“For this is what America is all about. It is the uncrossed desert and the unclimbed ridge. It is the star that is not reached and the harvest sleeping in the unplowed ground. Is our world gone? We say “Farewell.” Is a new world coming? We welcome it – and we will bend it to the hopes of man.” Lydon B. Johnson.
I’m having a very difficult time with life the past couple days, and consequently my writing has suffered. I haven’t written in days. I’ve been somewhat tormented due to being in constant motion which made writing impossible. I’m not sure why I haven’t been able to in the evenings, I’ve just been overwhelmed. It’s cold where I am now, in the saddest hotel room I’ve ever been in, up in the mountains at Jutiapa, Guatemala. The bathroom looks more like a gas station bathroom than a hotel. But it’s not so bad, and I have my friend here with me. It’s been a wild journey these last few days. Left’s start when I left Costa Rica…
2/4
I woke up because horses were standing all around me. Ah! When I got out of my bivvy sack I was attacked by gnats and biting flies relentlessly as dawn came over the savanna-like plains. The horses scampered off. The Volcano Rincon de Vieja was dancing with banks of clouds in the distance. I packed up quickly with motivation from the gnats, and I walked out to the highway. I was unsuccessful at hitching a ride, it got me sad first thing in the morning. There was much construction on this upsetting stretch of highway, and soon the construction workers were talking to me. (In Spanish.) They told me where the bus was but then I suddenly got a ride! However, the guy was only going a short ways and dropped me off at a bus stop on the side of the highway.
It was a very strange spot, standing basically IN the middle of the highway, and I asked the girl standing there if this was right. She somberly nodded. Then the bus flew right past us. I looked at her…? Okay? Then another flew past… Then one stopped in the middle of the highway and picked us up. So, wound up in Liberia, at the bus station. I met a nice German lady at the terminal, there was a bus she was taking to the Nicaraguan border so I took it too. Soon I was at Penas Blancas and I actually had a pretty fun time going through customs with my German friend. She was a little older, scatterbrained, and travelling by herself for fun. She paid for us to get a ride in a bicycle taxi, and once in Nicaragua I decided to get on a 5$ bus with her to take me straight to Ometepe Island where we were both going.
We found ourselves in the town of Rivas, she got in a taxi to go the final distance to San Jorge where the ferry was, but I would just walk. It was a long, incredibly hot walk. This part of Nicaragua is ridiculously, stiflingly hot. But there it was, the volcano before me. Conception. I had known about this mountain since I was 16 years old and back then I had put it on my life list to climb. So I guess because of that I was fighting with myself. I was overall sort of miserable, and thought, why am I going all the way out of my way to take this stupid ferry to Ometepe Island? Just to climb this volcano and I don’t even know if I can or if I want to. I really should just keep this northbound train moving onwards, but unfortunately, I have to do this. I looked to the volcano, there it is… the one I knew from legend… an enormous perfect cone, fitting for the name Conception. I bought a bag of papaya- strawberry juice which was divine and a grilled corn for less than a dollar. Now I would start to see why Nicaragua is so great, the food, and better yet, the prices! The ferry to Ometepe was 3$.
I made friends with some wonderful American young people on the ferry, and upon arriving to the island met other nice backpackers. They were everywhere. I was in the town of Moyogalpa and it was excellent, like a nice tourist town with good food, only the prices are super cheap! The town was built on the hillside with narrow streets and the volcano was always framed behind it. I got a room there for 10US$. The dollar they use is the cordova, 30 cordovas to one US dollar. I got an incredibly good meal of chicken, rice, beans and plantain chips for 100 cordovas. The rest of my day was spent taking a long walk in the destructive heat down a road barefoot which burned my feet. The place was clean, the scenery was dry but there were gorgeous flowering trees. And there were beautiful birds. I wish I had taken more pictures these last few days, but I was depressed as I walked along, over nothing really. I guess I just am no long trying to be on vacation and here I am in this tourist spot, “on vacation.” I just want to have a life where I do the same thing every day and I don’t know when that will happen. I just have to carry on.
I hitchhiked a ride back on a motorcycle and self medicated by glutinously buying piles of food. For a five dollar value I got two pieces of pizza, a melon smoothie, a sweet cheese pastry, yogurt, orange juice, and a bottle of water. That night I went to bed.
2/6
I had also been upset the day before because I didn’t know if I could climb Concepcion. I needed a guide legally and the guide cost 40US$. I could try to do it alone? No… grr… then I made friends with a local Nicaraguan guy named Moses who upon asking me things said he would do it for 30$. He was a young guy, 19, spoke English, and I liked his spunkiness. So I agreed, partly because I thought climbing with him would be a fun time. More like climbing with a friend than with a guide. We got started at 6AM, and his dad drove us to the trailhead. He pointed out pink flowers on the trees, saying it looked like Japan, and the birds flying by with elegantly long tail feathers. Then we saw a monkey in the branches and he called to it. We talked all about life, he definitely was full of it. I decided in the end to give him 40$ anyway, because he told me his wages came out to about 300$ cordovas per day, 1800 including tips in a long 6 day work week at the restaurant. So that’s like 60-70 US$ per week. Sure, things are cheap in Nicaragua, but obviously, like everyone else, Moses wants to go to the USA to work. I encouraged the idea, and his father had been living in Connecticut so maybe he can go there.
