October 21, 2023, Nicaragua. I was excited about heading to Matagalpa but no so much about having to go through Managua which I’d heard was an urban jungle, with a lot of poverty. It also seemed to be the epicenter of the Ortega government, and quite totalitarian from what I could gather.  I had sought explicit instructions on which bus to take and where to get off.  And as was often the case, stymied by the complexities of a broken system. It was a long, slow ride to the bus stop in Managua. The 15 mile journey took an hour. I disembarked only to be told that I was at the wrong stop. There was a bus stop about 7 miles away for buses headed out of the area to places like Matagalpa. The bus driver said there’s no way to get there except for taking a $25 USD taxi. I was tired of what felt like extortion of the foreigner.  Yes, I have many more opportunities and resources than someone from Nicaragua, but I too am living on a budget and can’t afford expensive transportation.  Why else would I be suffering the use of public transport? 

During times like these, a fierce protector within raises its stubborn head. I heard myself say firmly, “I will walk”.  Filled with anger and resolve, I shouldered my pack and bags, which together easily weighed 50 pounds, and began the 7 mile walk across town. When almost out of earshot, I heard one of the men at the stop shout “take the bus across the street”. Thanking my lucky stars (I didn’t relish hauling my load any further than I had to), I made a beeline for the other side of the street and was rewarded by kind people who told me which bus that would land me at the bus terminal I needed.  After a few misses, I finally boarded the correct bus and was surprised after standing for a bit to be offered a seat. A young man stood and gave me the seat next to the window.  I started speaking in Spanish, but he quickly switched to English, which surprised me, since most Nicaraguans don’t. I answered in Spanish but he exhorted me to switch, explaining that there might be government spies on the bus. Whoah. He then told me that I had to be very careful with my “pertenencias” (pertinent items), as ‘that guy’ (he pointed to a man standing near us) might pickpocket and jump off at the next stop.  I felt like I did listening to Grimm’s fairy tales as a kid, and clutched my daypack close to my chest.  I don’t know how much of his paranoia was grounded in reality, but didn’t want to find out. I’m guessing he had good reasons to be worried.  He said that petty theft had gone up tremendously as living conditions worsened in the last few years. And he was eager to educate me told me more about the nonviolent student protest in 2018 that had been brutally suppressed by government military forces.  The movement spread across the country, resulting in the exodus and killing of many.  About 20 percent of Nicaraguans left the country since then, primarily those with the means to do so. Quality of life for the masses continues to deteriorate.  Our conversation made me much more aware of the suffering of the people, and the thinly veiled billboard PR campaign of Ortega and his wife with big smiles, claiming solidarity with the people.   

Eventually he disembarked and I stayed on the bus, hoping that none of the projected pickpocketing would occur. I arrived at the terminus, my particulars still in tact, and made my way through the crowded market in search of the elusive bus stop. I asked a passerby, who sympathetically directed me to a narrow ally, through which a boat load of buses were waiting.  I found the one for Matagalpa and alighted, relieved to have made it this far.  A heroine’s journey perhaps.  As luck would have it, I took a seat next to a very kind young man named Kevin who had to make weekly trips to Managua for kidney dialysis.  He was exhausted as he only had one kidney, one severely taxed at that. While I’d been scrambling to find the proper change for the bus, he’d paid for my bus ticket. I was awed by his kindness, and generally the kindness of strangers, especially those who have little. They seem to be the most generous. He asked me whether I knew of any programs in the US for foreigners seeking a kidney transplant and I said I would ask a friend whose husband recently received a transplant. Sadly, she didn’t think he’d be eligible since he isn’t a US citizen. I was struck at the deep unfairness and felt helpless that I couldn’t offer anything.

Little did I know that my adventure was just beginning.  About an hour into the ride, the bus pulled over on the highway. From the front of the bus, a geyser of gasoline was gushing next to the driver. I’m not big on toxics, and decided despite the downpour that I’d prefer to stand outside. Several passengers good-naturedly laughed at my outdoor escapade.  I wore my sun hat, which was getting soaked, but at least was keeping the majority of rain off my face. However, I didn’t have a good rain jacket.  The one I brought was old and no longer worked, so I got soaked in no time.  A guy in the back of the bus asked me whether had faith, station that the bus would start up again. I said that depends. I don’t have faith in the bus, and as for God, I’ll wait and see. The answer of a heretic. For a brief instant the bus started up again, and he was briefly vindicated. Then the engine gave up the ghost. Ever since I’d been out there, now about 20 minutes, I’d been wildly waving to stop passing buses.  Most of them ignored my semifores, and I wondered whether we would be here all night. I didn’t see any taxis either. It probably wouldn’t be the first time a busload of passengers had to brave a cold wet night without bedding.  Then, miracle of miracles, a bus stopped. It happened so quickly I didn’t make a move in time.  My friend Kevin did, however.  He was probably used to this kind of thing, and got off the bus at lightning speed.  I wasn’t able to say goodbye or wish him well.  His face was etching in my mind, his head on the seat in front of him, so exhausted was he from his ordeal.  I wanted to help.  

