Rebecca Willett - Not So Alone in Managua

The old American schoolbus pulled into the bus station in Managua, and my nerves were getting a little high, thanks to all the horror stories about Managua I had heard, from fellow backpackers and locals alike. Central American bus stations are not always the safest places, and you’ve got to be very aware of what’s going on around you at all times—and even more when you are a single, female traveler. I was hoping my nerves weren’t showing on my face, but they clearly were, as the bus assistant, having noticed the gringa with the nervous eyes, volunteered to help me get a taxi to my next destination—with an honest driver, because, as he informed me, not all the taxi drivers around here were trustworthy.

            As the bus rolled to a stop, I was glancing out the window, trying to get my bearings. The bus terminal was part station, part market, and a busy one at that. Ladies with their frilly aprons selling fruit and breads from baskets, taxi drivers hustling bus passengers as they stepped down from the bus, country folks with their giant baskets and bags of things they could only buy in the city, to bring home to their families out in el campo. Suddenly the bus driver was calling me and motioning quickly for me to follow him, and I somehow slithered through the full aisle and down the steps of the bus, concentrating on not losing sight of his broad shoulders muscling their way through the crowd of screaming taxi  drivers—“TAXI, TAXI!”. We flew through the blur of people, sounds, colors, and smells, and with a quick exchange of nods I was handed off to Carlos, the bus assistant’s supposedly trustworthy taxi driver friend. Within seconds I was in the front seat, my backpack safe and pickpocketing-free in my lap, on my way to the Roberto Huembes bus station.

            We haggled over the price of the fare, and I thought about how nice it is to find kindness everywhere, even in the midst of busy, dangerous city.