As I padlock the iron gate in front of my house, a passerby on a bike shouts “que linda,” the beginning of an ongoing stream of unsolicited commentary about my appearance that I will be on the receiving end of throughout the day. I wait for a carriage pulled by an emaciated horse to maneuver its way around a taxi and then mount my bike and begin my ride along the cobblestone street, passing the pulperia where a stout women with her hair twisted into a bun waves an old rag over homemade bread and browning bananas to keep the flies off. This is the city of Masaya, the capital of Nicaraguan Folklore, known for its festivals, its handicraft market, and its surprising abundance of men in drag. It sits above an old volcanic lagoon, beautiful to look down on but too polluted to touch, filled with the trash that floats along the flooded streets to the west end of the city every afternoon during the rainy season. It’s dotted with old Spanish cathedrals, their paint peeling and their spires rising above the rest of the city, the only structures brave enough to stand above two stories and tempt the fault line that lays below the streets. Clustered around the cathedrals are barrios filled with elaborate homes with courtyards and cooks, humble dwellings with tin roofs and dirt floors, and an excess of mango trees and stray dogs. This has been my home for the last year and a half.
Que linda!!
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