El pollo* penúltimo

Trust is a funny thing. When I showed up in Central America, I was thoroughly on guard, but also strangely trusting of anything that seemed remotely official (like ICA). As I grew more comfortable in Xela and more comfortable with spanish, I became more trusting: I started leaving the door to my room unlocked when I was at home; I took the directions and advice people gave me at face value; I was quite content to realize that Guatemalans were really nice, friendly people!

After being robbed and ripped off; after encountering more than a few taxi drivers who wanted to charge me triple the going rate (and became surprisingly indignant when I chose to find another taxi) and an alarming number of helpful strangers who seemed to feel that their unsolicited (and dubious) advice was worth quite a bit of money; and after quite a few days on the road alone, with no one around to fall back on for moral support or camera watching duty, I´ve become a bit more credulous once again. I´m actually a little bit proud of the improvement in my negotionating and navigating skills. This morning´s taxi driver from San Jorge to Rivas--who thought he could convince me a $30 taxi ride to Granada was a good deal by kindly explaining there were no more buses and taking me to an empty "bus terminal" a half mile away from the real (and quite full) bus terminal--found himself sadly disappointed, despite many protestations.

Despite that, I´m amazed at what I will trust! After wandering to the correct bus station, telling a few folks I needed to get to Granada, and getting herded onto a bus bound for Managua with promises the conductor would tell me where to switch, without any fear I let the aforementioned conductor toss my bag out onto a highway while the bus was still moving, with some vague instructions to wait over by a sign for the next Granada bound bus. (Jumping out of the back of a slow moving school bus was something of a childhood dream, so actually seemed sort of fun. Seeing a car approaching right after I landed on the ground was a bit more disconcerting.)

But, the trust paid off. Just a few minutes later, a Granada bound bus passed by, I jumped on, and a twenty minutes later I found myself in the colonial capital of Nicaragua (along with the 16-20 year old girl who, I think, was propositioning me in a spanish english combo at the bus stop--once on the bus, I found a seat next to a far more harmless seeming middle aged woman!). And, all for about 2 US dollars, darn near as fast as a taxi could have made the trip. They´re dirty, they´re crowded, and I still can´t figure out why I don´t see more flipped over on the side of the highway, but I have come to truly love the chicken bus system down here.

As for Granda, it is probably the prettiest place I have been so far. It´s got the same colonial charm as Antigua, with beautiful churches, pastel colored buildings, and horse drawn carriages careening around the city center. But it feels less gringofied and somehow more tranquil. I´ll spend the night here, and tomorrow hop my final bus to Managua early in the morning, from where I´ll haggle with a taxi driver over a ride to the airport, and fly back to the US.

Hasta pronto, Amigos!


*If you ever find yourself in Centro America and try to use the word pollo to describe a form of transportation, you might end up with a tasty meal, but you won´t end up getting anywhere worth going. Even the phrase "chicken bus" is readily understood only in tourist hotspots; shortening that to pollo (chicken) is purely a Mateotómasism.