King of León
No, I haven’t formed a band with Phil, Porker and James, for which your aural sensibilities are probably eternally grateful. Instead I’ve been bossing it Boor-style in Nicaragua’s fiery heart. Political slogans, graffiti and flags abound but add rather than detract from an attractive, brightly-hued city. So this meant swapping the beach for some city living and again doing something I’ve not done in quite this way for a while and getting my culture on. And while I walk past a sign informing me of the fact every day on the way to work, until I was reminded by a local enquiring where I was from, I had forgotten that León is one of five cities twinned with Oxford. As the only non-European one, it had always stood out but now I think about it - politics, culture, a prestigious university - it does make sense.
I confess that there was no evidence on display that the revolution was televised, but there were certainly plenty of photos, at the ramshackle Museum of the Revolution. It wasn’t big, and it was less organised chaos than simply chaos, but it was clear that the people of León are proud of their history and heritage. Unfortunately the lack of information in any language coupled with a guide with no sense of personal space and the depressingly British trait of simply speaking louder in the vain hope of overcoming a language barrier meant that I didn’t leave with any greater understanding. I did get a nice view across to the cathedral though, and the murals were cool.
The cathedral is a magnificent beast and a thoroughly impressive piece of architecture. Throw in a couple of other well-above-average churches and I’d had a display of guns and God that wouldn’t be out of place in the Deep South. The heat wouldn’t have been out of place either; Nicaragua has so far been hot in every sense of the word.
Continuing on that riff, cooler than I was expecting in a number of ways, was the genuinely excellent Art Museum. Hosted in two sizeable, stunning buildings opposite each other, it would have been a terrific setting even if the contents didn’t live up to the billing. They were beautiful, all high ceilings and beams, heavy wooden doors and chandeliers, with a large number of rooms set around courtyards with fountains and plants allowing for a goodly amount of natural light.
As for the product, there was the inevitable and slightly tedious European religious art, some more interesting European portraiture, and some cabinets containing a lot of Jesus on the cross and creepy clay babies straight out of a budget horror flick. The majority, however, was given over to the modern and I liked it a lot. There was a lot of contemporary Central and South American works, the colours coming out in the courtyard settings, as well as some stuff from the wackier end of the spectrum - installations, multimedia and the like. Best of all though was a large amount of excellent international work on display: vibrant shapes and patterns like science fiction in glorious technicolour. Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Damien Hirst, Francis Bacon, Willem and Elaine de Kooning, Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Jasper Johns, Anish Kapoor: these names would light up any gallery and I passed a couple of very happy hours here.
The quality may have dipped a notch, but only adding to its charm, was the entertaining Museum of Myths and Traditions. It was a slightly bonkers place. To give you a sense, the entry plaza features the rusted shell of a tank, a statue of a man throwing a grenade, and a many metres high woman that presumably came from a carnival float or similar. There was a photo exhibition on the building of the cathedral and information on the history of the site as a jail and place of torture for political prisoners, but the majority was given over to local and national myths. Illustrated with comically bad papier-mâché figures, the stories were interesting and surprisingly universal, like the Nahua Oxcart, the Gnome and the Seven Little Black Men (essentially the grim reaper, a stealer of children and the seven deadly sins). A lot was to do with Spanish colonial oppression, either criticising it, or mocking it, such as the Dance of the Tall Woman and the Big-Headed Man. And with morality tales, jilted brides, Indian princesses and mythical dogs waging the eternal war between good and evil, it would take a sad soul not to be entertained by the tales of the Golden Crab, the Headless Priest, the Pig-Witcher and Grab-Your-Tit (all direct translations, no Googling required).
Throw in some solid culinary options, a drinking den or two and a first-class gelateria (‘Kiss Me’, which in my head can only be said in Alan Partridge’s voice) and you have the makings of a couple of very happy days. Living like a king indeed.
I confess that there was no evidence on display that the revolution was televised, but there were certainly plenty of photos, at the ramshackle Museum of the Revolution. It wasn’t big, and it was less organised chaos than simply chaos, but it was clear that the people of León are proud of their history and heritage. Unfortunately the lack of information in any language coupled with a guide with no sense of personal space and the depressingly British trait of simply speaking louder in the vain hope of overcoming a language barrier meant that I didn’t leave with any greater understanding. I did get a nice view across to the cathedral though, and the murals were cool.
The cathedral is a magnificent beast and a thoroughly impressive piece of architecture. Throw in a couple of other well-above-average churches and I’d had a display of guns and God that wouldn’t be out of place in the Deep South. The heat wouldn’t have been out of place either; Nicaragua has so far been hot in every sense of the word.
Continuing on that riff, cooler than I was expecting in a number of ways, was the genuinely excellent Art Museum. Hosted in two sizeable, stunning buildings opposite each other, it would have been a terrific setting even if the contents didn’t live up to the billing. They were beautiful, all high ceilings and beams, heavy wooden doors and chandeliers, with a large number of rooms set around courtyards with fountains and plants allowing for a goodly amount of natural light.
As for the product, there was the inevitable and slightly tedious European religious art, some more interesting European portraiture, and some cabinets containing a lot of Jesus on the cross and creepy clay babies straight out of a budget horror flick. The majority, however, was given over to the modern and I liked it a lot. There was a lot of contemporary Central and South American works, the colours coming out in the courtyard settings, as well as some stuff from the wackier end of the spectrum - installations, multimedia and the like. Best of all though was a large amount of excellent international work on display: vibrant shapes and patterns like science fiction in glorious technicolour. Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Damien Hirst, Francis Bacon, Willem and Elaine de Kooning, Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Jasper Johns, Anish Kapoor: these names would light up any gallery and I passed a couple of very happy hours here.
The quality may have dipped a notch, but only adding to its charm, was the entertaining Museum of Myths and Traditions. It was a slightly bonkers place. To give you a sense, the entry plaza features the rusted shell of a tank, a statue of a man throwing a grenade, and a many metres high woman that presumably came from a carnival float or similar. There was a photo exhibition on the building of the cathedral and information on the history of the site as a jail and place of torture for political prisoners, but the majority was given over to local and national myths. Illustrated with comically bad papier-mâché figures, the stories were interesting and surprisingly universal, like the Nahua Oxcart, the Gnome and the Seven Little Black Men (essentially the grim reaper, a stealer of children and the seven deadly sins). A lot was to do with Spanish colonial oppression, either criticising it, or mocking it, such as the Dance of the Tall Woman and the Big-Headed Man. And with morality tales, jilted brides, Indian princesses and mythical dogs waging the eternal war between good and evil, it would take a sad soul not to be entertained by the tales of the Golden Crab, the Headless Priest, the Pig-Witcher and Grab-Your-Tit (all direct translations, no Googling required).
Throw in some solid culinary options, a drinking den or two and a first-class gelateria (‘Kiss Me’, which in my head can only be said in Alan Partridge’s voice) and you have the makings of a couple of very happy days. Living like a king indeed.
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