Report from Matagalpa

I’m leaving Matagalpa today, and while I’m really excited to come back to the States, I’m really sad to leave this place. Matagalpa is easily the best city I’ve been to in Nicaragua, and if an interesting research project were available, it would be easy to spend a year here. Let me tell you about a few of the things that I like about it. The weather here is beautiful, much like that of Southern California. It’s also way up in the mountains, so there are great places for hiking and biking. Matagalpa has several universities, so there are lots of young people and an amazing nightlife. There’s a sign in town that captures the local scene nicely: “Las mujeres mas lindas de Nicaragua están en Matagalpa y dan amor verdadero.”

That being said, let me tell you about my time here. I worked with Matagalpa Tours, and my primary responsibility was translating their website from Spanish to English-- it should be up shortly (http://www.matagalpatours.com/). I also lived with a really nice host family, and their oldest son Guillermo was fun to hang out with. Since he is 20 years old and 100 percent hormones, we went out drinking and dancing a lot. While this is not my usual scene, it worked out well for a number of reasons. First, since I was without my bicycle, I had no reason to go to bed early and get up early. Second, since I didn’t know anyone when I arrived, I relished the opportunity to meet new people. Third, since my Spanish skills are not up to the task of having deep philosophical discussions, I fit in just fine at the discos and bars, where it’s perfectly acceptable to have superficial conversations.

I will relate one story here that says a lot about what it’s like to be a gringo in Nicaragua. During my first week here, I went out dancing with Guillermo and two of his lady friends, one of whom had just been in the Miss Nicaragua contest the night before. That weekend was the Fiesta de Oro in Matagalpa, so the city transformed one of its buildings into a giant dance club. When we arrived, I couldn’t believe my eyes—it felt like we had just stepped into an MTV video. Reggaeton was blasting from the speakers, platform dancers were strutting their stuff, and a mass of humanity was grinding on the dance floor. After a few songs and a few beers, we were swept into the mix.

I had a blast with Guillermo’s friends, but as the night wound down to a close, I had a very odd conversation with Carla. We were talking about what we wanted to do the next day when she asked, “Why don’t we rent a car and drive to Selva Negra tomorrow?” Now while this followed the script of every adolescent male fantasy, it really caught me off guard. First, it is really uncommon to rent cars in Nicaragua-- it is quite expensive, and it was obvious that she was expecting me to pay. Second, it’s super easy to get to Selva Negra by bus and costs less than a dollar. After asking her several times to make sure that I had understood her correctly, I told her this, and a long, awkward silence ensued. Then it occurred to me, “This is exactly how stereotypes get perpetuated—“Rich gringo goes out with beautiful, young Nicaraguan girl for weekend of fun.” There was no way I wanted to go down this road, because there was no way that it could possibly turn out well. So we took her home, I felt really bad about the situation for a day, then everything smoothed itself out. And I was a little bit wiser.

But the evening did not actually end there. We went back to the disco for a few more songs, and when we got in, they were playing head banger music. Guillermo jumped into the mosh pit, but Joselin and I held back. In less than 60 seconds, Guillermo came rushing back, his mouth and throat covered in blood. We didn’t know if his nose was broken, his teeth were knocked out, or what had happened. He yanked his shirt off to keep it from getting bloody, and we ran out of the building to look for a taxi to take us to the hospital. Little wonder that nobody wanted to pick us up, since with his cornrows, big silver chain, and blood all over him, it looked like he had been in a gang fight. But miraculously, his cousin showed up in his pickup truck and whisked us to the hospital. The doctor checked him out, cleaned him up, and told us he’d be okay. He didn’t need any stitches, but he had a big fat lip for the next three days. His mother was certain that he had been in a fight, but I assured her that it wasn’t nearly as cool as that—somebody in the mosh pit had accidentally bashed his mouth with the back of their head. Nothing to brag about, really. But it sure makes for a good story...