We met lots of groups of backpackers on the way up and made friends with everyone. Soon the views became fantastic as we left the tree cover for the exposed volcanic slopes. Then it became a long and grueling climb but eventually we made the top. Unfortunately we were in a cloud at the top so we had no view. 8 years I planned to climb this mountain and no view! That was sad, but that’s mountaineering for ya! And I love it. The best part of the climb were the people. Back east in the USA, people when hiking usually keep to themselves, possibly you get a passing hello. Here, everybody hiked together as if all of us on the mountain were friends and part of the same group. Some people only spoke French, some only Spanish, some only English and some had a combination usually with English as the common ground. I happily was understanding more and more Spanish.
Together I hiked down with all those people until spunky Moses and I took off running and quickly cruised down the slopes. Everyone seems to remind me of someone else I’ve known from the past. I realized Moses completely reminded me of my friend Cesar (who passed away) and the realization brought upon me a burst of emotion and a quick couple of tears as I made my way down. We had good comradery through the last part of the hike, then his father picked us up and decided for fun, let’s drive all around the island! Just like my Dad would do, and this guy reminded me of my Dad. I was so happy to have met them, and after swimming in some beautiful volcanic cold springs, I was dropped off at my hostel where we said goodbye.
2/7
Now morning came and I packed up. I’m done with Ometepe, and done now with all tourismo of any kind! Over all, the tourism is just stressing me out. Let’s go- time to go ‘home’ – and I’m devoting all my time to northbound travel. I wandered stupidly and aimlessly about until I had bought the ferry ticket, and then bought some food and ice cream. Around here, (not speaking the language) often times it just goes with me looking around lost and painfully lost, absent mindedly, until someone comes up saying things to me… “huh?” and then somehow they explain to me what I need to do. I don’t know what was wrong with me today though.
On the ferry, I tried to write but couldn’t and instead fell asleep and when I woke up no one was on the ferry and we were at the dock. Oh, vamos! I got off as other people were getting on to go back to Ometepe. People are always coming up and soliciting me, taxi taxi! Or, “Hey Man! Que necesitas ….blahblahblahblah-“ in Spanish. No entiendo, lo siento. But today I was really out of it and just looked at these people confusedly and kept walking. Then I got on a bus to take me back from San Jorge to Rivas. Suddenly I was standing in front of this… food! It was a corn tortilla filled with rice and chicken, battered and deep fried until crunchy. Wow! I had to buy this, with an extravagant side salad and tamarind juice for just 30 cordovas (1US$)! But as I was eating this delicious messy thing a bus pulled up with the man yelling “Managua!” and spontaneously I decided, well! Better hop on, confused as I am. Because that’s where I’m going next.
However, the bus was hectically crowded so I was standing with my big ridiculous meal and now couldn’t eat it, being jammed up against 3 people. I stood near some nice Americans who I talked to. They asked me about my journey and I told them, they told me they were going to the town of Granada, Nicaragua, then to Mexico and Cuba. I told them I felt stupid buying all this food! I can’t eat it now. I’m not even hungry, it just looked so good! I was only a dollar. Now here I am standing with my huge pack and my arms full with messy food, gonna ride like this for two hours. I had finished the tamarind juice. “Just eat it if you want.” The lady suggested. I had been picking at it. I guess I could just eat it. The bus was flinging me around as it rushed along the bumpy road. I’m making a mess. I don’t want to eat this. At some point some people got off the bus and I got a seat. I gently placed my food on the floor. I’ll get that later… or maybe I’ll forget it… Yes, sorry, but I did in the end abandon the food, I know that’s a bad thing to do. Unfortunately there was lots of other garbage on the bus and people around here throw their trash in the streets. There are no public garbage cans, and it seems like no organized trash removal either. I should be trying to not participate in littering as much as possible… Instead I leave, I’ll admit it, the messiest, worst pile of garbage- that taco. Who knows, maybe someone will eat it.
But as I set the food down and watched out the window, I calmed down. I saw a volcano in the distance through the jungle as the bus drove in an area which reminded me of the Caribbean. A slightly lusher, tropical landscape, with banana trees growing and dirt floor shacks. Later we saw a volcano, this one has a slope of lava rock coming down a vast distance from the flattened summit to meet the road. The shrub and bushes which grew out of the lava rock were different and interesting to me. I sat and talked with a guy. He was nice, but out the window I saw people riding in the back of trucks and thought it looked so good. Wouldn’t have to be on this crowded bus. We were in towns now, party modern, partly in shambles. Not like towns in the US, maybe some areas could be compared to the slummiest towns. Shacks built of sticks beside open shells of burned out concrete buildings covered in grafetti would stand out to announce this is not the USA. Otherwise there were restaurants, stores, apartment buildings and it looked normal. People just rode around in the back of trucks.
