The Historical District is deceptive.
Walking narrow streets and sidewalks, you meet massive walls and sturdy doors, wrought iron,sturdy secure steel gates.
When you peek through cracked doors, or open windows, you are surprised with glimpses of cozy interiors, plants, fountains, bicycles on tile floors, rocking chairs, big screen televisions. Drafts of cool air, funneled through the house, hit you in the face.
These old original homes are built with thick adobe walls which cuts noise, keeps temperatures constant, and keeps occupants safe. By opening windows and doors you get ventilation. There are multiple porches and open spaces for dining and entertaining.
If I lived in one of these old homes, I would spend much of my time on the upstairs porch, rocking in a chair, sipping coffee, listening to the neighborhood.
The rest of the day my shoes would be in the streets following the pied piper.
These colonial homes, re-habbed, or not, all use lots of space, built in a time when there were fewer people in the city, space wasn’t sold per square foot, and families were bigger.
There is still, in Nicaragua, plenty of space to lose, or find yourself.
There was a time in the 1960’s when urban renewal in the United States was all the craze.
Urban renewal caused structures that had been built hundreds of years ago to be razed, and, in their place, modern buildings went up with modern materials and modern ideas about what people were supposed to live in.
In Granada, in the Historical District, there are strict rules against changing old. Any modifications have to be approved, and the outsides of all buildings must remain intact and true to the century they were built. Many of these buildings have walls of adobe, one of man’s oldest construction materials.
Walking the Historical District, old homes, warehouses and businesses are being gutted, repaired, and brought into our century. Piles of sand and bags of cement are close at hand as day laborers mix and fill wheelbarrows with plaster for men with trowels and hawks. Adobe walls are repaired when they can be.
In this district of Granada, things seem to look as they always have, because the codes say that it will be so.
Old, with our help, doesn’t have to go gently into the good night.
Since Adam was created out of mud, and it was good enough for our Maker, why would we want to tear down mud buildings made out of the same stuff as we are?
I look for the little white sandwich sign in front of the Merced church that tells me it is open.
When I see that sign, I pay thirty Cordova’s to climb a narrow circular staircase to the highest points in the Tower and snap photos of Granada from the church’s upper windows.
The stairs are steep but there are wrought iron bars to hold to as I wind my way up.This morning there is only one person in the Tower, besides me. When he comes down I find a nook, still on my way up, and let him barrel past..
At the top of the spire the city opens up as far as I can see and below me are red tiled roofs, spires of other churches, grids of streets leading to and from the District of the Tourists. As you move away from the Historical District, Granada becomes a different city. In the Tourist districts, you find an emphasis on food, entertainment, places to sight see, museums, education, history. Outside the Tourist District, the residents are all about commerce and community.
This morning church bells are quiet and Esmerelda is asleep in her small room, her hunchback gone to the local market to pick her a bouquet of flowers.
At the bottom of this staircase, mounted on a wall, is a sign that says ” Do Not Ring the Bell. ”
There is a room of torture buried deep in this complex, because, as most of us know, bells are always rung, at least once, by those who can’t read and don’t follow directions.
A sign, without consequences, is not worth the paper it is printed on.
The last time Mombacho erupted was in the 1500’s.
It is a strato volcano and deposited lava in its last explosion for miles around its base. The rich volcanic soil around the volcano is a bonanza for coffee, rice, and bean plantations that cover the agricultural lands stretching below us for miles. From our observation point at the mountain’s top we can see Lake Nicaragua, the Laguna de Apoyo, the red tiled roofs of Granada and thousands of green acres of fincas.
This morning Jose, our guide, leads Ur and myself, around one of Mombacho’s craters.
Nicaragua is in the Ring of fire that is a belt of earthquake and volcanic activity where the America’s meet the Pacific Ocean . Managua has earthquakes and Ur, from South Korea, tells me that that city, where he now volunteers, is still suffering from last year’s quake.
Visiting Nicaragua without visiting a volcano is like visiting Disneyland without going on a ride.
The chances are Mombacho isn’t going to erupt any time soon, but tomorrow can always spin out of control with one turn of nature’s dial.
When this sleeping volcano wakes, the Earth will tremble.
Abdallah Tours is on Calle Calzada. They offer tours at the same price most other tour companies do but having an English speaking guide is always desirable.
Mario, our guide for the Granada Islands tour, knows his subjects and studies while we sight see.
Enroute, he tells us about an old Spanish Fort that protected Granada from pirates and invaders, protected cargo going back to Spain in the 1500’s when Spain was not part of a European Union and had its own colonization programs in the New World.
This fort is a relic in a new world knotted together like a family of bickering kids.
It has value as an example of old history abandoned by the side of the road as new history marches past.
Our Lady of Assumption Cathedral is also called the Granada Cathedral.
The church dominates the main plaza of Granada, Nicaragua and was begun in the 1500’s when the city was being colonized by Spanish conquerors. The church still serves the community and at a recent evening Mass was filled with locals as well as tourists who make the place one of their must do stops.
This Cathedral dwarfs other churches in the city and is not as ornate or beaten down as its competition. It is still a simple box covered with smooth plaster, tall bell towers, and is painted a striking color you can see from a distance. In its shadows is the main city Plaza, a collection of horse drawn carriages lined up in front of the Alhambra hotel, vendors selling sunglasses and food, tourists, and locals who have nothing better to do than people watch and take photos and videos for their Facebook page.
