Transit through the origin is never easy, not just a question of be , or prowling for new land or confused with a tourist, this is what we might call rambling. Travel to the seed, is to awaken on the other side, not knowing or dusk auroras, is lost in the tropics nebulous. The really wonderful of that trip is to enter your skin, go through your veins, that endless greenery in the evening light in red sunsets. Knowing that each kilometer is to discover the forgotten part of your reality infinite.
Managua buses are always crowded discovered, seems to be a lack of that device that generates. The cans travel elongated rickety wheels and are the setting where each morning I transit through the city. A strange city, two earthquakes every forty years is for more than two realities coexist. I say this because I thirty-nine years with reference to streets and avenues that existed before the earthquake and every time someone asks me if I go to where he was the one downtown ... I think back to how strange that passes the city.
The arrival at the terminal on my route, I was smoking a cigarette and at the top of Managua to amaze me how a green cloud hides big city. Managua seems that did not exist. Then my conscience sooty oil that force me to burn, is lightened by the trees that still allow breathing.
Ten minutes have passed. I climb the sort of canned coffee, steaming mad with this city and I walk back to tour its streets and avenues cardboard imitation, always to the beat of tunes just as ramshackle. I get the impression that in Managua not happen the moment the music hits, the time here is an up and down of passengers, it's me who hears the songs of Camilo Sesto I return to a past life, living with me driver routine, which in turn coexists with directions and raising unrealistic to attest to a mountain town at the foot of the lake that may not exist.
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