We arrived in the capitol city of the nation, Managua. It wasn’t much more than a large and sprawling town, dusty and hot, but humid. Dusty and humid, a rough combination. It was a burdened city, I could tell form out the windows. Soon the bus pulled to a station.
I walked off confused as ever today. I wasn’t worried, just wandering around. I was trying to go to the town of Esteli today, a large town in the north of Nicaragua. I heard it’s nice there, it’s supposed to be cold, with pine trees. I wanted to feel some cold air; that was part of the appeal of going back to the US for me. It definitely wasn’t cold in Managua, and the people and culture were hot like the jungle climate. I was in an enormous food market. Fruit was displayed in stands and in enormous piles spilling out on the streets. They had much exotic food I didn’t recognize, I looked around. I wandered aimlessly and just took the place in. Then I was beckoned over to some people who were yelling out and asking where I was going. I guess I didn’t follow my own rule I made in Costa Rica where I don’t go over to people who beckon me over! I went and talked to them feeling in an okay mood, but spacey. One guy pulled out a bag of marijuana to try and sell me. I refused. I told them I need to go to Tipitapa (cute town name) and from there onward to Esteli. The main guy who called to me would show me to the bus. I followed him, he was pretty gangly and worn out looking. Hey, I really don’t want to be following you right now, I thought. I want to be doing my own thing right now, I can find the bus myself easily, or hitchhike if I need/ want to. I’m not ready to get on the bus yet. So I tried to say goodbye to him, but he seemed confused by it and was pestering. Then some other guy came over, also asking where I was going and trying to help me or sell me something. Okay people, stop, leave me alone. I suddenly became defensive and quickly jumped back away from them. “Give me some space!” I said in English. I was standing in the road.
I walked off in the direction the scrawny guy had been leading me and he followed, still trying to point the way. Obviously he was in pursuit of money from me for his service (disservice). I found the bus, he had told me which way it was, and I thanked him. But I didn’t like him. He asked for money. I really didn’t feel like giving him any. I pulled out one coin but it was just a 25 cent cordova. I wasn’t giving him my 1$ cordovas right now, I needed them for the bus. 25 cent cordova is basically nothing though, and he just looked at me insulted and dropped the coin in the street. He knew how much money that was to me as an American when 30 cordovas is one dollar. Still I would have picked that back up and kept it if you don’t want it, but I didn’t, too flustered by this interaction and by my confusion in general. Okay just get me out of here, now. I got on this random bus.
The bus was a standard city bus and its interior was crimson red with wild curtains. The outside of the bus: red, purple and green, with big gold lettering of the bus’ name and grafettied with slogans. The seats were chewed up and it was littered with garbage. I sat down and was back to watching Managua. The music playing was loud, aggressive Spanish hip hop. I thought about that bad interaction with the locals I just had. I should probably have given him money, if he had just asked for it normally. He was trying to do more than beg, trying to lend a service, he didn’t deserve me being so ungenerous. Se tengo mucho mas dinero que mis hermanos Nicaraguan… Now we passed through the slums. I was glad I didn’t try to hitchhike, this place was horrible. The bare concrete walls of the connected ghettos were littered with trash and zombie-like people. I saw a raving woman who I hear ranting out the window. She looked like a leper. I saw an emaciated man lying with his belongings under a tree… another leper. The bus stopped at bus stops, one with people yelling and waving products they were selling. People came on the bus selling water. That’s cool, but I didn’t like it here. I didn’t like this yelling. I didn’t like Managua. Where’s this bus going, I had asked the driver, I said Tipitapa. He said, “Si!.Tu va a la aeropuerto?” I had gathered by now that there was an airport in Tipitapa. “No, pero, voy a Tipitapa. Voy a Esteli.” The driver didn’t care, whatever. Get on.
After a time, the bus left Managua and the outskirts of the city/town behind. There were farms again, slowly things went back to their normal peacefulness. At some point I saw the airport. The bus stopped, letting people on and off. Here it is. I could go. Now I leave this tourist trail I’ve been following if I don’t go home here and I keep going north. Tourists go to Costa Rica, they go to southern Nicaragua… less go to northern Nicaragua, it’s getting off the beaten path. Tourists don’t go to Honduras.
It was scary to stay on that bus. It kept travelling through a foreign feeling town. But it wasn’t a bad town, it was spacious and slow paced. I was fretting. We passed a highway which I thought might have been the highway I needed to take to Esteli. I asked the man next to me,
“Disculpa- me… No hablo espagnol. Necesito direcciones. Es la carretera (highway) a Esteli?” Even though I say I don’t speak Spanish, people go ahead talking to me full force anyway. I listen and try to pick out bits, but it just wasn’t coming together for me today. That man got off the bus. His directions weren’t so helpful. I understood I don’t have to get off the bus yet. I understand more when people talk with their hands. I came to realize this whole bus was now wondering curious about me and my big backpack. It seemed like everyone overhead the conversation and my painfully loud, different, American voice. The people of Nicaragua are kind, that’s for sure, and it seemed like many people were just itching to try and talk to me, to help. Some nearby folks said,
“Donde va?”
