Managua to San Miguel

I got up early this morning and was actually on the road at 6:15 am.  The drive through the center of Managua was surprisingly busy at that hour.  This was my fourth time through Managua and I surprised to accidentally find a much quicker route to the road to Leon.  It was warm morning but nothing like what was to come so I had the windows open enjoying the fresh air.

I spent a fair amount of time considering the family history that Elkin had told me and Darrylle.  He is a local Indian from near Arenal.  His grandfather actually grew up in a traditional manner.  They lived off the land hunting and foraging.  The people bathed in the rivers and preferred to stay cool in the shade of the foliage rather than in houses.  They had a tradition centered around the local well for young couples contemplating marriage.  A boy and girl would meet at the well, each with their own vessel to carry water.  He would offer her his pot and if she agreed to marry him she would throw down and break her pot filling his with water and placing it on her head.

The Costa Rican government took it upon themselves to modernize these people and provided many modern conveniences.  They built them houses but the people had never lived with concrete floors and were unsure what to think. At first they thought the houses were for the animals. But eventually they moved in and Elkin explained the houses became extremely dirty.  In a dirt floor home there is no need to clean spills, just cover them over.  But without cleaning a concrete floor will quickly be beyond soiled.

The government provided showers with running water.  This confused the people as they prefered to wash in the rivers, overhead water was very strange.  The government also blocked off the well.  Wells have historically been a source of many diseases and clean water is a right espoused in most universal human rights decrees.  The unintended result is the blocking off a unique tradition that rooted a people to their past.

Elkin had told us how beautiful he thought their life had been, how pure and simple. He expressed sadness that their traditions and way of life will soon die out as do the elders who experienced it.

I wasn’t really coming to any conclusions and didn’t have much time to try.  Only eight miles before Leon I suffered my first ( and hopefully last ) flat tire.  It was not a slow occurance.  The tire split on the side and was flat instantly. I pulled over and jumped out.  The tire was completely flat but there was a hissing sound coming from the car.  It wasn’t the tire and I traced it to the engine.  I also noticed there was an inordinate amount of water dripping from the engine, way too much to be the a/c.  I have been getting some wierd sounds from the a/c. It’s making the same sounds from a year ago before I lost my first of three a/c units.

Everything was fine with the radiator and everything else I could think to check and I couldn’t really deal with the a/c at this point so I turned to the tire.  Fortunately a young Nicaraguan named Santo was riding his bike along the same stretch of road.  Without a word he stopped and began assisting me.

Santo and I disengaged the high lift, took off the spare tire, raised the car, took off the flat tire, put on the spare and lowered the car.  The impact wrench worked wonderfully (thanks Colby for the idea).  I have to say the high lift jack is a bit dangerous.  I think I sprained the little finger on my right hand.  It’s a fairly precarious device and everything went well lifting the car (after I WD40’d the hell out of if).  But lowering the car the high lift decided to drop instantly slapping the lever back and forth. It not only wrenched out of my hand spraining my pinky but also slapped the car. There was only about an inch for the car to drop, but it was a little shocking none the less.

Also disconcerting was the fact that the wheel of the car was just about on the line of the road.  Occassionally a large truck or bus would sound their horn as they were approaching sending both Santo  and me scurrying around the other side of the car.

I realized when I saw the gash in the side of the tire that it was likely history. But it took the word “impossible” from the guys at Firestone for the situation to sink in.  I was left without any spare.  After considering the situation a purchased a 31 inch tire (the tires on the car are 37 inches) as an emergency spare.  As soon as I can find another 37 inch tire I’ll replace the 31 inch (hopefully selling it to whoever has the 37).  I’m really hoping that San Salvador will be the place to find a 37 inch tire.  There was nothing in all of Nicaragua.  In the mean time if I have a blowout on a front tire I’ll have to trade a rear for a front and then put the spare on the rear for the emergency drive to a tire center.  I can’t suffer another irreparable blowout until I find the illusive Central American dealer of 37 inch tires.

After a little trouble like that it’s hard to clear my mind from the worry.  So the next couple of miles I was worried about every bump and pothole. I finally had to let go because the last 20 miles to the border with Honduras was the worst road I’ve driven in Nicaragua.

I have used the a/c some more. But when I hear the strange noise I turn it off.  My check engine light has come on as well so I’ll be finding a Chevy shop in San Salvador to figure things out.

The Nicaragua/Honduras and Honduras/El Salvador borders were my least favorite last year and I have not had a very favorable view of Honduras because of those experiences.  Today’s border crossings were the complete opposite from nearly a year ago.  As I pulled up to the borders and the “transmitadors” (helpers) came running at the car I simply said no thanks and that I’m doing it alone.  A couple of times I firmly stated to leave me alone.

The immigration and customs officials were extremely helpful and courteous.  Last year the two border crossings cost me around $400.  Today’s total was $41.  My advice to anyone crossing these borders is that there is absolutely no need to used the transmitadors.  I think I could have even done it without speaking any Spanish had I tried.  I even enjoyed the drive through Honduras.  Someday I’ll have to come back to Honduras and give the country a fair chance.

I asked the customs agent in El Amitillo (the El Salvador side of the border) where I should stay tonight, San Miguel or Santa Rosa de Lima.  He suggested San Miguel and even suggested a hotel.  So I am at the hotel he recommended, the Hotel Tropico Inn.  He told me the name of the street (which I never understood) and when I asked if it was close to the center he said yes.  I told him my usual practice is to go to the central park and ask from there. He thought that was a good idea.  So I pulled off the main highway loaded with fast food, services and the general commercial bustle of an inter city through way to find the center.

The center of San Miguel is controlled mayhem.  For a while I thought I’d found my way onto a bus only street because I was stuck in middle of innumberable buses with passengers jumping on and off seemingly without purpose. But I think in reality I was the only stupid car driver to attempt this particular street. Constant honking only added to the pressure of non-movement.  There were commercial stalls and sidewalk vending the like of which I haven’t seen since La Paz. I was making for the spires of what I assume was the cathedral at the main square.

After about 15 minutes of not really getting anywhere I asked a few people where I could find the hotel hoping it was in front of me.  The first guy I asked, a taxi driver, couldn’t understand my prounciation of Hotel Tropico Inn (in his defense at this point I thought it was the Hotel Tropical Inn).  Two guys sitting on the stairs of a small shop were a little more helpful.  Before the traffic miraculously decided to move and the honking behind me became unbearable I understood that the hotel was behind me, likely on the road I had turned off to find the center of town.  Everyone, who understood the hotel I was looking for told me the name of the street, but I could never understand what the word was. I’d repeat it to myself, but couldn’t figure it out.  When I reached the main drag where I would find the hotel I was amused to realize it’s Roosevelt Street.

So I am happily ensconced in the Hotel Tropico Inn.  It’s about $40 a night, has a pool, a restaurant (so I don’t have to venture out onto the 82nd Avenue of San Miguel) and free wifi in the room.  Tomorrow I will journey to San Salvador to find a Chevy dealership, a very well stocked tire center and hopefully meet up with a UPS alumna who works with Oxfam America.