Wed, 28 Feb 2007

PDA Report - Managua, Nicaragua

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How things can change in an instant. I've enjoyed a good track record defying the perils of travel in Central America. Four months in four countries last year without any serious incident. Yet not a day would pass without me hearing stories from other travelers. Now, it's my turn. Yesterday I was robbed at gun point in Managua.

I had enjoyed a hot, fulsome month in Granada. But I was past my 'best before date' and raring to get out and back to Guatemala. The luxurious Tica bus Line has an office in Granada, from which I bought my ticket. I'm told to show up at 4 AM, as the bus leaves at 5.

The very congenial ticket clerk gal, however, failed to mention that the bus leaves from Managua, the capitol an hour's drive away. Sure, it says so on the ticket, but do you think I'd notice?  I heard the word cuatro, and she saw me point to the street outside. 

Such are the pitfalls that befall the gringo sans Spanish in a culture where officials are anything but forthcoming. And so after leaving the hostel at 3:30 am, walking 20 blocks to the bus office (no taxis at that hour) and sitting on dark steps for two more hours waiting for a non-existent bus, I eventually arrive in Managua at one in the afternoon. I had felt perfectly safe up to that point. Granada is, well, not Managua.

I'd been drilled about Managua. Stick to the malls and don't go out at night. I checked into the bus station hotel. I had five hours to kill before dark. The options were limited. Two garish mega-malls, UCA campus and, on a whim, the massive Iglesia Metropolitana, a bizarre Arabesque looking modernist cathedral built in 1993. All within short cab rides from each other.

The cathedral sits isolated in the middle of a large, empty tract of land save for a column of very tall palm trees. It's built entirely from poured concrete, almost Ericksonian. The roof structure comprises a series of tightly arranged domes, resembling an egg carton. The ingenuity of the design lies in the myriad of window openings cut into the concrete providing a stunning interplay of light and shadow. Well, I went to town with my camera, had me shutterbug fever for the first time on this trip.

I got some stunning shots of the interior and slowly ambled my way outside, shooting all the while. The light was perfect.  I was completely lost in the geometry, light, shadow and texture. I ventured to the side and back of the cathedral. I was about to take what I thought would be my last shot. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around and two very serious, dark skinned men are crowding me. One pulls a gun from inside his shirt, twists his wrist this way and that, as if extending a FYI courtesy.

I've rehearsed this scenario in my mind a hundred times in various forms. I reach into my back pocket and pull out 45 dollars, brought along for the very occasion. Hold the bills up for their information. I say "no tengo mas." The other guy gets pissed -- clearly I'm not emptying out all my pockets. He plunges his hand into my right pocket and triumphantly fishes out four more dollars. I shrug. Then he hisses, camera, camera, camera! I try to open the latch to take out the memory card but he rips the camera from my hands.

They back away. I plead with them, por favor, por favor.. photos, photos.. hoping they'll give back the SD memory card. They're grinning, fat chance.

I don't press my case. In my front left pocket sits my PDA. In my lower left, passport and bus ticket. In my lower right, ID wallet: visa, debit card, driver's license and library card.

Thirty seconds, perhaps a minute has elapsed. A maintenance man happens by. They exchange words. Suddenly the gunman assumes the aiming position, holds the gun with both hands, feet spread apart. Like in the movies. Although I'm not in the line of fire, a quarter turn would do it... I duck aside behind some shrubs -- deliberate about bolting. But the thugs turn tail, make a beeline across the field towards the highway. The maintenance guys blows a whistle. I whistle with my fingers. We give chase. By the time we're half way across the field, the gunmen have sped away in a car.

I don't know if the gun was loaded or real. It's pointless to speculate, I suppose. I never had a chance: cornered, ambushed and outnumbered.

The aftermath was a farce. I knew it was over before it began. There were half a dozen witnesses at the side of the highway who could positively identify the men and the car they escaped in. But, as I've learned in other areas of life here, motivation is THE missing link. Five minutes after the whistles blew a small band of officials, security guards and a cop saunter across the field to investigate.

I'm sore about losing a load of precious images, not only of the cathedral, but some special moments in Granada and a cocoa jungle expedition with a friend days before. Worse, I had stored on the SDcard a series of personal documents, mementos and photos as part of an archiving project -- images going back to college days, family, friends, my son.. The thought of strangers riffling through, well, my most intimate belongings rankles.

Back at the bus station I'm leaning over a railing, replaying the scene over and over, as you can imagine. There's another tap on my shoulder. I whiplash around, scaring the wits out of a very dignified looking Nica man. He's holding the screen side of a digital camera inches from my face. For an instant my brain goes haywire -- I think my camera's been recovered and is being returned to me. Ah, but of course, he only wants me to take a snapshot of him. The man wants a snapshot of him standing in a non-descript doorway, in a non-descript bus station in an utterly non-descript neighbourhood of Managua.

I muster my photographer's best.

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