When I got in touch with Jairo, he told me that he lived in Masaya, a town about 40 minutes southeast of Managua. He suggested we meet in Managua, but I proposed meeting in Masaya. I had read about Masaya in my guidebook and it seemed intriguing. Masaya is beneath a hulking volcano and is the center of Nicaragua's artesania production.
We met the following afternoon in Masaya. We went to the town center for coffee. Jairo, in his late 30s, has lived in the Managua area for all of his life. He, unlike most Nicaraguans, has traveled extensively. He has spent time in Guatemala, various states in Mexico, and about six months in the United States on two separate trips. Basically all of his traveling has been funded by certain art-related foundations.
When we got comfortable at our outdoor table, Jairo told me he was actually not from Masaya but from a smaller town called Niquinohomo about 20 minutes south of Masaya. When I brought out my iPhone map, he came clean. He was instead from a small, lesser-known, rural pueblo just outside of Niquinohomo called La Curva He invited me to come spend the following night with him in his pueblo; we agreed that I would go the following day to La Curva and stay the night at his parents' house. Niquinohomo - and especially La Curva - were not in any travel guides, giving me the impression that I would have an onobstructed view into average Nicaraguan life. In fact, I would soon find out that it was rare for anyone from Jairo's family to invite people to spend the night at their house. His parents were a little suspicious of me throughout my visit.
The next day at 10 in the morning, Jairo met me at my hotel to guide me to his pueblo. We walked across Masaya, through the market, to the bus depot. He bought some fruits and vegetables along the way, I assumed for his family. When our bus reached La Curva, we exited and began a short walk along dirt roads to his parents' house. La Curva is at a higher altitude than Masaya or Managua, making me very content, at least for a night. "No more humidity; well, at least for one night, anyways," I thought. As we walked by various ramshakle houses with children playing in the road, I noticed that the only vehicles traveling down the side streets of La Curva were three-wheeled taxis. Rides cost between 10 and 30 Córdobas, or about 40 cents and a little bit over a dollar.
When we arrived at Jairo's parents' house, we walked through a steel gate, enterring a vegetable garden and what seemed to be a miniature farm. His mother raised chickens, roosters, cats, and dogs, all for various uses, I presume. In fact, that night, a dog would give birth to a puppy, surprising Jairo's entire family as they had no idea that the dog was even pregant.
Soon after lunch - which for me, a vegetarian, included gallo pinto (a dish almost synonymous with Nicaragua), rice, and avocado - we set off a couple of bicycles lent to Jairo by his neighbors. We rode through downtown La Curva, which included a couple restaurants and an internet cafe. We rode through other small towns outside of Niquinohomo, including Pio XII and Nandasmo. We visited Jairo's cousin's house. As we peeled and consumed fruits very similar to tangerines, I was told by Jairo's cousin and his wife about their work in a Zona Franca. Zona Francas, which tend to be located in poorer communities in rural Nicaragua, are massive factories specializing in various products. They are usually owned by Chinese or Korean business people. From my view, they tend to be very similar to maquiladores, the manufacturing factories located across the Mexican border in poorer Mexican communities. Both types of factories, being located in poorer countries, are able to pay their workers far less by comparison to factories located in first-world countries. Jairo told me about the various abuses of that the Zona Francas imposed on their workers. These stories reminded me of what had heard from various Mexican laborers in the maquiladores through the years. Jairo understood that Zona Francas provided income (granted, small income) to people inside his community and was reasonably ambivalent about the existence of Zona Francas in general.
Since the night was fast approaching, we pedaled back to Jairo's house. We ate dinner and enjoyed ice cream as we talked with Jorge, a 19-year-old student of Jairo's. Like Jairo, Jorge wanted to become an art teacher. Jorge currently plied his trade as a construction worker alongside his father but hoped to become an art teacher by taking classes at a local college. Soon after Jorge left, we went to bed, retiring to our separate rooms.
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