tour guide qualities. After these cuties braided my hair, which was a hard task due to my smooth, thin, non-latin wig, one of them accompanied us to the smoking geysers spitting out wisps of fume and specks of dust.

Even though it took us merely ten minutes to see it all, the views on the Santa Clara volcano and the vivid, sharp colours of the surrounding nature were absolutely outstanding. While grabbing my mom’s hand so she wouldn’t plunge into a boiling hole, the girl told us about her family living in the slums and the bicycle she was saving money for. With a little stick she scooped up a bag of mud, which was according to her full of minerals: great for your skin or arthritis. Well, if an 11-year old expert advises my to smear some mud all over me, who am I to doubt that knowledge? So there I sat on my king-size bed: Behind a magazine, in a towel and with a face covered in brown. Spa Van Hoeijen.

Yes, Leon was a good one. A city full of history, beauty, love and passion. Take that literally, passion. My 60-year old mum was the new hotshot of town. Every day before dawn she grabs her tobacco and rolling paper to give space to her time-honoured addiction, an act repeated twice an hour until bedtime. One morning she came back slightly puzzled. While inhaling the satisfying lung-blackening fumes her appearance didn’t go unnoticed by the local men… After some whistling, hissing and winking from the local male population a toothless old lad came her way to ask for a fire to lit his cigarette (a classic!) and bent over to press a kiss on her mouth. In this continent it doesn’t matter if you’re 18 or 80, life is a lusty playground and not one man ends up in a rocking chair with a sticky Playboy in one hand and a wrinkled non-cooperating penis in the other: The game continues.

Latin passion never dies.

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