Walking into a Catholic church brings the usual statues, pews, robed white plaster men commemorated for dedication, nooks with burning candles, dizzying rotundas, a sense of space.
The unusual in this church is a Genie lift that supports an artist painting on the ceiling.
The cast of characters is to be expected. There is God, Adam and Eve, all of Noah’s animals, angels and scenes of Creation.
This morning, when there is no Mass, I find the lift extended and observe a little man on the platform high above me patiently expanding his assigned themes. He is no Michaelangelo and this is no Sistine Chapel, but the effect is still jaw dropping. The ceiling is huge, and, with so many sections to be filled, it is hard to believe the task will ever be finished.
But, completed or not,it is certain that this project will outlast many men and make the point continually that we are alive for a purpose, just not our purpose.
Taking a different way to the Plaza, there appears another Catholic church, one of fifteen in Granada.
This place of worship is unique for its grizzled exterior that looks older than history, and people are standing way up in a church bell tower taking photos of the city at dusk. It is evening and Mass is in progress.
I have been told by a tour guide that the black stained exterior is not mold but comes from a fire built by an American, William Walker, who invaded and tried to take control of Nicaragua in the 1800’s to extend Southern slavery. He was trying to burn out defenders of the city who were holed up inside the massive walls of this church.
Walker was eventually captured and executed in Honduras but American interventionism has never stopped anywhere.
Church’s try to do God’s work, but men keep putting their foot in the door.
American’s have been visiting Nicaragua a long time, and good has not always been on their mind, no matter what their mouths said.
Granada is built on the shores of Lake Nicaragua.
In olden days, the rich or famous of Managua came to the lake to relax with their families and built huge homes that go unused by heirs who have moved to the United States or other foreign lands for more opportunity, better weather, or because they can. There is a huge park at the end of Calle Libertidad with open air discos, park benches and swings, nooks to enjoy a swim and cooler breezes.
This morning, horsemen push cattle past as I stand in shade, out of the way. When one of the herd moves closer to the park’s grass, it is driven back towards the shoreline by one of the cowboys. A slight breeze moves leaves in the trees, water gently kisses the shoreline, and people have not yet begun to wake.
Granada is a place where animals are important and a part of daily routine.
This moment speaks of a more pastoral time when men spent the day with their animals, weren’t in a hurry, and lived well with nature.
In the evening these cowboys will come back this way, cattle driven home by the caballeros, the lake turning pinks and yellows and reds as the sun goes down.
Dogs will keep the cattle in a straight line and everyone will be hungry after a hard day of work.
This is a small poignant piece of the nineteenth century still alive in the twenty first century.
These days, we too are being driven, but it isn’t cowboys that herd us.
The three hundred foot rock walls of the crater go straight down as if a giant using a post hole digger, dug a hole for a fence post and then walked away without filling it. Light on the sides of the walls is the color of the fire in the bottom, and, at that bottom, are moving waves of reddish yellow molten rock.
” It looks like Hell, ” someone says, and a woman clutches her cross, and says a prayer.
For the scientist,this is just a fissure in the Earth and the magma belies intense heat and pressures at the core of this planet. it is all explained by the Big Bang Theory..
Sightseers move along the length of a stone wall along the crater’s edge, fixated on the fire in the hole. It is a dark, starless night, and some sightseers have brought flashlights to help them see the path around the volcano as they scramble for better places to see it. This whole place smells like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Walter, our guide, motions me to the exact spot where I can see the cauldron.
Ancient men would have sacrificed to the Gods here, but that custom has been abandoned.
Now, we worship ourselves.
Nicaragua is home to 27 volcanoes.
Some shoot ash and gas into the air while others are a seething cauldron of molten lava.
Masaya is a thirty minute drive from Granada and much closer to Managua, the capital city of Nicaragua. It erupted most recently in 2008 and was one of the first authorized National Parks in Nicaragua. The park closes depending on what emotions the volcano shows and in 2008 visitors were surprised by the eruption that killed two people.
Tour companies are plentiful in Granada and their sales force stands on the steps outside the tours front doors and work the crowds in English and Spanish. Like all sales persons, they tell you what you want to hear, not what you need to know.
Our evening $20.00 U.S. tour ( which includes a $10 park fee ) takes three hours to complete and includes a ride to the Masaya National Park, a thirty minute photo op of the volcano at night, a ride back to Granada on highways where motorcyclists and bicyclists wear no helmets and have no lights on themselves or their vehicles.
This evening our bus is filled with eleven people from Germany, Australia, Canada, Austria and the U.S..
At our thirty minute turn at the top of the volcano, we exit our van and scramble to a waist high rock wall that separates us from a three hundred foot drop to the bottom of the crater, where, at strategic points, you see molten lava moving like waves. Gas funnels up into our faces and way up in the sky are night stars, even hotter than this volcano.
Caught between molten rock on the inside of this planet and gases in the atmosphere, walking on a land that shakes from quakes and drowns in floods, how can we be convinced we are masters of this world?
It isn’t our power that holds atoms together.
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