"Cantas En Espanol?" Calle La Calzada In Granada, Nicaragua

Granada has some beautiful churches.

Despite my very antagonistic views on religion, I still enjoy looking at churches, temples, mosques and other places of worship when I travel. It's amazing what peoples' incredible blind faith will cause them to construct in honor of their invisible deity.  If I sound like a heathen, just remember that thousands of people still visit the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Greek Parthenon everyday.  Does anyone believe in Anubis or Zeus anymore??

Iglesia de Xalteva and San Franciso are two of the largest churches in the city.  They certainly command the most attention when you walk by them. Xalteva is more well-maintained, and like much of the city has been recently renovated to appease the growing number of tourists to Nicaragua.  People are finally realizing that Central America isn't just about Costa Rica.  Strangely enough, long before Costa Rica became the textbook definition for ecotourism, it had nothing to offer to its original Spanish conquistadors; they left it practically untouched to focus on Nicaragua.  The result is that Costa Rica is quite devoid of any historical, colonial-style buildings, while places like Granada are filled with architectural gems.  Most of the old buildings have high spires and are painted in bright, eye-catching colors that shine in the midday sun.

A walk through the city is pleasant, just remember to bring sunblock.

All of this wandering in the unbearably hot sun lead me to cool off in the nearest body of water, the massive Lake Nicaragua.  There is a beach that looks out to Ometepe Island where Ometepe Volcano dominates the view.  I hear there are nice, beautiful, unspoiled parts surrounding the lake, but there is nothing nice I can say about this particular beach.  It's dirty, smells bad and the locals stared at me in a rather unnerving way.  Apparently gringos never make it this far from the city center. When I said the lake is 'nearest,' I should clarify that it's a good half-hour walk from the Calle La Calzada, which is the furthest that your average tourist in Granada ever strays from the center.

I don't blame them.  After one day of fulfilling my tourist quotient, I regrouped with some people from the Oasis Hostel then resigned the rest of my long weekend to lazy, people-watching on The Walking Street, or Calle La Calzada.  Why bother going anywhere else?

In another notable difference from Costa Rica, Granada's tourist strip is lined with restaurants and bars where the tables and chairs are placed directly on the streets like in many European centers.  I haven't yet encountered this kind of cafe culture in Costa Rica despite their fame for quality coffee.  Even in San Jose's wide Avenida Central, all the businesses keep their tables within the four walls of their property.  Considering that Nicaragua typically reports higher crime rates and higher rainfall than Costa Rica, it seems even stranger to see such a vibrant street scene that lasts long after sunset.

I didn't think much about these things in Granada.  It was great to be sitting with a beer in the middle of the street of Calle La Calzada's urban activity instead of observing it from a balcony.  The musicians, begging children and street vendors that constantly bothered me only added to the excitement.    

Naturally I was drinking more than anyone else at the table.  I was the only one at the table who wasn't backpacking through Latin America.  My Swiss Couchsurfer travelmate was there with some Finnish girls, several Germans girls and one loud, extravagant Australian metalworker.  Tey were nursing one or two beers so they could continue budgeting their next month through Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, etc.  Meanwhile I was throwing back many Flor De Canas and Coke's on my meager teacher's paycheck that I had just received the past Friday.  "Wealthy" is all relative.  My teacher's checks are small, but still better than some backpackers with their "five-dollar-a-day-budget."  Then again I always budget a lot for alcohol.

The Australian had budgeted for other fun things.  He was approached by a Nicaraguan "friend" at the table and excused himself.  Ten minutes later he returned with a smile and opened his hand, "Look what my 'friend' found."  A small plastic bag of off-white powder sat in his palm.

No one was surprised.  The Australian had the best travel stories (like most Australians,) and many of them involved various drugs binges at Thailand Full Moon Parties, cocaine in Honduras, etc.  My only concern was whether or not he had been ripped off.

"Are you sure it's real??"

"Yeah, haha...he probably cut it with baking soda and charged me a 'gringo' price.  It's OK for tonight.  I've paid more before."

A little off Calle La Calzada

He stashed the bag in his pocket then started on another long story about 'accidentally' landing in San Pedro Sula, one of the most dangerous places on Earth, where he was threatened by machete-wielding locals at every corner.  We continued bullshitting until the bar closed around 11pm.  The Germans and Swiss Miss --true to form-- quickly excused themselves back to the hostel since they had early morning obligations.  The rest of us wandered to a late night "Irish" bar (Kelly's??) hosting karaoke a few blocks off La Calzada.

