Arriba Los Pobre Del Mundo

I didn't like Nicaragua. I left three days after I arrived. Nothing happened - nothing big. I cannot fully explain the reason for my dislike. It just didn't fit. Like choosing a college - some fit you and some don't. Nicaragua didn't.

Nicaragua's civil war lasted 7 years. It shows. I stayed in Granada, the capital city of one of the rival factions. They say it's beautiful and parts of it are - but it's a facade. Parque Central, la Merced, and el Catedral give way to tin-roofed shacks and the mango tree lined street that connects them to dirt roads. Off the main drag, the taxis and buses become bicycles carrying entire families and horses starved thin sweating under a heavy sun. There's a harshness behind people's eyes and everyone is selling something.

I watched a funeral procession on Friday. The living burying the dead. They walked behind black horses pulling a coffin covered in bright flowers. In the same square, I watched the motorcade Saturday as the sun went down. Arriba Los Pobre Del Mundo - policemen, women and children, flags divided red and black. It was from this square that I watched the boys play baseball the day I arrived, and where, Saturday night, I decided to leave.