“A Esteli.” I said. I think they said, in the town centro there’s a bus to Esteli. I told them, “Si possible… me gustaria… busco un ride a Esteli!” hitchhike to Esteli. They looked at me amused. “Es possible?” I ask.
“No, no… impossible.” They answered. Hmm… impossible eh? Well that never stopped me from trying. Finally, a beautiful girl sitting a few seats back picked up her things and came to sit next to me. She spoke a tiny bit of English and tried to practice on me. Using my hands, I explained I was trying to find the carretera to get to Esteli so I could busco un ride. She understood, she pointed out the windows at all these long alleys we were passing which extended northward from the main road. She said to walk down one of those, derecho (straight), go for a couple kilometers until you reach the main highway, then derecha (right) es a Esteli. Gracias Amiga. She told me to get off the bus here, we were in the centro del pueblo, en Tipitapa. I got off the bus as seemingly the only white face in town, with all eyes on me, alone, and I was worried. I didn’t know what this town would be like. I don’t care to be anywhere as frightful as Managua.
Fortunately I soon found this place was not frightful. Still I was in a mindset now of my exposure, concerned with self-preservation. I walked with my head down, I walked with purpose. I learned something, always learning: don’t wander aimlessly. If you are wandering aimlessly, at least give the look like you know where you’re going. Always walk with purpose. People will bother you if you look lost and confused, either trying to help, or trying to get your money. So I walked on, adrenaline filled from my disorientation. I walked down the long alley, it was a market which crowded the street, leaving only one narrow lane for people to walk through. It was a tight squeeze between the dozens of vendors and their products as other people pushed past. I walked beneath the awnings and tarps under which people sold food or trinkets. Bejeweled phone cases, bobble heads, ceramic plates and cutlery but mostly fruit. Children looked at me and held a gaze from the feet of their mothers at the stands. Foreign. It was a long and overstimulating walk through the delightful alley market.
I tried not to make eye contact too much, to just keep walking even if people were trying to summon my attention. I was jumpy, “No hablo Espagnol,” I’d say without slowing my walking pace. The market let me go free into the open space and sunshine and I kept walking derecho. Someone yelled to me from a storefront across the street in plain English, “You’re on an adventure!” “Thanks I know!” I kept walking. This area wasn’t so bad. Sure there’s garbage in the streets, and there’s lots of people around. The stores and houses are small and simple, box-like, the concrete is uneven. There’s not much traffic, but there’s bicycles and bicycle taxis. I don’t see very many lepers, maybe just a couple…
At long last I made it to the main highway which left town and travelled north. There was a bus right there with people getting on. But I really didn’t want to take the bus. Quiero hitchhike! So I walked a bit of a distance away from the bus stop, and stuck my thumb out. Like magic, I summoned a truck out of a crowd of vehicles. They asked where I was going, they said they were going somewhere a different direction. They left. I waited just a few minutes longer before another truck stopped. “Donde va?” I asked. “Esteli,” he said. …Yes… perfecto. I hopped in the bed of the pickup with my big backpack and off we went through the warm afternoon! I lay there on my backpack and watched the scene pass. I’m so happy!!! I can’t believe I found this truck who happens to be going to Esteli, which is over 100 miles away and nearly three hours of driving into the mountains. What mountains? I’d soon find out. Yay! I gleefully snapped some photos, my photography had been suffering greatly because I’m not compelled to take photos when I’m stressed. I’d love to photo document better the third world but I’m too nervous to pull out my big camera when I’m surrounded by people in those types of places. I watched the scenery pass, we drove across vast plains. In this distance I could see a large body of water and beyond, a massive pointed volcano with smoke billowing out the top of it. Further still there was a second volcano. And they said this was impossible.
I watched the traffic behind us, one crazy guy was swerving out into the other lane and passing cars. He came to right behind us, his eyes alight with anger. He took a big swig of his liquor as he gave it the gas and passed us too. We kept driving, then I saw the dusty hills. We entered among them. The place was drab and beige, with scratchy trees and space between them. The hills were large and vast, flat on top. The road began to climb, it went higher and higher until my view was amazing. I looked into the mountains in the distance and below the highway canyon stream beds wound through. The place was brown and dry, it was like I was already in Arizona or New Mexico. But there were still those trees I had never seen, and pine trees too. It was cold now at this higher elevation and the sun was getting low. Occasionally we’d pass through small towns, dirt floor shacks settled in the roadside dust. I watched the sun set from my sweet spot in the truck bed. We passed bright green farm fields, and behind them were those beige mountains. Sometimes they were chopped with cliffs or square on top. It looked like Utah! Beige instead of red, and then occasionally a great twisted tree stood in a field covered with ostentatious flowers.
As we drove to Esteli, we continued to climb mountain passes and it became colder and colder until I was freezing in the back of that truck. It was such a good ride, the best of my life. Hitchhike #10 officially. As darkness approached, we arrived in Esteli. I watched the small city pass by, narrow crowded streets enchanted with ragged life. Uneven concrete and shambled buildings, people wearing jackets, mountains rolling in the background. A good place.
