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martes, 29 de octubre de 2013

Best Places to Retire Abroad: Granada, Nicaragua - WSJ.com

Taken from WSJ.com

Best Places to Retire Abroad: Granada, Nicaragua

Oct. 27, 2013 4:39 p.m. ET
This is part of a series in which Americans age 50-plus profile their adopted overseas locales. Send us your suggestions at encore@wsj.com.
Each new day in this nearly 500-year-old city is greeted with a symphony of crowing roosters, the clippity-clop of horse-drawn carriages, and barking dogs. My wife and I moved here, to Granada, Nicaragua, three years ago after living in Costa Rica for two years.
Located on the northern shore of Lake Nicaragua, Granada is a flat city of narrow streets and endless, brightly colored walls, some of which are hundreds of years old. These walls are interspersed with occasional doors, some fancy, some plain, behind which can be anything from a palace to an earthen-floored shack. Often referred to as the "City of Doors," Granada is a wonderful town for walking and bicycling, as it features restaurants, shops and markets down every street.
Our decision to move to Central America in 2008 was tied in large part to health care. We retired when we were both 62, but Medicare isn't available until age 65. Therefore, we decided to leave the U.S. during this gap and seek good, affordable health care in a new environment.
Costa Rica certainly qualified in that regard, but Nicaragua has turned out to be even better. We chose Granada because of its beauty and proximity to the highly regarded Hospital Metropolitano Vivian Pellas, about 45 minutes away on the outskirts of Managua. Health care here is as good as, if not better than, anything we had in our native Tennessee—and a fraction of the cost.
All that said, we didn't take our move here lightly. Like many others, we initially envisioned Nicaragua as war-torn, desolate and dangerous. The reality is something quite different.
Friendly People
The list of pleasant discoveries would begin with the people, some of the friendliest we've encountered anywhere. For the most part, the locals have met the gradual influx of expats, especially retirees, with open arms. Many are aware of the boon to the economy that we represent, and are tolerant of our feeble attempts at Spanish. Many of them speak good English, besides. Language, thankfully, hasn't been much of an issue.
With the exception of electricity and gasoline, expenses here are remarkably low. A good haircut can be had for about $2, and a filet mignon dinner at one of the nicer restaurants will cost about $10. Taxis will take you from one end of town to the other for 45 cents (we don't own a car), and a cold beer will run less than a dollar.
We rent a nice apartment that includes a swimming pool, pavilion and a garden filled with fruit trees. (Bananas, mangoes, avocados, lemons and coconuts are available for the picking when in season.) Our monthly budget—which includes rent, utilities, food, medications and miscellaneous items—is about $1,800. For those who want something more permanent, property is readily available and easily bought.
A typical day for us might include visits and meals with friends, excursions to nearby attractions, attendance at any number of cultural happenings, baseball games, leisurely walks or simply enjoying our home.
Getting back to health care, we pay out of pocket for all services and medications. Fees are about 20% to 30% of what they would be in the U.S. For instance, an office visit to our doctor is $15, and we get his undivided attention for as long as it takes. (He even makes house calls for the same price.) Vivian Pellas hospital accepts several international insurance plans (but not Medicare) and offers two discount plans of its own that, depending on one's age, offer considerable savings.
We often are asked about safety and security. We use common sense and feel comfortable wandering the city's streets at most any time. The prevailing wisdom is to carry little money, wear no expensive jewelry and use taxis to get around after 9 p.m. Until that hour, most families have their rocking chairs by the sidewalks after dinner to visit with neighbors and enjoy the evening breeze.
Heat Factor
The major drawback for us is the heat. Nicaragua has only two seasons, wet and dry, and the temperatures can be oppressive during both. The rainy season runs from mid-May until mid-December and offers little relief.
Then there is the poverty. Only Haiti is poorer among Latin American countries. Nicaragua has a massive lower class—probably over half the population—and very little seems to get done by the government to benefit the poor. A goodly portion of Carol's and my retirement funds go to local charities.
Lastly, Nicaraguans are notoriously indifferent to timetables. A workman scheduled to appear at noon might, in fact, appear at noon. Or he might appear tomorrow. Or next Tuesday. Or not at all. Patience is a virtue.
We haven't been back to the States since we left and have no plans to go soon. We have had several stateside friends visit, and have received promises from several others. As we tell them all: "Come on down. The beer's cold, and the door's always open."
Mr. Lynch lives in Granada, Nicaragua. Email him at encore@wsj.com .

