Nicaragua

I came to Nicaragua, arguably the second poorest country in Latin America (as a result of dictatorship legacies, current government corruption, and of course American government anti-development through the funding of the Contras in the 80’s). Only Haitians are poorer.

Granada is a beautiful colonial town resting along the side of grand Lake Managua, the largest body of freshwater or “agua dulce” in central America. but tourist dollars are changing its character, as well as its property owner. I sat in the city square, the center of social life, people watching, horse-drawn carriage vending, and begging. After talking with an 11-year-old cashew vender for some time about why I wasn’t going to buy any cashews from him, and then letting him type “llllddddddggggggggewsdedsvneijeyvf85jndfk” on my keyboard, I strolled down the main street towards the lake.

Beneath a canopy of Mango trees and only a few other people, I was joined by a young man who spoke impeccably more clear Spanish than his compatriots. He was slightly over-friendly, which sent vender/beggar-alarm-bells off in my mind, but he wasn’t aggressive and our conversation about Nicaragua and life in general was quite interesting. After reaching the shore we sat by the breakwater talking and watching the waves and other tourists.

He told me his work was showing tourists around, teaching them about the history of Nicaragua, and teaching them a bit of Spanish. He told me he had a young son named Kevin. Somewhere in the conversation, he asked me how much I thought a months worth of food would cost for him and his son. I said, what kind of food? He said, only rice and beans, and a little bit of eggs and vegetables. I thought for a moment and did some “new math” in my head before saying “$150.” He laughed, and told me it was around $8.

He asked if we were friends, I told him for right now during this conversations, sure we were friends. I told him it was a little difficult, though, because I figured he wanted money. He said that it shouldn’t matter, and that he wasn’t asking, but that he would surely accept if I did offer. I told him that sometimes it was difficult for us tourists in Nicaragua because of the number of people asking us for money. He told me that begging and bothering tourists for money without giving a service was wrong, but that he had also seen much rude behavior from tourists when they were dismissing the poor. We talked for another hour, him correcting my Spanish after asking permission if he could.

After a while he asked me if I wanted to walk down the beach. Down the path, he said it was because of a man that had sat down next to us that he didn’t trust. He said he knew all the really good and really bad men in town. We walked down to a more isolated part of the coast. He described to me what the river before looked like when it overflowed during the rainy season. I had my keyboard with me, and I was clutching it closely out of distrust, but he just kept talking about what was left of his siblings and his deceased mom and dad. I asked him why he didn’t get a decent job. He said that he did haul big bags of bulk foods for a pittance at the market, but he said he needed a $12 national identification card for the minimum wage jobs, which he could not afford.

We walked back towards town. He pointed out a boy a block ahead, and told me to yell “Kevin,” so I did, and the kid immediately turned around. He introduced himself and shook my hand after we approached, then went back to chatting with his friends. Roberj and I walked a bit further, me continuing to ask questions about his life and his views. His kid yelled to him a couple of times, motioning him to come back. I said just a minute, keep walking with me. He did. I asked him how much was sufficient. He said he couldn’t tell me something like that.

I gave him 5 dollars worth of Cordobas, worth a night’s stay at a hostel on my trip. He said thank you, I’m going to the market to buy food now. I said there was no way for me to know that. He said, “only faith.” I walked away feeling slightly used, but feeling even more wonder.

I’ve turned down hundreds of people asking for money since I left the states: children, wrinkled old ladies, cripples, even telling some of them to “go away” after they were too persistent. I’m sure I have hundreds more to turn down before I return home, though not all of them. I think that giving to beggars can certainly be harmful to them for encouraging non-productiveness and non-sustainability. I don’t know for sure, but this one seemed right. He gave me the service of his friendship and conversation for just a short while, he made my day interesting, he had tremendous patience and even incite into the relationship between him and myself, between the United States and Nicaragua, between rich and poor.

If he really is just going to get drunk with the money I gave him, then I just paid a terrific salesman. But all things considered, I believe it was a fair exchange.