Fear and violence haunt the streets of Managua, Nicaragua's capital,

Fear and violence haunt the streets of Managua, Nicaragua's capital, rife with extreme poverty and inevitable crime. Rather than whole, safe neighborhoods, there are mostly small islands of safety clustered around malls and fancy hotels. A wealthy tourist (nearly all tourists here are relatively rich) happily pays triple the local rate for a taxi that works with the hotels to ensure a safe arrival. The trip is generally a hop from one safe zone to another. In the evening, taxis are even more important because it's unwise to walk around after dark, especially with a camera. While you're unlikely to be hurt, there is a risk that groups of young thugs might just rob you at knifepoint.

In Nicaragua, there are more armed guards than military and police forces combined. Every major hotel and nearly every business has an armed guard. Nicaraguan security guards make about $1 an hour and consider the work a blessing. I chatted with one guard while watching a kid in the street juggling small flaming torches for tips. I couldn't help but think, "I'll spend what the guard makes in a day on a taxi back to my hotel, and I'll spend what that juggler hopes to make in a day for a poolside rum-and-Coke."

Whenever my cabbie stopped at an intersection, a battery of children begging, washing the taxi's windows and trying to sell us little trinkets confronted us. These school-age children weren't in school. I marveled at how a society suffers when it makes ends meet by cutting education.

I wandered through one Managua barrio, keeping an eye on the street for Nicaragua's notorious open manholes (desperation drives people to steal the lids and sell them as scrap metal). The neighborhood felt desolate. There was almost no business metabolism. A few shops sold odds and ends through barred windows, and rustic cantinas served beer to a rough-looking male crowd.

I came upon a small yard where the neighborhood children were jumping giddily up and down while one kid blindly swung a stick at a mischievously darting piñata. I enjoyed the scene, but I winced every time the stick viciously cut through the air among all those excited little heads. As I took a photo, a mom came over and suggested I stow the camera for safety. I suddenly realized I was in a bad neighborhood. With her baby in her arms and her elderly mother at her side, the mother escorted me to a nearby street. As I reached a bank with an armed guard out front, she said, "Now you are safe."