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domingo, 27 de octubre de 2013

Paradise from a young boy's point of view....


A young boy named Everth gave me this painting yesterday...paradise from a 7 year old point of view....

martes, 22 de octubre de 2013

Nicaragua’s Corn Islands cast a peculiar spell of their own - The Washington Post

Clipped from: http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/travel/nicaraguas-corn-islands-cast-a-peculiar-spell-of-their-own/2013/10/17/becd4dba-c882-11e2-8da7-d274bc611a47_story.html
Nicaragua's Corn Islands cast a peculiar spell of their own

By Colleen Kinder, Published: October 17  E-mail the writer

The lobster trawlers bob like toys in a bathtub, tipping to and fro with every swell of gray sea. I watch from a crowd of Nicaraguans about to board the day's last panga, or public ferryboat, wondering whether the storm is as bad as it looks.
The word I keep overhearing is "angry." In Spanish, English and a Creole that sounds like English flipped inside out and set to a beat, everyone's calling the sea — our only highway — angry.

Travel Guide 2013

MAY 16
Advice on the guide books versus Apps, the use of electronics on planes and more practical trips for savvy globe trotters.
Such is the medley of languages 40-some miles off the coast of Nicaragua, on the Corn Islands. For centuries, these two landmasses — faint crumbs on the Caribbean map — had little to do with mainland Nicaragua. They were pirate territory, coconut-tree-lined refuges for the likes of the ruthless privateer Captain Morgan.
Details: Corn Islands
It wasn't until 1894 that Nicaragua claimed these fringe islands, but with no roadways linking the capital to the marshy eastern coastline, the Corns remained a world apart. To this day, islanders still bear surnames such as Quinn and Campbell, play more reggae than salsa, and every August, around the 27th, the day the slaves were emancipated, they crown another local beauty island queenla at a festival featuring crab soup.
There's a Big Corn and a Little Corn, and the traveler's first quandary is to pick her Corn. I say quandary, because these islands are different in both style and scale ("big" means 6,000 people; "little" fewer than 1,000) and what separates them is about 10 miles of often turbulent sea. My plan was to depart for Little Corn as soon as my puddle jumper landed on the bigger island. The reason was simple: In every story I'd read about Little Corn, the writer sounded a little shocked by how totally the place calmed him. Clearly, Little Corn cast a particular spell.
But watching palm trees bend back in the rainy wind, I wonder: Do I really need to sleep in Eden tonight? Do I even believe in one? A place so calm it could chill even me out? I'm good at motion; I get off on reaching the map's outer edge. Hunkering down under a pretty tree once I get there, however, is a lot, lot harder.
"Hurry!" Our captain cuts off my doubts and sends us all running with fire-drill panic toward our thrashing panga boat. I'm seasick before it leaves the dock.
My seat puts me between a jumpy man and the open sea. Trying not to look at the great girth and rolling height of each gray wave, I clutch the flapping plastic tarp that is our boat's umbrella, very ready to hear "land-ho."
At last, the captain takes aim at a skinny band of beach, and we're told to leap off the back of the panga, toward the kelp-strewn sand. Someone points out the sunset, but heads are down, nausea pervasive. I take a quick look: The sun is a gold blotch, bleeding pink into the wooly wreath of clouds. It could hardly look more distant, well on its way to the west of Nicaragua.
To the lighthouse
There are no cars on Little Corn. No buzz of motorcycles, no throttle or honk of any sort disturbs the air. You hear just two things as you wind around the cement footpath that is this island's only thoroughfare: the crash and withdrawal of waves.

Page 2
Waves awoke me early, in a cerulean blue shack perched above the southern shore of Little Corn. Such is lodging at Casa Iguana, which borrows well from the palette of Corn Island homes — creamy purple, cool turquoise, the deep yellow of ripened mango. It's tucked back in a carefully manicured jungle, where hibiscus vines dome over damp dirt pathways. My shack-for-one, rustic and yet so ready for me (flashlight, mosquito net, three novels in a pile), invited the delusion that I could just stay here and live, overlooking an empty beach.
So did the mood at the communal dinner. A ringleted blonde on the staff handed me a basil mojito, then plantain chips (on the house!). The catch of the day was cooking somewhere, as guests pattered in, barefoot. A Californian named Blake struggled to tell me when he'd arrived — "Tuesday?" How soon I could feel the complete dissolve of home's priorities. Was it ludicrous to ask about a wireless signal here, where fireflies beaded the darkness and pirates once strung up hammocks?

