October 25, 2023, Nicaragua. I was jolted awake at 6 a.m. by the smell of cigarette smoke wafting in through my open window. The barking dogs didn’t help either. I got up, did a quick load of laundry, and hung it to dry. Then I chatted with Estrella and her aunt. Watching Estrella working nonstop while her husband lounged around made me think: if it weren’t for women, nothing would get done—at least not here. I watched as Estrella asked him to clean up the dog poop at the hotel entrance. He just shrugged and walked away. I ended up cleaning up several piles myself. In addition to all the cleaning and cooking, Estrella takes care of two daughters and a six-year-old child with encephalitis who can’t hold his head up or walk.

With a heavy heart, I said goodbye and lugged my pack to Selección Nicaragüense, one of my favorite cafes in town. I had a couples counseling session scheduled, but the Wi-Fi was so unreliable I had to move outside to the park. I’d hoped to leave my pack at the cafe for a few hours, but they said no. For an overpriced coffee shop, they didn’t offer much in the way of service.

I headed to Miel y Café, another cafe I’d passed on my walks. I bought a passionfruit mousse and they let me stash my pack. From there, I walked across town to the main square near the cathedral. A few days earlier, I’d had an amazing pie de limón at Barista, another upscale spot. You could tell it catered to the well-heeled. As soon as I sat down at an outdoor table, a woman approached asking for help, followed by boys who seemed to be eyeing my backpack. A security guard waved them off. The gap between rich and poor felt sharpest in countries where democracy was weakest—reminding me of similar trends back home in the U.S.

Though I’d wanted to linger, a sudden rainstorm forced my hand, and I rushed to catch the earlier bus. I took the most direct route—along the river. The trash lining its banks saddened me. The word cochino—which literally means “pig”—is used to describe people who litter, though actual pigs are far cleaner. Nicaragua was especially litter-strewn, though I’d later see the same in parts of El Salvador and Panama. I’ve always had a visceral reaction to trash. I remember being just seven on a two-month road trip through Mexico in 1972, insisting my parents help me collect trash at the beach. Some habits die hard.

I grabbed my pack, picked up some pollo asado on the street, and caught the bus just in time. It turned out to be a ride from hell. The driver spent the entire 2.5 hours texting and talking on his phone. I’d seen signs warning drivers not to use their phones. Now I understood why. He barely acknowledged the passengers, except for a woman in the front row, for whom he made an “emergency” tamale stop. I asked the bus assistant for a napkin—my hands were greasy from the chicken—and he looked at me like I’d asked for a Rolex, then told me to wipe my hands on my shirt. A kind passenger gave me a Kleenex. Then the assistant casually tossed their lunch trash—plastic bottles, wrappers, everything—out the window. I felt like I’d stepped back in time.

I got off at the main road to Masaya and waited for a bus to Granada. True to Murphy’s Law, the next ten buses were packed, people hanging out the doors and windows. I was too tired to attempt jumping on. Eventually, a bus arrived with space, and someone kindly gave me their seat. That’s what struck me most about Nicaragua: people survive through community. Life is hard here, but the isolation that fuels depression in the U.S. doesn’t seem as rampant. People look out for each other.

Back in Granada, I returned to Selina and checked my food stash. Revolting. The eggs I’d bought at the market were crawling with maggots, reeking of sulfur. The bread was moldy. Everything else had gone off. I headed to a street grill I’d found on my first day, despite the pouring rain. My Gore-Tex shoes were leaking from the soles, so my feet got soaked. I ordered pollo asado, my go-to meal in Nicaragua: cheap, filling, and, until now, safe.

Unfortunately, my luck ran out. Around 3 a.m., I woke up with reflux and then explosive diarrhea. I scrambled to clean up in the dark without waking my dorm mates. Sadly, my sleeping bag didn’t make it—and worse, I didn’t realize that until the next morning, when I saw the guy in the next bed wrapped in it like a blanket. That’s what he gets for stumbling in at 4 a.m.

October 26. I had arranged to take a 2 p.m. shuttle from De Boca en Boca to León. From there, we’d start the long overnight journey through Honduras, with a 2 a.m. departure to ensure we reached the border by dawn and crossed the country before nightfall. The risks of getting stuck—or worse—were too high after dark. The company was no longer using the coastal border, instead opting for the longer inland route.

I enjoyed the drive along Lake Managua’s eastern edge. I spotted a few volcanoes and imagined that tourists headed for volcano boarding passed this same way. We arrived in León around 4:30 p.m., and after dropping my things at the hostel, I went out to explore. I liked León immediately. It felt like a real city, with students and a functioning local economy—not a tourism-dependent bubble like Granada. While León had its share of attractions, no one treated me like prey here.

One of my first missions was to find a hair clip—mine had broken, and I was desperate. A young woman pointed me toward an older vendor who, miraculously, had exactly what I needed. I thanked them both, bought a fresh juice, and wandered through the cathedral district. I encountered a man asking for food near the main cathedral and returned later to give him my meal. I went hungry, but I was happy.

The streets were lined with portraits of Sandinistas from the 1980s. I read each one, wondering if León had been a revolutionary stronghold. The covered market was eerily quiet—nothing like Granada’s bustling scene at this hour. Maybe people here weren’t so desperate.

As always, I relished the serendipity of walking. On my way back through town, I stumbled on a line of people waiting for street food. A young man told me it was a local favorite, and for $2, I got a full plate of veggies, beans, meat, and corn. I saved half for the man in the square, then walked back to the hostel. Across the street, I could see a folkloric play being rehearsed—high schoolers preparing for a pageant. I wished I had binoculars. After a while, I turned in. Of course, my dorm mate kept the overhead light on. Another sleepless night.

October 27. My alarm went off at 1:55 a.m. I dragged myself up into the starry darkness and loaded my pack into the shuttle. Three people were already inside, including a woman stretched out across an entire bench seat. I wedged into a smaller spot and tried to stay awake, not wanting to miss anything—story of my life.

We reached the Honduran border at dawn. The crossing was nestled in a stunning national park on the Nicaraguan side. We waited a long time. I struck up a conversation with the Honduran driver who would take us across most of the country. He opened up to me about how hard his job is—the long hours, low pay, dangerous roads, ungrateful tourists, and a boss who lives it up on the Bay Islands. He appreciated that I listened. By the time we reached a small town in central Honduras—his shift’s endpoint—I felt a real kinship. He disembarked at a company-owned house where drivers rest before their next route.

Our new driver, from Antigua, Guatemala, was a different character—flippant, relaxed, and clearly from a more privileged background. I ended up sitting up front with him, and we chatted for a few hours. He told me the prettiest beaches in El Salvador are on the southeast coast.

Our destination was El Tunco, a gringo surf haven near San Salvador. I hoped it would be a quiet sanctuary before flying home on October 31. I hadn’t decided where to stay, but other passengers suggested Papaya Lodge. I ended up booking a bed at Canuck’s Guest House instead.

We were dropped off on the main road with vague directions. Canuck’s was hidden, but I eventually found it. A few kind young men led me to a dorm with three guys, one of whom was recovering from a multi-day hangover. Not my vibe. I asked to move and was eventually switched to a ground-floor dorm with three women—much better. I got ready for bed around 10:30 and asked my dorm mates to keep quiet when they returned. They agreed… but still came back at 3 a.m., taking long showers in the bathroom directly next to my upper bunk. So much for sleep.