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.
This evening the cities poor people come out of their houses and rock in wicker chairs on their front porches. Country people are cooking tortillas on front yard fireplaces and tending to the chickens, goats and pigs that sustain them through hundreds of years of political upheavals from domestic as well as foreign instigators.
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.
Making new places your friend is an endearing part of traveling.
There is a bit of Columbus in all of us once we let ourselves sail, accept that we can be wrong, allow new things to season us.
One trip to a place, however, doesn’t make you an expert.
This country can erupt anytime.
The Cemetario, oddly, is a stop on most tourist city tours.
This city graveyard is not far from the Granada Historical District and holds sentiments and sediments of many of Granada’s founders and significant citizens.
It is quiet this morning ,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 closing door hit them.
As a tourist, I don’t stay long, but I say a prayer and pay respects for all those who have been left here.
Where all the spirits are, that went with these bodies, is hard to say.
Getting life with death is still better than no life at all.
Anyone buried in this cemetario will cross their heart and swear to that.
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.