I got off the truck and decided I’d go find a hotel. I got a room for 10$. There was a small common area where sat some Americans and I talked to them. An old guy who retired in Baja California said he had been living in this hotel in Esteli for 6 months. He wanted to go spend time somewhere colder so he came here, it’s very livable because everything is so cheap. A young couple was from Boulder, Utah and when I told them I knew the place they were shocked and said I was the first person they had met travelling who had heard of that town. I told them it’s the best town in the USA, they agreed. They said I should come live and work there sometime, hopefully someday…
I bought a pint of ice cream for 10 cordovas. I went back to my room and ate it. It was a strange room with high ceilings and florescent lighting. A large cold square with two queen beds. A window with no curtains that looked out to the common area. Well that’s pretty lousy, I can’t be naked in here with people walking past that window. I’ll just turn the lights off and wrap naked in my sheet making use of the internet. Another day I was basically unable to write. I tried to. The bathroom was also weird, there was no shower curtain and I didn’t have a towel or soap. I could have probably asked for some but didn’t feel like going out of my room anymore. I took a shower, it was drafty. The water would flash from luke warm to freezing cold, then I got pretty seriously electrocuted when turning off the shower. Ahh! I jumped, convulsed… I had to use my shirt to turn the metal knob the rest of the way off. I dried on my shirt and stood chilled until I air dried. Then I laid back in bed wrapped in my sheet until around only 6 or 7PM, I spontaneously passed out.
In the middle of the night I woke to use the toilet. There was a gigantic scorpion in the sink, the biggest I’ve ever seen. It was just crawling mechanically, unable to climb the ceramic sink bowl. I took my knife out and stabbed it, pinning it to the sink. It stung frantically at the knife. I turned the water on to drown it a little, then cut its head off. …Threw it in the trash.
2/10
I left the hotel around dawn. The front desk lady was asleep on the ground in the reception area. Oh! Sorry to wake you! I walked across Esteli, I love this town! Bought more cheap yogurt and bananas. Something about the cool weather, the mountains, the unkempt style but historic Spanish architecture. It felt like a run down, free American town in Europe. However, if people asked me where I was going today, I could no longer say friendly Esteli. Now I was going to Choluteca, Honduras. Every single account said Honduras was dangerous, or mysterious. I know the country has the highest murder rate in the world, this is due to gang violence. I guess there is a civil war which is forever smoldering in the capitol city of Tegucigalpa.
I had met a very unsavory American man in a hostel in Fortuna, Costa Rica. He told me I basically didn’t stand a chance. He told me at the border towns hordes of people will come up to me, grabbing at me, stealing everything they can from my backpack. He also told me proudly of the time he killed someone. He seemed to be the worst, most evil man I’ve ever met, I had a strong urge to stop talking to him. “Where are you from?” I asked him but I already knew it was California. “Newport Beach,” he bluntly answered… yup. When I mentioned Death Valley he told me proudly he had bought land in Trona, California for 800$ cash and rented it out for 600$ a month, definitely a lie, this guy was a Trump supporter, yeah, yeah, get away from me. Anyway, I had heard a lot of bad things. I had been told what I was doing would get me killed but I travelled with good karma and faith that I would be okay. I walked to the edge of Esteli where it met beautiful farms in the mountain- dry, American morning breeze. I stuck my thumb out. I know this makes me a target. I’m a pile of money standing here on the roadside. Trusting. Believing in the kindness of strangers and knowing us humans of the earth are all one, good people. It doesn’t matter what country you’re in or where you’re from. The few evil people I meet are too busy with their evil to see me. And, even if it sometimes happens, I feel like I never meet bad people. I’m protected. To travel hitchhiking is to put your karma on display. It’s to travel with faith.
And I was picked up by some religious guy who was professing in Spanish the wonders of God and how it’s worked in his life. He had beaten cancer. He was loud, friendly and fun. Good blessings to him for picking me up and taking me further down the road. We went into the rolling beige mountains where pink flowering trees bloomed in abundance on the roadsides. It’s springtime here in February. Ride #11. He offered to sell me his truck for 1000US$, I could just drive it home. Really tempting. He took me for over an hour, to a small town in the middle of nowhere. We were in the province of Madriz. This region though, it’s lovely. It’s the things I love about America, fine weather, dry air, open country. Uninhabited hills. Here, however, unlike the USA, people live mostly outside in shacks. The towns are extremely modest, no signs, the shops are just people selling things. Dirt floor huts, people live in harmony with the earth like nature intended. But now people wear modern clothes which must come from somewhere else, China most likely. There’s garbage in the streets because plastic was just introduced to these people 20 years ago or so. In the past the garbage would just rot away. They don’t have a society which is organized for modernization like the US, and the government seems to do little more than steal their money. But here in the middle of nowhere, there’s no McDonalds or Taco Bell, and there’s not garbage in the streets. These people are still back in time. They were always kind to me when a broken conversation would start; after talking to some people, I walked across the little, dusty town and stuck out my thumb.
