Multi Modal

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After three months of living and volunteering in Leon, my last day as a guide was Monday and I packed up for a week in the highlands of Jintotega and Matagalpa to have a break from the heat. I was planning to head north with a friend, Taylor, but the swell was up and he was off to the beach to surf. Solo traveling was fine me. I needed a retreat anyways.
Tuesday morning I said goodbye to my homestay and arrived at the bus terminal to learn that I had missed the last Matagalapa bound bus and had to detour through San Isidro first. The road is either potholed to bits or under construction so the chicken bus was being driven off the shoulder of the road. One and a half hours into this bumpy ride my stomach starts to turn. Was it something I ate? I only had coffee for breakfast so it must just be that I'm hungry or drank an acidic beverage on an empty stomach. Right?
A half hour later I am breaking into cold sweats and the turning stomach has gone into high gear. With reggaeton playing on the bus sound system I realize what many a Central American traveler has suffered, oh fuck- I think I might shit my pants! Outside the bus window, endless fields are turning beige with the dry season. No towns to drive through, no trees to hide behind. A few kilometers down there are two small homes and three women sitting outside. AQUI! STOP THE BUS! Grabbing my backpack I hop off and ask to use the outhouse, narrowly saving myself from the world´s most embarrasing moment.
Emerging ten minutes later, I quickly see that a sour stomach is now only the beginning of my dilemma. I thank the woman whose outhouse I just violated and ask how far to San Isidro. 20 kilometers. OK. This is a sparsely trafficked highway and chances of of seeing another bus are hours away- so I start walking. Buried underneath my backpack, glasses, and a baseball cap, I feel like an unsuccessful incognito spy. One kilometer later I am already miserable from the heat and the kids staring on their walk to school. The idea of hitching a ride goes back and forth in my head. No. Maybe. No. Yes. Thumb stretches out and soon I am throwing my backpack into a farmer's pick-up truck, enjoying the backwards facing view that feels like watching the world in rewind.
The road splits fifteen kilometers up. "Just 4 kilometers to San Isidro, " advises my first savior of the day. Not two minutes into the walk, an old man on a bicycle starts to pass, then slows to my pace and starts up a conversation. He is also headed to San Isidro and offers to share his ride, a feat that I had not yet attempted in Nicaragua. No. Maybe. No. Yes. To fit me, my large backpack, him, and his small backpack onto one bicycle, he holds his bag to his chest and balances side saddle on the top tube while I sit on the seat, pedal, and bearhug around him to reach the handlebars. This balancing act is, at first, easier than I anticipated. I enjoy the ride soon learn that my new friend is quite a talker. I commented on how beautiful the mountain regions of Nicaragua are. He replies, "Yes, this land is beautiful. Even more beautiful now that the war is over" and starts a 3 kilometer long conversation about politics and how less than 20 years ago this ride on this highway would have been much, much different. As he relives the past and talks about Ortega, his arm pushes on the gear shifter, making the pedaling difficult and slow. I lose my balance and both of us fall off the side of the road. "Thanks for ride, just one kilometer to go. I can walk it, actually, I think I can see it from here-" but as I am rejusting my backpack straps his hand flies up to hail a passing truck that looked like a semi up front, but carrying farming supplies in the back. Quickly I am sandwiched in the middle seat, once again uncomfortable but appreciative. I wait for the Matagalpa bus at San Isidro, and think about how this patchworked transit north is the perfect travel mantra. When traveling solo through Central America, you have to (literally and figuratively) go with the flow.

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