I continued to strike in the deluge, until I was soaked and would jump back on the bus. There were several false starts while folks jumped off the bus thinking another bus had arrived, until another bus finally arrived. I didn’t want to push my way to the front, and instead waited as the last of the people exited the bus, mostly women and children. I jumped off the bus in a hurry, only to realize I had left my umbrella on my seat, and jumped back on to retrieve it. In my haste I hit my head hard on a metal frame above the seat. It ended up as a painful bruise for the next 2 months. As I headed to the bus, I saw people elbowing their way on, trying to jam themselves on. There appeared not to be enough space for all of us, and I imagined for a moment that I’d be one of the left behind.  But self preservation kicked in, and I headed to the French doors at the back of the bus, where a few people were hanging on. I hopped up with my large pack, my pack still outside and pulling me backward as the driver started up. The forward motion of the bus almost caused me to fall out the back.  I cried “ayudame”, and arms grabbed and pulled me on in time.  It was a close call.  People were kind and helped me get my pack off, then stash it under a seat. I was given a place to sit.  The kindness of strangers. I felt a bond with the passengers who had shared the bus trauma.  We all laughed, which seems to be how many of the people I met on my trip deal with adversity.  

The conductor asked for my bus ticket.  Kevin had paid for my ticket and had the receipt.  He was now on a different bus.  I explained quickly and he waved me on with a nod.  The countryside was lovely, and the rain was letting up. I saw a few fincas, coffee plantations, and at least one cacao plantation. After a few hours we arrived in Matagalpa.  The bus stop was next to a crowded market.  Seemed like a pattern here.  Orontes, the man of the house at Homestay Matagalpa where I’d planned to stay, had said he’d pick me up from Seleccion Nicaraguense, the cafe I’d walked to after the long bus ride.  He was very kind and seemed to know and be liked by many of the customers.  I hadn’t realized that their house was furnished in the style of ideological communism (they said like May 1). Upon arrival, his wife Candida was very kind and said she was usually home as she sold food and other necessities, including fresh milk from the house.  She said that she’d be happy to make meals for a fee. I put my things in the room, which fronted the street, and left to explore the neighborhood.  I walked toward the town center along the river, pausing at a home with an advertisement for herbal products painted on its facade. Curious, I inquired of a couple of men hanging out nearby and they confirmed that this place was a herb manufacturing center. I knocked with quite a bit of strength on the door, but no one answered.  The guys nearby encouraged me not to give up, and one knocked for me.  A man answered and said that I should come back Monday, that he could show me his facility and how they process herbs. I said I would but ended up leaving my accommodation the next day, and didn’t have the wherewithal to come back to the herb manufacturer.  A shame, because I would like to have learned how they operated. 

I crossed the river on a pedestrian bridge and headed to the downtown, where I found a popular spot that grilled chicken, and got in line.  Such places cook over a wood fire, and usually don’t get going before 4pm.  After eating as much as I could stomach, I headed back to my room at Candida’s place. Her house decor seemed frozen in time. I was surrounded by images, photos, and leaflets from 1980s Nicaragua replete with the idealism of the Communist revolution. I wasn’t sure whether it reflected the political ideology of Candida and Orontes, but wouldn’t be surprised as Matagalpa had been a sandanista stronghold. 

Unbeknownst to me, the neighbor who’d been playing his music at 80 plus db (and who lowered it because I asked) ended up leaving his dog out all night.  The dog spent the night barking at the top of his lungs, running up and down the narrow street, and threatening to jump onto the balcony and have at me.  I spent the night forcing my earplugs deeper into my ears, only to be stymied and end up yelling at the dog.  I was so frustrated at one point that I tried to find the owners bedroom to ask them to deal with the dog.  Orontes came out in response to all my shouting, and told the dog to cease and desist.  It worked, though I felt guilty and he seemed a bit miffed.  He said it’s not necessary to yell at the dog, you can just tell it to be quiet.  I am not a dog whisperer.  This was confirmed many times on my trip. 

October 22.  Bleary eyed, I headed down to the kitchen around 8:30am.  I felt guilty, but decided I couldn’t stay for the 4 days I had booked, and asked Candida if I could cancel, as I didn’t have the stamina to spend another sleepless night. She hesitated and called her husband, asking what to do.  He said it was okay, only that I needed to pay the booking fees.  The room without booking fees was very reasonable, while the booking agency doubled the fee.  I consented, and she gave me back the difference. At this point in the trip I was pinching pennies, and appreciated their willingness to refund the days. It was kind. I had read exuberant reviews of their place, and felt sad that I hadn’t been able to enjoy their hospitality.

I went back to my room to gather my things and figure out where to go. I was looking for a place on the outskirts of town, hoping it would be quieter so I might get a good night sleep.  That’s how I came upon Hotelito Vista Hermosa, which from the map appeared to overlook the town.  I packed and bid Candida farewell.  As I left, I met a kind Polish young man who was renting one of the rooms for a few days.  He recommended a place to eat nearby, and told me about his exploration of two waterfalls outside the town. I appreciated his tips. 