Hitchhike #12 was a trucker. A hugely large and dark skinned old man with a kind, native American looking face. He was going to Somato, which is a town just a hop and skip away from Honduras. His truck’s bench seats had a wooden board and a slab of cardboard for a backrest. He truck went slow and labored as it climbed a mountain pass. He pointed to a large mountain range which hung its summits high in a dark blue cloud above the monotonous brown land. There was no snow here ever, but it wasn’t hot. It was dry but not the desert. The scrubby land was untamed.
We had to stop on the backside of the mountain pass because his truck was overheating. He poured some water on the driver’s side tire and it bubbled and sizzled. We stood there in the morning sunshine and waited for it to cool down. It was quiet but for the peaceful sounds; birds chirping in the pink flowering trees, and soft singing coming from a nearby church.
Eventually we continued driving. We didn’t make it too far and a passing car yelled out the window to us to stop. The truck was overheating again. We went back outside to see that this time the tire had melted and was falling off. But upon inspecting it, it wasn’t so simple as to change the tire. The entire axel and wheel had warped from the heat, it was bending outwards and away from the truck at a sickening angle. Oh jeez… this was a real mess. He even tried to drive like that for about 30 nerve wracking seconds, it wasn’t going to happen. Seemed as if the truck would soon tip over when it broke or warped farther. We were pretty close to Somato, but weren’t there yet. We stood there assessing the situation for a few minutes. He poured water on it which boiled and sizzled… I tried to help him but there really was nothing I could do. There was nothing he could do either- the truck was seriously damaged. He made some phone calls, he’ll need a truck to tow him to a mechanic I believe. At some point he said I could leave, and I felt bad about leaving this kind soul there on the side of the road. I knew I had a long day ahead of me, and so did he. I procrastinated, keeping him company for a while, but then I said goodbye.
I walked off down the road. I walked through the beige hills, the sides of the road were lined with those pink, springtime, flowing trees. It smelled nice. This is what it looks like everywhere in Northern Nicaragua, beige hills, pink flowers. I suppose that is a benefit about hithchhiking vs. owning your own vehicle- I can just walk away from problems like that one. I had some time to think as I walked, there were people who talked to me, it was a nice walk. After a few miles I arrived in Somato. It was larger than a small town, and I saw some tires piled around a shack. I went up to the people and asked if they were mechanics, to go back and help my friend. They weren’t. At least I’m trying here! I kept walking to where I found a bus station. This was the last town before the Frontera (border) de Honduras but it was still 10-20 miles away. Looks like the bus won’t come for many hours.
I met a German couple who were around my age. They seemed a little stressed by their lack of the Spanish language. I offered my help! I asked the man selling tickets, “Que hora es la bus a Esteli?” They were headed that way, and I told them I had just hitchhiked from Esteli easily enough. They told me they wouldn’t be doing any hitchhiking. They said their friend had been hitchhiking in Nicaragua and he was robbed of everything he owned. It was just a friendly looking young couple who did this to him, and they left him standing on the side of the road in just his underwear. ‘Be careful,’ the girl said to me numerous times, as in, ‘stop doing what you’re doing.’
I left the bus station to go back to the road, but that story they told really bothered me. More so than any other pessimistic advice I had heard. I want to hitchhike, I want to have faith, but I don’t want to be robbed. I had asked both the people I had hitchhiked with today, the religious guy and the truck driver, for their opinions on Honduras. Peligroso, (dangerous), was the answer I received. To me, I wondered, its right over there! How can it be that much different than here? But I was getting myself worked up, stressed, and allowed fear to creep back into my life. I walked across Somato, not trying to hitchhike, just wondering what to do. I saw people everywhere on the run down city/village streets. Now with my thoughts, and their curious attentions on me, I allowed myself to worry, even though that doesn’t help. I should have just taken the plane home, now I have no choice – I leave the tourist trail. I enter Adventureland where I’m going to be robbed and killed. A lady talked to me, “Oh, si, Honduras, muy peligroso,” she said.”Nesecitas un taxi para la frontera!” With that she stuck out her hand and hailed me a passing taxi. Okay I’ll get in, let’s go! I decided this about Honduras and travelling in general… whether its buses, hitchhiking or taxi, however I have to travel… hostels or camping, forget money, I’m just going to take the path of least resistance. Just not an airplane, not yet. I got in the cab.
It was only 5$ to the frontera. The driver was about my age and pretty cool. He spoke English, he had worked illegally for some years in the USA. He had hitchhiked there from Nicaragua, I could tell he has travelled a lot and had some stories. He had saved his money, came back here and bought this car to make a living as a taxi driver. It felt like another hitchhike to me… #13? I asked him about Honduras as we sat parked in front of a dirt floor shack where he dropped people off. He lifted his shirt to show me the scar of a bullet wound in his shoulder. He told me that had happened in Choluteca, the city where I was going today. Only more worried I became from that, but he said it was because he was involved in ‘drogas’ (drugs).