Advice on the guide books versus Apps, the use of electronics on planes and more practical trips for savvy globe trotters.
I did, only to wish that I hadn't. The last thing one should gaze into from Little Corn Island is a full inbox. I shut the hotel laptop and drifted back toward the dinner table, where everyone was talking scuba. Corn Island travelers chat about diving conditions the way bankers discuss stocks — everything here hinges on the clarity of the sea. A non-diver, I couldn't get into it, so I wandered off into the inky dark toward my abode, intent on exploring Little Corn first thing in the morning.
It's early — profanely early — when I step outside. With neither a watch nor a phone, I read the only available time clues: bare feet dangling from hammocks, and a few toes peeking out from shored boats. It's the crack of dawn on Little Corn Island.
Harris is the first alert person I meet. An older man with the muscles of a sailor, Harris is scraping the scales off a yellowtail snapper, as the waves curl toward the sand just behind him. A native of the island, Harris assures me that I've come to the better Corn. Why? "Children can run around without the scare of cars."
The foot traffic is gentle as I step back onto the path, and without meaning or trying, I merge with Ronald and Richard.
Both 21, both wearing baggy jeans to their shins, and both members of an Afro-Caribbean group called Garifuna, Ronald and Richard could pass for twins. Their native language, a mix of Arawak, Carib, English, French and Spanish, speaks to how many cultures fused along the Atlantic coast of Central America. It's dizzying to keep up with these polylingual young men. Ronald and Richard salute passersby in Creole ("Yow bigs!"), echo back a few holas, and flip between singing American rap, Latino pop and Bob Marley like a radio on scan.
There's something familiar about my dynamic with these two, and I put my finger on it only after we've wedged through barbed wire fences, crossed a cattle pasture, and lobbed bruised mangoes up at a tree until it gave us the fresh ones, and we're standing below a lighthouse that Ronald and Richard gently dare me to climb. Childhood: It all reminds me an awful lot of life at age 11. Maybe that's the sort of paradise I'm in the mood for, more than the Eden of escape, the one that loops you back to a simpler, playful time.

Page 3
The Little Corn lighthouse is no innocent dare, though. You climb it the way you would a ladder — straight up. And if you happen to have just peeled a sticky mango, it feels more like three grip-resistant ladders, back to back.
"Take your time, take your time," coos Ronald, ahead of me. Moving slowly is an expected theme on any Caribbean island, but I have to wonder, the sixth time Ronald repeats his mantra, whether slowness is more like a virtue on the Corns.

Advice on the guide books versus Apps, the use of electronics on planes and more practical trips for savvy globe trotters.
I'm doing okay until the brightness strikes. A wash of light means that we've cleared the tree line. We are higher than the tallest coconut trees on Little Corn Island.
Take your time, take your time.
My breathing gets loud, my pauses long. At last, my sticky hand finds the platform. It's round and towering, like a crow's nest.
Inhaling, I taste salt — the ocean is that close. Land hogs so little of this panorama, the island's outline hugging us tightly. Little Corn is a single comma on an otherwise blue sheet.
Many other things keep this Corn feeling little, and the lighthouse is a prime place to take stock: no hotel pools, no tennis courts, nothing taller than two stories. A boutique hotel called Yemaya is under construction, I'm told, but the plans sound small-scale, unlikely to upset the island's treetop-to-rooftop ratio.
My gaze drifts offshore, to the marbled waters that distinguish Corn Island beaches in photographs. It's a curious patchwork of navy and aqua, like two different oceans, about to mix hues. But the contrast only intensifies as the sun does; by midday it's a stunning patchwork, some mirage of the sea, or in my case, a summons to slip underwater.
Getting it right
Walk down the beach; look for a boat; find the guy who takes out snorkelers; bring $20.
The snorkeling guy isn't around, but I do find men drinking 11 a.m. beer in the shade. One of them is Harris, from the other side of the island, which felt like a great coincidence, until I remembered that the "other side of the island" was what we'd call, anywhere else, "next door." Little Corn is little more than one square mile.
I beam at my old friend (Harris!) and he responds in kind, offering to take me snorkeling. What makes hospitality in the Corns so disarming is how uncalled for, in context, it feels. In a place this idyllic, no one has to be nice. And Harris certainly doesn't need (nor will he accept) my $20 bill. He owns both a hotel and the lobster trawler on the horizon. Is it possible? Could Harris just care that I snorkel?
The men in the shade set down their beers, rise to their feet, and push Harris and me off the beach in a motorboat called the Sea Prince.
The water glints with so much light that I have to visor my eyes with one hand, and it's clear enough to count the mustard-colored patches of corals, to see every ripple in the white sand below. Hours from now, I will feel like a cooked lobster — the skin on my back the most alarming shade of pink in the palette — but right now, barefoot and bikinied and leaning forward on the tipped-up bow of a speeding boat, I feel like the Sea Queen.

