Three Countries in a Day
or; a pickup truck, three buses, a border, a microbus, a border, a van and two taxis
I wake up early in my tiny room at La Tortuga Verde a hundred yards from the Pacific, near the little beach town of El Cuco; the southeast corner of El Salvador. It is hot here, even in the shade with a wind coming off the sea, hot at night, hot in the morning. It will be hot where I’m heading, hot for a long way. Spent two nights here at this hostel, a good rustic beach scene, but I was feeling extraneous to a bunch of travelers who seemed to know each other, and a bit melancholic on my own. Spending too much money: this place is a little too far away to walk to the town, so you have to buy every little thing from the hostel, and they know it. I’m ready to get moving again, the goal of the day is to make it out of this country, all the way across the southern leg of Honduras, and into Nicaragua. It will turn out to be one of the most difficult days of my journey.
After quite a bit of research, I have found three ways to get from El Salvador to Nicaragua. One is to take a direct bus from San Miguel, the major city in this part of the country, to Leon in northern Nicaragua. This is the fastest, about eight hours, but it costs a lot, around $45, fifty percent more than my daily budget, and La Tortuga has been separating this fool from his money for two days straight. The second and most appealing way is to go to La Union, a seedy port city down the coast from here, and take a boat across the Golfo de Fonseca to the northwest corner of Nicaragua. It’s possible that there’s a cheap way to do that — it’s only a couple hour trip across the gulf — but the only thing I could find online or in any of the guidebooks was $75, and it wasn’t clear that boats go every day. Seemed like a great way to get stuck in La Union. The third way is just to take chicken buses- two to the border, one across Honduras, and another one or two to Leon. I chose to do it the hard way.
I get a cup of thin tea from the restaurant, pack my bags, pay the bill for two nights. At the desk they call me a taxi, and I walk out and wait by the dirt road, hitting my head on the hostel sign, a final parting gift from La Tortuga. A guy in a red pickup truck pulls up after a while, says “taxi” and I hop in. It is nine in the morning, and so the marathon begins. We bump along the rutted dirt road, swampy cow pastures and jungle wetlands surround, and twenty some minutes later, we are in El Cuco. He says the old green school bus just down the street will be leaving for San Miguel, at 10:20, charges me five dollars, and leaves me on the street.
Ask around for a comedor, find a big open restaurant with six people working in the back but no customers. I walk up to the counter and ask the lady if they can make me breakfast in twenty minutes, before the bus leaves. She says no, sorry, but then as I’m walking out she says, wait, no, sit, please, it will only be 15 minutes. I shrug, sit down and what appears to be her son comes up with black grease all over his hands and arms, wants to talk to me in super-broken English about all the places he lived in the states. He liked San Antonio the best. “San Antonio, very good.” Two minutes later he’s still telling me about New Jersey (not so good) when the daughter brings out a plate: super salty eggs with tomatoes and onions, pureed red beans, salty queso fresco, a couple tortillas. It is exactly what I want, except that it tastes like the sea.
Get back out to the street in time to catch the bus, and as we leave town it fills up with more and more people until we are three to a bench seat, people standing in the aisles. I am more or less accustomed to this by now, and I have a window. Up the Pacific slope of mountains, green hills and jungle, tall grass, cows and corn, bananas and then coffee as we gain in elevation. Beautiful country, this corner of El Salvador. We come into San Miguel around noon, the bus terminal chaotic and sweaty. I’d been here for three hours two days ago; this time in ten minutes I am whisked away on an especial for El Amatillo. Especial in this case means a bus with actual individual seats rather than benches, still an old US school bus but a slight step up.