The Australian and I did shots while one of the Finnish girls sang...a Finnish reggae song.  Although we didn't understand a damn word, everyone applauded her beautiful voice.  Eventually I worked up the courage to try my first karaoke song in Spanish.  It was "La Ciudad De La Furia" by Soda Stereo, and I'm glad I sang it since I spent the rest of the night with a cute Nicaraguan chica who couldn't believe a gringo was able to sing in Spanish.  Gracias, Gustavo.

Unholy Holy Week Processionals In Granada, Nicaragua

God doesn't want me to smoke.

That must be why I couldn't go the Plasencia Cigar finca in Esteli, Nicaragua for Holy Week in April.  It was the longest holiday I would have from the hell that my teaching job at Berlitz Costa Rica had become since January, and I planned well ahead.  So I thought.

(I realize simply because I smoke cigars, many Americans have already put me in the same category as Nazis, child rapists and baby seal murders.  You can go return to your healthy lifestyle of eating bacon & maple syrup milkshakes and getting important updates on Kim Kardasian & Kanye West's baby.)

Three weeks before the holiday I contacted a Couchsurfer who fortunately was an executive manager for Plansencia.  He offered me a place to stay and arranged a personal tour to show me around the expansive tobacco farms - cigars included.  Once I got that arranged I went to Transnica in San Jose to find a bus to Esteli, Nicaragua.

"We have no buses to Esteli for Semana Santa.  All cancel.  Only to Granada."

It's a culturally-significant object

Shit.  I'm going to Granada then.  At least I can renew my visa, get drunk off cheap Flor de Cana rum and buy some real Nicaraguan cigars.  I heard Granada had exceptionally beautiful Spanish colonial-era architecture, so it would be worth visiting for a weekend of picture-taking.  Sometime I care about those cultural things.

The week I was to leave for Granada a Swiss Couchsurfer showed up at our San Jose apartment with no specific plans.  Thanks to my American charm, I convinced her to travel to Nicaragua with me before she continued on to the rest of Central America.  Fortunately, she is as equally sarcastic and cynical as I am, otherwise we would've ended up killing each after the 3 days we spent in close quarters going to Nicaragua.  She did have a Swiss Army knife.

That's not a joke.

Crossing the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border is a pain in the ass...especially during Holy Week.  Basically every single Nicaraguan that works legally (and illegally) in Costa Rica goes back home to see their families and join in depressing religious processionals.  The temperature also magically goes up about 100 degrees when you enter Nicaragua.  This one time I was glad I took Transnica and not the local "chicken buses."  Between borders you have to switch bus routes, which means waiting hours in a infinite line to cross the actual border.  With Transnica you stay on the same bus.

I did return alone by local buses. Ugh.  That requires a separate post.

Swiss Miss and I had a reservation at Hostel Oasis Granada.  She was a serious backpacker, and had many things she wanted to see and visit in the area.  I had put in 3 months of teaching 50+ hours a week, so I didn't want to do shit other than drink, smoke, sleep and get laid.  We agreed to see some of the depressing Semana Santa religious processional and go out in the evening together, but didn't see each other for most of the trip.  It was for the better.  The hostel was in a beautiful historical building with a central garden, a pool, lots of hammocks and free coffee.  I walked around town and took some pictures in the mornings, but spent most of the afternoons sleeping in the hammocks, swimming and playing guitar.  It's too damn hot in Granada to do much else.

We did see one of Granada's Semana Santa processionals (there are many.)  It was depressing.  And extremely religious.

Holy Week Processional

Catholicism is all about suffering, and this ceremony certainly emphasizes the suffering.  You are in the middle of the humidity and blazing midday sun.  There's a sweaty crowd following around a giant statue of a cross-bearing Jesus as a ragtag brass band plays a sad cacophony of noise.  Possibly it's the unbearable heat, or maybe the musicians are hungover from the previous night's party, but no one can find the rhythm, and no one is in tune.  As a musician myself, I felt an urge to smash the uninspiring musicians over their heads with their own instruments.  The cacophony is occasionally disturbed by a long Bible sermon delivered with all the excitement of a Board of Directors meeting fueled by Quaalude & Sizzurp martinis.

I'm sure many Christians are wishing me a swift trip to hell now.  Ironically, this scene of religious fervor is one of my many imagined dreams of what hell is.  Listen:

Neither Swiss Miss or I are suddenly inspired to praise Jesus.  We heard about the nighttime processional and have no desire to see it.  We leave the sad Catholic processional before the sheer depression of it causes us to commit suicide.