Page 4
I don't tell Harris about my phobia of ocean swimming — a fear of fish (and worse) nibbling at my feet. I don't have to, it turns out, because snorkeling in water this clear is the perfect cure. Head submerged, I can see it all, the swerving and darting and breezy wafting of every size of fish. How silly: to think that my plain white toes could garner any attention down here. A school of jet-black fish with long whiskers and shimmery blue stripes turns past me with the clean synchronicity of ballerinas, and my hands stretch right out. Apparently, I want to pet them.
Harris spots a barracuda, and that's enough to get me wriggling back into the Sea Prince. Besides, my time is short — I'm catching the afternoon panga boat back to Big Corn. This bothers Harris. "You'll have to come back," he says, shaking his head at my haste.

Advice on the guide books versus Apps, the use of electronics on planes and more practical trips for savvy globe trotters.
But as I scamper down the beach and grab a loaf of coconut bread from the little pink house that everyone agrees is the place for the baked variety of "coco food," I feel secretly as if I got it right. Perhaps the perfect time to leave is just before the sunburn shows, before the waves dull into white noise, before I run into Harris a third time. Maybe it's best to get on your way, right when you're tempted to call a place perfect?
A round of lobster
I'm encased in red heat by the time I reach Big Corn. New freckles are menacingly dark. Quick movements hurt. I give up all ambitions of meeting the island beauty queen and finding the descendants of pirates, and let the end of my journey be about one thing: lobster.
There's a dish called rondon that brings the flesh of fresh lobster together with the milk of local coconuts, simmers the pairing in garlic and herbs, adding a full medley of Central American starches and sometimes, another whole fish. It sounds to me like a dinner that I'll one day tell my grandchildren about.
I pick a hotel on the basis of the owner's culinary reputation, overlooking its position beside a fish-processing plant. The plant's constant thrumming reminds me that I'm now on the "working island," as people call Big Corn when differentiating between the two isles. I'm willing to forgo both scenery and serenity for a taste of the best lobster stew.
Rondon cooks so slowly that I have to put in my order at breakfast. Still, when I slide onto the barstool of the hotel restaurant after noon, I'm told to wait. I remember the warning I read on a local tourism Web site: "Order before you're hungry." Someone really should clarify: Order a full day before you're hungry.
Two bar stools down sits Cliff, a lumberjack of an American, here to study the practices of lobster divers on Big Corn.
Who better to prime me for my feast? We talk about the life span of the lobster: the 20 years that it might spend clicking across the ocean floor before venturing into a Corn Islander's trap. Nicaragua's third-largest export is lobster, and the bulk of it, according to Cliff, comes from the shallow continental shelf spreading around the Corns.
The kitchen door swings open, and my rondon floats toward me. I see no pink legs, no pincers, no shell whatsoever in my coconut broth. That's my first praise for how Corn Islanders cook lobster. They understand that the cracking and peeling, all the labor of flavoring, should be done behind the scenes. Nobody wears a bib here, or finishes with a moist towelette. I just slice each lobster morsel into four more, to savor as slowly as possible this expertly slow-cooked stew.
I patter back to my hotel room, lobster-hued, lobster-full. Without bothering to hit the lights, I fall right into the local pose, napping with my bare feet dangling off the bed, finally under some kind of spell.
Kinder is the author of "Delaying the Real World " and teaches travel and essay writing at Yale.