It takes us about an hour to get to Santa Rosa de Lima, which looks halfway appealing for a town near a border, and after all the other passengers disembark in the town, the bus drives to a dirt bus lot on the outskirts, where I am concerned I will be stranded, but soon another bus comes along and my bus guys transfer me. This one is a greyhound-level super especial with reclining seats and a screen up front playing videos of all the latest reggaeton hits. Sadly, I am only on this bus for twenty minutes, and we get to El Amatillo, the town straddling the border with Honduras, around two in the afternoon. An insistent bike taxi guy says it was “necessario” to go with him, but the bus driver and the luggage guy say I can walk, and so I do, with the bike taxi cursing me as he rides off. In two hundred meters I am on an open bridge, pointy green mountains all around, pale green river down below. No one hectoring me, a second consecutive mellow border crossing.
On the Honduran side there is a big blue building in the middle of the road that says Migracion, and a border-amigo guy speaking surprisingly good English directs me inside to wait in a line that I almost certainly would have stood in anyway. They ask me some questions, where I’d been and where I was going, the standard stuff, charge me $3 and stamp me through.
On the backside of the building is a much more confusing and chaotic scene: stalls, carts, taxis, trucks loading and unloading, food stands, walking vendors, microbuses. It is not at all clear how to proceed. My “amigo” reappears and is now quite useful, and leads me to a covered lot off to the side where vans say Amatillo-Guasale on the front. For six dollars they will take me all the way across this little foot of Honduras. Just as I confirm my spot in a full van, a furious rainstorm hits, most of the vehicles and sellers scratter, a bunch of the rain-displaced people crowding in under the roof of the van lot. One of these is a menacing-looking scraggly haired young guy with his pants sagging and a flask of fortified booze in his hand. He looks like he has been drunk for days, and I’m just hoping he won’t come up to me but of course he does.
It’s the whole stand too close, ask for money and don’t take no for an answer thing. He puts his hand on my arm, several of the men in the area see this, and tell him to get out of here. The guy just walks around the van and comes up to me on the other side, pissed now, blaming me for the conflict. I raise my voice saying “por favor” and the men pull their shirts up over their stomachs in the universal male show of hostility, yelling at him, scare him off. In the states you will see guys quickly take their shirts off to demonstrate they are prepared to fight; in Central America they simply lift the shirt up to expose the menacing sight of the belly.
They load up all kinds of merchandise shrink-wrapped in plastic into the trunk and on the roof of the van for a woman and her daughter who run a store in Nicaragua. The rain ceases as quickly as it came, the van guys eventually round up their requisite ten passengers, many of whom appear to be men vaguely associated with or working with the microbus, and off we go.
More beautiful country — this part of Honduras is green and rural and wild, mountainous. The going is mostly smooth, though punctuated with various roadwork stops. It seems they are re-doing this whole stretch of highway. So far so good, but my traveling luck is about to desert me. We make it through two police checkpoints without incident, but at the third we are waved down into an inspection station. The woman with all the packages has to unload all her bags, produce various papers and bills. The police take everything out of the plastic, open some of the packages, and inspect everyone’s luggage on the microbus except mine; they don’t ask me a thing. This takes nearly an hour, and after everything is re-packed and loaded, we get back on the highway.
As the day slips down into a brilliant red dusk, we come to the end of the road construction area at the city of Choluteca, which looks surprisingly welcoming, with a green plaza and a couple of streetside cafes. I’ve already done a full day’s work of traveling, and wish I was stopping here. All in all, Honduras appears much more peaceful and attractive than I’d expected. We were most of the way across and though it would be dark when we got to Nicaragua, the lady store-owner said that there would be microbuses to Leon until seven thirty at night, still a couple hours away. We should be fine, she said.
But then, as we leave Choluteca, the reason for all the roadwork became clear. The unrepaired road is a horror; this stretch of highway is in the worst condition of anything I’d yet seen. Giant, twelve-inch deep axle-eating potholes every twenty feet, sometimes spanning the whole road, big enough that we have to slow to a crawl to transverse them. This is made more difficult by the gathering dark and a decent amount of traffic, and progress becomes halting and bone-rattling as we repeatedly bottom out. At an average speed of ten miles an hour, it takes us three hours to get through the last fifth of the way across Honduras.
