After the noon ferry back from the lake, I boarded a chicken bus bound for Granada. The 50 minute wait in the baking heat inside the bus at the “terminal” afforded some time for observation and reflection of the local scene. Nicaragua is a very poor country; what’s more, unlike Panama and Costa Rica, it’s recent history was filled with strife and civil war that subsequently either destroyed the old or prevented development of the new. Consequently, it’s rather stark how backwards it is. Poverty is palpable from the people lying lethargically on the steps to fend off the heat and humidity on the rural streets – after all, this is still the land of horse drawn buggies and where corrugated tin roof is prevalent. However, the bus terminal was a chaotic scene of humanity struggling to survive. Children as young as five or six are already put to work, either by their parents or by necessity (probably both). While sitting on the bus waiting, it’s not easy to watch the kids get on and off as they walk up and down the isle trying to sell water, food, peanuts, even socks. One boy, who could not have been more than twelve, tried to sell me “musica” DVD’s – they were definitely not “musica”, but rather porn. The Israeli girls and Texan and Brit all had a good laugh over the incident. It didn’t seem too auspicious a beginning heading into Granada.
Stories from travelers speaking of its dangers didn’t help. Upon arrival in Granada at a gas station… a group of hawkers plying the backpacker crowd approached us. One man offered to take us to a “grande” hotel with a kitchen for $5 per person. As we had five people in total and the gentleman seemed nice, it felt reasonable safe. He kept saying it was “one block” away, to which it never seemed. After rejected the first hostel by consensus, he offered another to show another one with the same price. As the girls were about to pass out from the heat, he kindly offered to call a “friend” to pick us up to drive us to the hostel for free, saying that it was the “best car”. Joke is on us, right? A few minutes later a Nicaraguan man in his mid forties pulled up the curb in a huge, brand new, white Suburban SUV with all the trims that dwarfed all the other bicycles, horses, and scooters. What’s more, with his half burnt complexion and heavy pot-marked face and wearing pale blue medical scrubs immediately gave us pause. After all this is still Central America, corridor of the drug trade from Columbia to Mexico. It didn’t pass our minds that he looked like a coroner driving the head cartel’s car and that we’d might be taken to the countryside, executed and our bodies stuffed with coke to be smuggled some where. I’m sure it was the imagination running wild, but it really looked that odd.
In any case, sure enough he drove us to a hostel the size of a mansion, for free. It really was $5 a person with private bath and shower in each room, a huge kitchen and beautifully tendered tile flooring throughout. People can still be honest and genuine.
After checking in, we walked pass the central market area – really just a collection of dilapidated wooden stalls vending all sorts of fruits and local meats. Passing that, we walked the old relic street lined with beautiful colonial buildings as the sun faded into the west. After that, everyone opted for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Such is another day.