sábado, 19 de octubre de 2013

Nicaragua - World’s Top 10 Happiest Countries - Travel Channel

Nicaragua - World's Top 10 Happiest Countries - Travel Channel

Clipped from: http://www.travelchannel.com/interests/wellness-and-renewal/photos/worlds-top-10-happiest-countries?page=3

by Kathleen Rellihan
Where are the happiest people? Hint: Mostly in Latin America. See the world's most blissful places, according to the leading global happiness measurement the Happy Planet Index.

Photography by Reuterscaragua
NICARAGUA - This Central American country values its natural beauty, with a very low ecological footprint score. Adventurous travelers are starting to take note, too. Locals are excited to see tourism grow rapidly here, with increasing interest in their country's eco-tourism, surfing and "off-the-beaten path" vibe. And it might surprise you, but this country is one of the safest in Central America -- that's something for locals to feel good about, too.

Happiest Planet Index: #8

 

 

lunes, 14 de octubre de 2013

Gas prices in Managua, Nicaragua


People are always asking what fuel prices are in Nicaragua.  Here is a shot from October 14, 2013.  You get about 25 córdobas per dollar...and those prices are in liters (3.78 make a gallon).  So, diesel is 110.34 a gallon.  95 octane gas is 116.95 a gallon.  How much in dollars?  You can do a conversion here.

miércoles, 9 de octubre de 2013

Nicaragua hopes to save tapirs from extinction

Nicaragua hopes to save tapirs from extinction - taken from The Nicaragua Dispatch

Clipped from: http://www.nicaraguadispatch.com/news/2013/10/nicaragua-hopes-to-save-tapirs-from-extinction/8239

 

 

Out for an evening stroll: a tapir is caught on a motion-sensor camera trap on Nicaragua's Caribbean coast (photo courtesy of Christopher Jordan)
By Christopher Jordan / special to The Nicaragua Dispatch
October 7, 2013
Along the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua, the country's largest terrestrial mammal still fulfills its role as "gardener of the forest."
Baird's tapirs are shy, rarely seen mammals that reach 400-600 pounds as adults and eat more than 100 different species of leaves, stems, seeds, fruits, and bark. Tapirs—known commonly in Nicaragua as "dantos" in Spanish, "pamka" in Mayangna, "tilba" in Miskito and "mountain cows" in Creole—landscape the forests by munching on vegetation and dispersing seeds as the plod along. Over the centuries, tapirs have played an important role in shaping the lowland tropical rainforests along Nicaragua's Caribbean coast.

Habitat destruction on the Caribbean coast is a major threat to tapirs in Nicaragua (photo/ Christopher Jordan)
Still, until a few years ago, very little was known about Nicaragua's tapir population, other than the fact the animal has become a highly endangered species due to poaching and deforestation. Of the some 5,500 tapirs left in Mesoamerica, only 500 are thought to be living in Nicaragua—down from 2,000 several years back, according to local estimates. At the current rate of extirpation, conservationists estimate that Nicaragua's tapir could become extinct within 20-30 years if action is not taken immediately.
To reverse the trend before it's too late, the Nicaragua Tapir Project is launching an ambitious conservation campaign to protect the animal, education the population and build the country's first tapir rescue center. But first conservationists needed to collect some scientific data to learn more about the animal's range in Nicaragua.
Over the past three years, motion-sensor camera traps have revealed that Nicaragua's Caribbean coast is one of the largest remaining hotspots for tapir habitat in all of Mesoamerica. Until recently, the country was home to a genetic corridor between the Bosawás Biosphere Reserve in the north and the Indio-Maíz Biosphere Reserve in the south, providing a globally significant segment of the species' range.
That is the good news. The bad news is that the population faces several critical threats, including: 1) illegal hunting and the inadequate implementation of the national, indefinite tapir hunting ban; 2) habitat destruction driven by the agricultural frontier; 3) the capture of baby tapirs for the illegal pet trade; and 4) the development of oil palm plantations and highways that have bisected the historical Caribbean coast tapir genetic corridor.