When we get near the border, it is completely dark, and the only passengers left are me, an obese woman also going to Leon carrying four full shopping bags, and the mother and daughter with all the merchandise. The mother and daughter decide, at this hour, not to even try to take their goods through customs, and they leave them at the microbus office until the next day. We four walk into the border zone, which seems to be deserted. There is a weird haze and the whole place is eerie and dreamlike. They wait for me while I go through the Honduran exit office, saying that the bridge is dangerous at night, and it’s better to go together. I appreciate their solidarity.
We all walk across a wide, dark, empty bridge. On the Nicaraguan side it is somehow much hotter and stickier, some dim street lights and a military guard who checks my passport. The road forks into three sections here, with various buildings for customs and immigration, but it looks like no one is home. The three women bid me “chao” and walk off into the mist. It seems strange that they’re not doing any of the passport-stamping, but perhaps it’s different for people who live here.
I look into all of the buildings and they seem to be closed for the night. After exhausting all my options, I return to the very first one I went up to, the one with a paper sign for “Guatemala” on it, that couldn’t possibly be the right place, which is in fact the migration office. In the basement of this building, there are a few people waiting in line at three open windows. When I get up to the front of the first line, the man sees my passport, says “lo siento, disculpe” and walks off. I get into the next line, but when it is my turn, the young woman there also apologizes and closes down her booth for the night. It seems no one wants to do the necessary paperwork to admit a gringo. There is only one window left, and an older gentleman with a mustache graciously is willing to talk to me, but in a gruff manner. He launches in to a long series of questions in thickly accented slow Spanish, listening to my answers with suspicion, finally getting down to how long I will be staying in Nicaragua.
Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua have what is called the CA-4 agreement, where you get a tourist visa good for 90 days in all four countries, and (in theory) you’re not supposed to have to pay to travel between them. In reality, I paid money to make two of the three crossings. I only have eighteen days left in the CA-4, and tell the man that. He says this isn’t enough time to see Nicaragua, his whole demeanor changes, and he becomes some kind of a travel agent, telling me about all kinds of places I have to see. In the end he gives me a tourist card for 31 days, charges me $12 and, inexplicably, also $6, gives me change in Cordobas, has me fill out several carbon copy receipts, and allows me into the country.
When I emerge, the whole place is empty, nothing to do but walk on ahead into Nicaragua, half a mile of official looking buildings in the humid, hazy night. I get to a gatehouse at the end of the border zone area, and at first the guards there, in the middle of a conversation, are uninterested in me and wave me through. I wave and walk past, but ten steps later a sharp whistle and a man yelling halts my progress. I turn back and face an angry guard with a thick, incomprehensible accent, training a high-beam flashlight on me. I walk back to the crossing and hand him my passport, which he snatches away from me in disgust, motioning for me to go inside the gatehouse, where another, calmer guard motions for me to sit down. Welcome to Nicaragua.
After five minutes of being detained, the first guard whistles again, says some more things I didn’t understand, gives me my passport back, and shows me the door. This time he actually says it, without kindness: “Bienvenidos a Nicaragua.” My third country of the day, and my energies are nearly exhausted. Just past the gatehouse is a covered stand with two silver vans, a small group of people sitting on benches next to them, and one of them is the obese woman from my last microbus. I ask if there are buses to Leon, and they say that we have missed the last one, but that they are going to Chinandega, about halfway, and they assure me there will be onward transport there.
But no one, driver or passengers, seem to be in any hurry to get anywhere. It was as if they were waiting for more people to arrive, but there is absolutely no one coming from any direction. The way they were talking made it seem that they knew each other well, were even maybe related. Everyone was overweight and the main subject of conversation, from what I could tell through their thick accents, was food. Specifically how much they didn’t like the woman with a food stand across the street, who had neither carne nor pollo. A great offense. I hadn’t had a meal since breakfast two countries ago, and I ask what she did have over there, but they strongly discourage me.