As we drove on top of a beautiful mountain with excellent views before the border, I kind of exploded all my stress, worries and woes to him. He talked to me and calmed me down. He said I’d be fine. He wished me luck. He dropped me off. The border was up in the mountains, a mountain pass in the middle of nowhere. I spent my last cordovas on some food before crossing, but that was a bad call because I needed to pay 2$ exit tax to Nicaragua. I stood there in line, all I had was US 20s. All they could give me were cordovas as change. 20$ is like 600 cordovas, I do not want that at all! What can I do with 570 cordovas- nothing! Ahh! What can I do. My stress was blowing up again to nearly reduce me to tears… but then an angel was summoned out of the crowd, a lady, and she handed me 2$. I think I did actually cry a little, with gratitude. I was basically a mess. I paid, went on my way, and gave her a hug.
Now I was in Honduras, but upon passing through their customs, the officer was a bad guy. It was a 6$ entrance tax to the country. This time I gave him the 20, wound up with a pile of beautiful Honduras currency as change. The lempira, but I could at least spend these here. But then he decided, because my passport said I had been to Colombia, I’d have to give him ten more dollars. “What, why?” I protested, knowing immediately that was useless. I gave him back a bunch of the limpiras, he was robbing me, and I went on my way. Hitchhiking here was totally useless, there were no cars whatsoever passing through the border. I walked to where I was pointed to go, to a small crowd of people waiting around a van at a bus station. They were all happy to see me! The van was waiting for enough passengers to show up, then he’d take us to the nearest town for 1$ each. So I sat and waited. I waited and waited. We all waited. I took a walk to the edge of the roadside cliff and peered through the trees to see the view. I thought, can I just give you 5$ and we go now! C’mon! Hours passed, but eventually there were enough people who had crossed the border on foot, we all crowded in the van and it drove off.
I was smooshed in there with a family, a baby who took a liking to me, a young boy who was asking me questions with his quiet, thoughtful voice. They knew I didn’t speak Spanish, however, I found I could understand him. “Cual es tu trabajo?” he asked…(what is your job?) “Soy un cuisinaro,”(a cook) I said. I could answer in Spanish most of his questions. The family was also going to Choluteca.
The van wound down passed some of the finest mountain scenery I had seen. It let a beautiful young lady off at a dirt floor shack. Perhaps she was home, and she was crying. The bus stopped in the middle of an intersection. There was another bus there, they pointed. A Choluteca! The family and I got off and went over to that bus. I don’t remember the price of the bus in lipiras, and I never learned the conversion rate… but it cost basically nothing. It was a comfortable bus, the young boy sat next to me.
Out the window I saw Honduras. It was beautiful, the mountains were more dramatic than anywhere else. I wished to be in the back of a truck for this road, not the bus. At least I could watch listlessly, bus riding is strange. You can’t do much more than watch listlessly. And think. We climbed, there were beautiful homes nestled into the pine forest. Not so different from California’s countryside, just with no money. The road wound beneath the tops of mountains and gazed off cliffs to deep valleys, sweeping panoramas below. In the distant distance, you could see flat plains and the haze of a hotter climate. We’d go there. This Honduras, it doesn’t look dangerous, it looks so beautiful. I don’t understand. Why should this place not be good? Why here? Why is this a different country? Why do all the countries have to be different, why must we put up walls? I don’t understand. I cried. I watched the scenery pass. It was beautiful. I couldn’t control it eventually, and dozed off to sleep.
I woke up outside Choluteca. I didn’t know what to do next. I was nervous, would I walk across this city and hitchhike? I could stay the night here, or I could keep travelling on. It was still midday. It looked like a nice place, sun bleached buildings, rough Mediterranean architecture. Hot air in the streets. Not too foreign, not too scary, breathe. People took interest in me on the bus as they often do, one woman in particular. She was wondering where I was going, she was travelling to the next country north. She was trying to get home to El Salvador. She’d take a bus to the frontera tonight. She introduced me to the young man she was sitting next to, a guy about my age from Nicaragua with a backpack. He was going to Guatemala. That was interesting to me, another traveler, headed my direction. We all got off the bus and I decided to follow the two of them. We were just passing through the bottom corner of Honduras, El Salvador wasn’t all that far away, maybe I can get there tonight with these two. We walked a short ways through the quiet city and got on another bus. This one was much more beaten up. It kept on moving through hills and dry country.
I loved the scenery in Honduras, and all the people I met were nice to me. A little girl on the bus was fascinated with me, she kept staring over at all and would giggle when I looked back. I had conversations with my traveler friends and other people from Honduras on the bus. Told them I’d like to get off this bus and setup camp in these mountains. They laughed at me, I was like a spectacle. When the little girl got off the bus she said, “Adios gringo!” I wish race wasn’t always such an issue though, we have so much more in common than we have differences. It was getting dark on the bus, so I knew I would no longer be able to find a good camp spot. I got on a different bus at some point. Zoom, my day amounted to 2 hitchhikes, a taxi and four bus rides. I had made it far though, that much closer to the USA.
