At night, streets in Granada take a different character.
Familiar places look different and different places become familiar.
Granada is about to become past tense, about to become another disappearing city in the rear view mirror. Nicaragua is still developing, still a place where a privileged class picks the best fruit off the trees and sleeps on clean sheets turned up by servants – a country where some people have privileges and say what goes and what stays. Like the natural surroundings, there are molten lava undercurrents and noxious gases that can make you fearful.
This evening city people come out of their houses and rock in wicker chairs on the front porch. Country people are cooking tortillas on front yard fireplaces and tending to chickens, goats and pigs that sustain them through political upheavals and meddling foreign powers who want to put a lock on Nicaragua’s natural resources..
This trip winds to an end but as long as reasons to go outweigh reasons to stay home, Scotttreks postcards will keep telling their small quiet stories.
Nicaragua, a place I wasn’t certain I wanted to see, has been a surprise.
I would come back again.
Making new places your friend is a big part of traveling.
There is a bit of Columbus in all of us once we let ourselves sail where people tell us we can’t or shouldn’t go.
The Cemetario is a stop on most tourist city tours..
This city graveyard is not far from the Historical District and holds sentiments and sediments of many Granada founders and significant citizens in its history.
It is quiet inside the front gates that are locked each night to protect the dead, and should be. When people are interred they are supposed to stay that way, unless they are cast in horror flicks or zombie uprisings.
It is quiet and peaceful here this morning except for the traffic, moving around the graveyard like water moving around a boulder in a stream, but, there is upkeep to be done- cutting grass, spraying for weeds, touching up names on headstones, getting fountains ready to open, moving dirt, tending to gravestones and markers, landscaping.
Christianity says when Christ comes back, the dead will rise to heaven and the unsaved will burn in torment.
The last time I saw dead come alive was at the end of the school year when summer vacation officially started for teachers, administrators, and students.
No one, on their way out, let the door hit them in the ass.
The Cemetario’s occupants, here, have a summer vacation that never ends.
There are only three countries in the world that have a primitive art movement. One is in Haiti, another is in Yugoslavia, the last is in Nicaragua.
In the southern part of Nicaragua are a group of 26 islands in a province called Solentiname. A Catholic priest arriving there many years ago noticed locals painting on gourds and helped them move their inspirations to canvas. Local artists continue to paint and earn livings from this stylistic folk art.
This room, at the San Francisco Convent Museo in Granada, is dedicated to the Nicaraguan primitive art movement that celebrates nature, community,order, and color.
The works and artists, though different, all belong in this room. They work within a style that is larger than they are, an ocean that supports their boats.
It is like the Garden of Eden calling you home.
The intensity of the artist’s focus is like the eyes of a tiger watching you from inside it’s cage.