After an hour of just sitting there, the driver, a rounded, quiet man, said “vamos” and we all get in the van and drive south into the sticky Nicaraguan night. There is a moon, and I could see thick forests, volcanoes off to the left, one after another. The roads are much better than in Honduras, with visible well-painted lines and traffic signs. We stop in a town some ways up the road at a comedor, and everyone gets out to get food. I realize looking at the writing on the menu board that I didn’t know what any of the items were, nor what the amounts of money signified.
This is one of the real challenges of traveling in Latin America. Every so often, you change countries, and suddenly you are an idiot. The accent, slang, common words, money, all change. Enchiladas 10c sounded decent to me, but I didn’t see any enchiladas, and I ask the lady serving food. She points to these deep-fried stuffed tortillas that look more like quesadillas, and I say I’ll take two. “Nada mas?” she asks, and everyone looks at me as if it wasn’t enough, but I say “no, gracias” and pay her with some of the cordobas I’d gotten from the border.
Back in the van it turned out the enchiladas were stuffed with chicken and rice, greasy and satisfying. I eat and spill rice on my lap and look out the window at the rural landscapes lit by moonlight. Ranches of tall grass, forest, more volcanoes. By the time we got to Chinandega it is just me and the obese lady with all the bags, and the van delivers us at a gas station outside of town, populated by many taxis and no buses of any kind. It is somewhere after nine o’clock. The taxi drivers inform us that there are no more buses to Leon, but they’ll gladly take us there for $20 apiece. The lady brushes them off, says it is too much; one taxi driver offers $5 a person but she confides that she doesn’t trust him — the price is too low. He keeps making universal “she’s crazy” hand motions about her and rolling his eyes when she isn’t looking. “Five dolla,” he says to me. I decide to trust the lady. After seven hours of traveling together, I finally learn her name, Sonia.
I ask if there were hostels or cheap hotels nearby — the taxis say yes, eager to take me somewhere —but Sonia says this town isn’t safe. She says she is calling a taxi driver she knew, and we could split the fare. Fifteen minutes of being ogled, barked at and prodded by a pack of taxi drivers later, Don Felipe, an old man in an unmarked yellow car pulls up, looking slightly annoyed. I get in front and Sonia lays down across the back seat. I understand — it has been a very long day.
Turns out Don Felipe doesn’t want to go to Leon, it is his night off and he will take us to another taxi driver. Sonia doesn’t like this one bit, and sits up to raise her voice and shame him into taking us. They make some kind of a negotiated settlement involving money and location — I am just the idiot gringo along for the ride. Don Felipe is clearly very tired and having trouble seeing at night; keeps slowing way down for no reason, veering way right onto the shoulder every time we see oncoming traffic. At one point there is a donkey in the road just standing there in our lane, and he doesn’t see it until the last moment — I grab his shoulder and he slams on his brakes just before we hit the animal, which appears entirely unperturbed. A few times I am on the verge of offering to drive, but think better of it. I am exhausted but it is vital that I at least maintain a solid watch on the road. The Doors song comes to mind “keep your eyes on the road… the future’s uncertain, the end is always near…”
Don Felipe manages to get us to the outskirts of Leon, another gas station, we pay him 450 cordobas, about $15, and he grumpily drives back from whence he came. Another taxi takes us into the city, and when we pull up to the hostel I’d given him the directions to, it is eleven at night and I’d been traveling fourteen hours. Standing there disorientedly on the sidewalk amidst spanish colonial buildings, beyond tired, I see that there is some kind of loud party happening. As reality comes just barely into focus, it occurs to me that the blaring electronic music and light show isn’t coming from a bar next to the hostel, but from the hostel itself, and the crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk is blocking my way in. Most of them are in costumes, and I realize that this day is Halloween, and my hostel is having an EDM party. I really am not in the right frame of mind for this.
I look back at Sonia and she is shaking her head and smiling. I wave goodbye and the taxi pulls away. This scene simply will not do. In my guidebook I find another hostel nearby and walk the six blocks there. Mercifully they have a bed available and it is quiet. I drop my bags, buy a Victoria beer at the desk, stand looking at the giant world map on the wall, tracing with my fingers all the way that I had come.