It was dark and we arrived at the frontera. El Salvador… Honduras didn’t really let me experience it. The incredibly cheap busses just took me, and told me where to go, to pass through this ‘peligroso’ place. Honduras is a word in Spanish which means “depths”. It actually got this rather unflattering name from who else, but the famed hero/murderer Christopher Colombus. He once famously said about Honduras, “Thank God we’re leaving these depths!” I guess the name stuck… ridiculous. I wondered if I’d have problems with customs, having no trip itinerary. I was no better than an illiegal immigrant entering these countries, but with my USA passport, it’s no matter. Go on through. Aduanas (customs) twice in one day. I followed my friend, the guy travelling to Guatemala. He told me his name was Charlie. We walked across the rough border town in the dark, the last traces of sunset flickering across the uninhabited country, between the scrubby hills and out to the distant mountains. We crossed a bridge together over a weakly flowing river, la frontera, followed by children begging us for change who we ignored. People had yelled to me to try and help or sell me something, “No nesecito nada! Estoy con mi amigo, es okay!” I was following Charlie.
I had to wait a while at the customs to enter El Salvador. When I walked out, free into the dark of this new country, Charlie was standing there still waiting for me. I was glad he was. We walked together through the dark of the town. The buildings in this place looked really run down, no lights flickered in the windows. No streetlights either, just moonlight and the glaring yellow of a lamp coming from one lonely bar where two people were dancing together to quiet music. There were no hotels, I’d probably have to camp. But we ran into our other friend on those streets, the lady travelling to El Salvador. Her city was San Miguel, but there were no more busses. She wasn’t sure how she’d get there. It was Charlie’s idea, let’s hitchhike! Okay, I was happy about this idea! I would never be hitchhiking at night by myself, but with these two, who were clearly adventurous and also Spanish speaking, I seemed to feel safe. We all got a boost of energy from this idea, and together walked down a dark hill leaving town and connecting to the main highway below.
The soft night air rustled through the trees and was refreshing. We made it to an area with more lights. I don’t know exactly what it was/ where I was. It seemed like a place where they were pulling over the big trucks to check them out before customs. There were people milling around, occasionally a car would pass and the three of us would try to hitchhike. We had gotten directions, we knew this road was headed to San Miguel. I didn’t like to travel at night because for one, I miss the scenery, for two, I won’t get proper rest to meet the next taxing day. But this was fun, I was among friends, I was enjoying this. I felt pretty adventurous standing there on the dark and foreign roadside with two Central Americans, speaking Spanish and hitchhiking in the El Salvador night. And I was done with scary Honduras, although I guess El Salvador, Guatemala, and Mexico are peligroso too… and Mexico is bigger than all the other countries combined.
A man walked up and bothered us. He had only one hand. After he left I said to Charlie, “Solomente uno! Ay yi yi…” holding up my hand. “Possible drogas?” I made a motion to suggest ‘chop!’ at the wrist. Like maybe he stole from the drug cartel and for that they chopped his hand off? Yo no se… Charlie then told me, he’s not actually going to Guatemala… He’s going to the United States. He’s chasing the dream, he then practiced his broken English for the first time, “I am… go… to be … illegal – immigrant!” Good for you Charlie, go for it! Don’t listen to what they say, the USA is a good place. Sure it’s more expensive, if you want restaurant food, forget it! It’s not 1$. If you want a hotel room, forget it! It will be a lot more than 8 dollars. Cheap buses going long distance between towns like this… yeah we don’t really have that. Still, you can make a decent living if you find a cheap place to live. I was exicted for him, what an adventure. I decided to write him a letter of recommendation to my former employer, saying I recommend him for a dishwashing job and fearlessly signing my name! I know they hire a lot of illegal immgrants. If you make it to Rhode Island… go here. He told me he didn’t have any friends or family in the US, he would maybe go to Chicago, maybe to Florida. He didn’t know. We talked about the states as the nights grew colder, later, and no one picked us up.
Finally a taxi drove by, they arranged it with him, and we got in. It brought us over an hour through the night to San Miguel. Of course, our lady friend got out, the cab cost 25$, of which they just expected me, the rich American to pay. Well jeez, I only have 20$ left in my wallet! Okay! Well I was stressed. You don’t have to contribute to the ride, because it’s true, I only have a few thousand dollars but I’m still way rich compared to you guys. I just need to be taken to an ATM and get mas dinero. I pulled out more seemingly endless cash from the machine. In El Salvador, conveniently, the currency is the US dollar. Those leftover Honduras limpiras would stay in my wallet for months afterwards- forever. Then I got a room. Oh, well, I guess Charlie just thinks he’ll share my room with me! C’mon man, I like my privacy… ugh. It was 8$ for one person, but 15$ for two. Okay, it’s fine, let’s go. I felt like I was being used, but as we sat together and talked in the room, I was happy he was there. Everything’s cheap. I don’t mind paying for this guy. He probably needs all the help he can get if he’s trying to hitchhike to the US- like I am- and trying to find a job in the US- like I am- only he’s from Nicaragua. I learned he was in fact from Esteli! I told him it was the nicest place I had been on my trip. In fact I was just there this morning wasn’t I? God what a long day it’s been! I liked Charlie, I was happy to have him around. I asked if manyana we should travel together? He said okay. I knew I might be inviting myself a leech… it was okay. We went to sleep in comfort that night, in the extremely shambled hotel.
