Going Local in Nicaragua

Sure, I could have signed up for an all-inclusive vacation, sipped umbrella cocktails on a guard-patrolled beach and pretended to be in another country.  But as the UnTourist, I took a different tactic: I picked the cheapest Central American city Orbitz had to offer and booked a $250, three-hour flight to Managua, Nicaragua.

But it’s ocean I want, not a dusty, crime-ridden capital city, so my trip kicks off with a guy hanging out the back of a bus, pointing at me and screaming something in a frightening cadence that I will soon learn does not translate to “Attack that Gringo.” It is simply the bus attendant’s repetition of the bus’s destination, “Rivas, Rivas, Rivas, Rivas!” and therefore his attempt to help me find my bus! In Nicaragua, there are no automated/backlit/electronic signs that correspond to neatly labeled rows and numbered bus routes.  If you think greyhound stations are chaotic, try Managua’s UCA autobus terminal.

Once I sort it out, said man further welcomes me by simultaneously grabbing my bag and my arm, hurling me up and into the belly of the bus while flinging my backpack up and over the top, alongside the basket of bananas from the rider in front of me and the cage of chickens from the rider behind me.  As the bus pulls out, the attendant swings himself through the door opening, clings to a ladder bolted to the side of the bus, scurries to the rooftop, and proceeds to secure (or so I presume from the shuffle and rope noises) all the flung cargo while we speed down the Pan American highway.

At first glance, the Pan American highway is a modern, well-paved thoroughfare running the north-south length of Nicaragua’s western half.  From my chicken-bus window, the highway is transformed into a perilous game of Frogger as the rickety, recycled bus dodges oncoming semi-trucks while passing horse-pulled carts on unbanked curves at hair-raising speeds.  Ever wonder what happens to old school buses deemed un safe to transport American school children?  They become the main source of transportation in Nicaragua, after a few modifications, of course.  First, an assortment of metal tubes, pipes, and brackets are welded to configure a rack that is bolted to the entire roof.  Second, the bus gets a paint job.  Sometimes the whole bus gets a coat, but more often just the front and back are decorated graffiti style with an emblem of blazing fire and a clever name such as “2 fast, 2 furious” while the sides are left to proclaim “Franklin County Department of Education” or some other such remnant from its days of U.S. service.  Third, all emergency buzzers are disabled.

But hey, my two-transfer, three-hour ride to San Juan Del Sur only costs the equivalent of about $3.75.  So maybe I do arrive shaken and dusty (translation: in need of a beer) but I am also under budget.  As a reward for my savvy transportation choice (an air-conditioned tourist shuttle would have cost $40), I splurge for a front room in a boutique hotel whose private balcony overlooks the Pacific Ocean and includes breakfast for a total of $15.  Though I won’t see my generous double bed until morning, after my next 12 hours of madness, I’ll never be so glad to not be sleeping on a hostel cot in a dorm full of Norwegians, Germans, Aussie’s, Canadians, or whoever the hell else.

San Juan Del Sur (SJDS) is a Nica beach town about 20 miles north of its ritzy Costa Rican neighbor’s border.  The best way for me to describe it is to have you close your eyes and drift back in time – 40 years or so should do it.  Imagine Southern California in the late ’60s, early ’70s.  Think Manhattan Beach.  Think cheap entertainment and no rules.  Think dollar beers, shared joints, endless beach, perfect surf breaks and free love.  That’s SJDS…today.

I take my cold shower, throw on a wrinkled sundress and meander down the beach front until I see “Happy Hour: 2 for 1 cocktails.”  Welcome to Nicaragua!  Bamboo Bar turns out to have a somewhat luxurious décor, a friendly, English-speaking bartender, and a stunning, extraordinarily friendly hostess named Graciella.  I’m not sure whether she works for the bar, or if she just works the bar, but after my second full pour of Flor de Cana, it didn’t matter.  The real opportunity here is learning to play Desmoche, a rummy variation and a favorite Nica card game.  But herein lies the challenge:  Graciella consistently holds her hand of nine cards at bosom level as she gives half the instructions in seductive Spanish tones.  Trust me, and I’m a girl, it’s hard to concentrate on the game’s subtleties, such as laying down your three of a kind in alternating colors (rojo, negro, rojo or negro, rojo, negro) when Graciella laughs and leans into you, exonerating you of your mistake while sweeping your 10 Cordoba note off the counter since she’s convinced you that Desmoche is no fun unless all the players lay down a bet.  If you’re a male tourist, I suggest surrendering your wallet at the door, but since we’re only talking 50 cents a game and $1.25 per rum cocktail, it seems a paltry price to pay for such a view.

It gets later, business at this relatively calm bar is slow, and Graciella invites me to The Pier.  I’ll discover that whether you arrive at 10, midnight, or closer to sunrise, this on-the-beach bar will be shockingly stocked with dancing people, a healthy mix of Europeans, Nicas, and a smattering of other nationalities.  As a newcomer, you will surely meet Pablo, who upon introducing himself offers me “anything my mind can imagine.”

“Like what?” is my reply that seems at that point in the evening oh so coy.

Pablo could roll his eyes, mutter under his breath (with his bits of English), “stupid American,” or fall back on the Spanish equivalent, “malo Gringa,” but Pablo is a business man so he plays along.

“Ah, mi Chica.  Like drogas, like girls, like experiencias.”  The cable networks in Nicaragua play lots of American B movies.  Pablo’s obviously learned our unimaginative and repetitive use of “like.”  I don’t ask if he has guys for the same price. It’s not that late, and I am too eager to get out on the sand by the bonfire to dance under the peeking moon and in front of the waves.

Among the palm trees we meet an Irish bartender who plays a weekly house game of Texas Hold’em.  This is my favorite card game, and it turns out Graciella’s repertoire extends beyond Desmoche.  I’m not sure if he invites us, or we invite ourselves, but the bartender seems quite content with meeting the usual group of dudes with two female guests in tow.  His surprise will be even greater when he sees we can actually play!

I’m not sure if “Ten” is the czar of SJDS or just an ironically lucky SOB, but he lives in an oceanside penthouse complete with elevator and air conditioning.  Let me emphasize elevator, as I believe it is the only working one in the country outside of the capital, which is necessary since Ten doesn’t have use of his arms and legs.  This doesn’t stop him from commanding the game, or an extraordinary number of bong hits supplied by his demure Nicaraguan aide.  We hand over our buy-in of 100 Cordobas ($5) to a little, short Nica guy who is a lawyer.  We begin a Hold’em evening that will last until 3:00 a.m.

Finally, I take second place and Graciella feels like singing.  We stumble up the main road, cut down a side street, and enter a decidedly darker section of town.  For a moment, I wonder whether this is the part where we meet her “friends” in the alley and they demand my cash card.  My somewhat dysfunctional brain is discarding solutions – pretend not to remember the PIN, throw it into the gutter for morning retrieval, do I even have a cash card on me? – when I hear, no feel, the thumping backtrack of karaoke music.  I enter this known-only-to-Nicas establishment with the guilt of suspecting my new friend, which I quickly discard into a bottle of Tona.

We sing (I think), we dance (I know), we drink (I’m sure).  My limited use of the Spanish language is exhausted.  My head meets the pillow of my pricey bed with a quick look at the rising sun.

If you are ready to time travel, e-mail today for Celina’s UnTourist advice or read about her other travel adventures at: marannmincey.com

~ Celina Mincey