Noche de Lucha

3 December 2009

By Jonathan Jackosn, Photography Oliver Best
(Originally published March 2009)

If you saw her in the middle of the day, with her model-looks, impeccable hair, and spotless attire, you would never guess that LUCHA has always been the type of female who enjoys getting her hands dirty, literally.

“We need to find a wall, I wanna fuck up this manicure!” the tall, slim 32-year-old says as we ride through the Managua night in an SUV filled with spray paint.

We’re looking for a spot where LUCHA and her fellow bombers CRON and VECK can get a few ‘throwies’ in before the sun comes up.

We settle on a wall close to Carretera Norte, one that is no stranger to graffiti. Just down the way a mountain of garbage burns, lighting up the night and our nostrils.

LUCHA, a Nicaragüense OG of graffiti, who now resides in the Bronx New York, is almost 10 years older than her bombing companions and the respect they have for her is apparent, as is the comradery. The three friends take their time writing; enjoying the chance to joke and banter with one another.

Headlights cut through the black of night, it’s the police…

Those of us watching tense up. The writers shrug off our warning and keep working without so much as a glance at the blue truck that is pulling up behind them.

As the truck stops the four officers take in the scene. They look at the 8 or so cans of spray paint resting on the ground and the bottled water next to it. They look at LUCHA and her friends as they keep writing. They look at us standing behind them, there to document the experience.

Being from the States and knowing the volatile relationship that exists there between graffiti writers and the police, I know something is about to go down.

LUCHA’s friend Jake, visiting from San Fran, who is watching with us, explains to them that it’s just some graffiti and everything is ‘tranquilo.’

The police sit there for a few more seconds staring intently. The driver throws the truck in gear, turns around, and heads off into the night without saying a word.

The three of us from the States glance at each other in disbelief with ‘what the fuck was that?’ looks on our faces.

The three of us from Managua don’t even acknowledge it and keep writing.

Half an hour later, with the ‘throwies’ done, we pile back in the truck and head back to the house, making sure to secure two essential 6-packs of Toña on the way.

After a couple rounds it’s time to call it a night… or a morning, as it is 4 AM. I say goodbye to the guys and give LUCHA a hug. As she turns to leave I glance down at her hands and see fingers covered in blue and black paint. “That is one fucked up manicure,” I think to myself.

One Response to “Noche de Lucha”

1. Heel Bruiser says:

   27 April 2010 at 5:05 AM

   LUCHA is DOPE!