An illegally captured tapir in Bilwi (photo/ Christopher Jordan)
Tapirs have a very slow reproductive cycle, with a gestation period of approximately 400 days. After that, a mother will give birth to a single tapir calf, which won't reach sexual maturity for another 2-4 years. That makes tapirs highly vulnerable to anthropogenic threats that increase their mortality and create obstacles to reproduction.
The future of the species is not entirely bleak, and the Nicaragua Tapir Project is encouraged by recent conservation efforts. The project initiative, a combined effort by the Nicaraguan National Zoo, The Caribbean Coast Regional Autonomous University (URACCAN), Michigan State University, and the Foundation for the Autonomy and Development of the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua (FADCANIC), includes efforts to track and protect the animal. The project captures wild tapirs to install GPS tracking collars to learn how they are surviving in the wild, and is launching one of the first efforts globally to introduce captive tapirs into natural habitats. In addition, the project focuses on conservation education and the development of territorial laws and regulations to reduce tapir hunting on the Caribbean Coast.
The tapir project also endeavors to build the country's first tapir rescue, rehabilitation, and re-introduction center in the Wawashang Reserve.
Territorial governments have been strong partners in these efforts, including the Awaltara Territorial Government, which officially banned tapir hunting within its territory in early 2013. The Nicaraguan Army's Ecological Battalion is also committed, and assists in rescuing tapirs that have been captured in the jungle for the illegal pet trade.
Little by little, Proyecto Tapir Nicaragua is putting Nicaragua on the map for international tapir conservation and calling for much needed attention to this highly threatened but globally important population of animals.
For more information and Nicaraguan Baird's tapir videos please watch the following clip on Youtube and read "Baird's tapirs in Nicaragua."
Please help tapirs in Nicaragua by donating to a crowdfunding campaign to build the country's first Tapir Rescue Center.

Christopher Jordan is a tapir conservationist who has spent five years working in Nicaragua, most recently on a Baird's Tapir Research and Conservation Initiative. He is currently in the Wawashang Reserve conducting tapir research. To contact Jordan, write him at: chrisadamjordan@gmail.com


viernes, 4 de octubre de 2013

Crevettes by La Casserole






Well, in my quest to try something new and exciting, we ventured over to Crevettes by La Casserolle in El Viejo Santo Domingo, which I guess can be glassified as fusion cuisine. It's a small, cozy restaurant with a candlelight indoor 'patio' and a main dining area with a capacidad of about 40 persons.

The menú is somewhat limited but includes duck, a few beef selections, seafood plates and pasta.  Dishes range from $16 - $30.  Portions are small.  I liked that...I felt satisfied but not overly full.

The Thai Crevettes (first picture) consists of 6 medium shrimp in a pineapple y coconut soup like sauce. Very tasty!  It was garnished with petit pois and sofrito flavored rice.

The Entraña was an excellent cut of very tender steak...just one pass of my knife and it was cut through and through...and might I add very well seasoned.  It was served with greens with a honey mustard dressing and a potato/yucca pastel, also very tasty.  I washed it down with a cup of house wine (Frontera if my memory serves me well).

Finally Xocolatl for dessert...ok but not that impressive.  Presentation was good but it wasn't so tasty.

The attention and service were good...our waiter seemed a bit unnatural but he knew the menú and offered both solicited and unsolicited suggestions.  Good wine cellar.  Varied water selections.

Managua has quite a few fine dining offerings now.  I don't think Crevettes is a place I will fall in love with, probably because of the limited offerings.  There are only a few things on the menu that I think I would be interested in trying.  The chef does have some original ideas but nothing that grabbed on to me and shook me.  First impressions can, however, be deceitful.  Even so...

On a scale of 1 to 10, I would give it a 7.5.  It would gain a half point if the price/value ratio were a little higher.  You will pay a premium here for something good but not awesome.  You can see prices here.  

Crevettes by La Casserole
Plaza Mi Viejo Santo Domingo
Managua

Buy some ice


Most people in Nicaragua don't have refrigerators or freezers.  However, everybody wants a nice cool tall drink every once in awhile.  Therefore, those with refrigerators (with freezers) often sell ice to their neighbors filling a plastic bag with water and freezing it.  At this local store you can buy 25 bags of ice for about $1.
Pretty good deal IMHO.

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