It was a hike out of town up the hill on Avenida Jose Dolores Estrada near Apante Mountain and an open space reserve. I was ecstatic about the beautiful location and view, and over the course of my few days stay, began to make friends with Estrella, the woman who ran the place. Her husband had worked in the US for two years as part of a program granted to Nicaraguan immigrants, and had saved money to build this place.  It had a stunning view of the valley and Matagalpa.  After chatting, I put down my burdens and headed down into town, first getting a latte at Selecionne Nicaraguanse (which became my daily routine), then exploring nearby cathedrals along the town’s main arteries.  Candida had recommended a yogurt store near the main cathedral that sold a prepackaged fresh yogurt with fruit preserves. This was dairy country, and fresh fruit grew well in these volcanic soils.  I headed back and enjoyed the sunset around 6pm from my balcony, then to bed. It was a warm night and I asked to borrow an extra fan. Unfortunately, 6 dogs, including the neighbor’s Doberman pincher/mastiffs, took turns barking all night. A few weeks ago, the Doberman pinchers grabbed the hotel owner’s dog by the throat and almost killed him. He now sounds like he has laryngitis and can no longer bark.   

October 23. Needless to say, I woke up bleary eyed and asked for a quieter room.  Two nights in a row of disturbed sleep. Estrella motioned to a row of rooms and assigned me the one at the end.  It had a king size bed and was very spacious.  Grateful, I moved my pack and headed downtown to catch a bus to Jinotega, the other place that Hilde had recommended visiting. Much to my consternation, a young boy across the aisle threw up, hitting my lower extremities, backpack, and the fruit puree yogurt I had walked miles to purchase.  His vomit remained for about 30 minutes until the boy and his father disembarked.  I couldn’t move seats as the bus was full, and resigned myself to sit covered in the slime. Finally, someone used a piece of plastic to wipe up the lion’s share, then threw it out the window. I had watched bus drivers throw trash out the window ever since leaving Managua.   

We finally arrived.  It was only 20 miles, but given the speed of local buses, it took 50 minutes arrive. As I disembarked and began walking around, I decided that I liked Jinotega very much.  I sought out a good bakery, and after washing up, had a nice latte and piece of cake.  The bakery’s ambience was very comfortable and hosted great homemade pastries. I stayed for about two hours, sitting at a window table nursing my latte and cake as I responded to email.  It felt so luxurious after all the struggles. After a nice pause, I started walking around town, heading for the lovely mountains surrounding the town, which was more like a village in size. This small mountain town had a long history as an important coffee growing region of Nicaragua. I came upon parque Urania Zelaya, a lovely park with tall trees, a kind of zoo, and lots of play equipment for kids.  Along one side of the park was a stately building that harkened back to another age.  Upon closer inspection I saw that it was Museo General Sandino, and it was still open.  I spent several hours inside, learning about the history of General Sandino’s role in the revolution, as well as the history of Jinotega and the surrounding area.  When I left, it was dark and raining hard.  I hadn’t brought my umbrella, and ran for the bus stop dodging raindrops. 

October 24. I had one more full day in Matagalpa, and decided to head to Cascada Blanca and possibly the other waterfall further out of town. As usual the bus took forever, but this time I had a lovely chat with a local girl who lived near the eco lodge where I was headed.  As always that lightened my spirit, and I thanked my language teachers (and my diligence) for my proficiency in Spanish.  Before I knew it, the bus driver had alerted me that we had arrived at the stop for Eco-Lodge Cascada Blanca. I disembarked and within a few minutes met the man who had started the place.  He told me a bit about how he had decided to move here, and the inspiration for its formation. Then I headed down the trails to Cueva Yalekeci and Cascada Santa Emilia. 

I enjoyed walking around the area, but after about 20 minutes of walking the path that goes through the large cave, and heading down the river, I wanted to continue exploring. I decided to walk along the road, hoping that I wouldn’t run into any insane or vicious dogs.  After about an hour I arrived in Yasica Norte, a small village. I met a lovely older woman who talked to me for a while as we both walked along the sidewalk.  She told me about living in that town, and asked what I was doing there. I told her and wished I could stay and visit with her. She told me where to wait for the bus back.  As it was a Sunday, buses were few and far between, and the next would be the last. The timing was so unpredictable that they could be an hour off.  

I decided to take my chances and headed across the street to a small hacienda with a thatched roof.  They were making tortillas and I was intrigued as these were made from fresh corn, not dried.  I’d never seen nor tried anything like that. Perhaps a bit like polenta.  I ordered a tasty quesadilla and was excited to take a bite when folks waiting for the bus gave a shout.  To my chagrin, the bus came lumbering around the corner, and I had to leave my tasty meal, without even paying for it, and scramble to my feet and across the way.  No wonder I lost 10 pounds on the trip.  I was barely eating. When the bus got back to Matagalpa, I was very hungry and searched for grilled chicken. I found a new place, and had just settled in with my chicken and tortillas, when a dog jumped over the barrier separating the open air restaurant from the sidewalk. It made a lunge for my food but I held firm.  After so many close calls with dogs over the past few months, I didn’t appreciate the confrontation. I pondered which bus I should take back to Masaya the next day.  There was a 2pm and a 3:30pm. I decided on the latter bus because I didn’t want to leave. It was a dirty town, but the area was beautiful.