We’d enjoyed a short stay in Fonseca Bay, hopping between the town of La Unión and the island of Meanguera, both belonging to El Salvador.
There is an evil wind that blows over Nicaragua. It’s called the Papagayo Jet, or “the Papagayos”. The lower land of Nicaragua funnels air from the Caribbean into the Pacific, accelerating it as it spills over the sea, blowing up terrible waves.
We left the Gulf of Fonseca when it looked like we had a 2 or 3 day window to sail to Costa Rica, intentionally avoiding Nicaragua, but it was not to be. The conditions grew from bad to worse, though pictures and video do no justice to our discomfort.
One day and a night bashing against 5-6 foot waves punching us on the nose, making little headway even with the engine running, we made a decision to divert to the sole marina in Nicaragua, which was then 25 miles behind us.
We entered the Aserraderos Estuary and motored into the marina.
After arriving, I had to pay for a driver to bring officials from the port of Corinto, about 45 minutes away. The Port Captain and Navy officials had no problem with us, but the Immigration officer was a die-hard bureaucrat who would not stamp our passports because we had “entered the country illegally”. Nicaraguan Immigration requires permission to enter 2 weeks in advance, and we had not done that. He waited for permission to issue our visas from his boss, who waited permission from his boss. It was a tense hour of arguing our case and waiting. Juanita, the marina manager, even brought them food and cold drinks to ease the tension. We eventually got permission.
The marina had a few boats moored there for storage, and saw only a handful of transiting sailboats whose crews we met over the two weeks we were there.
The Puesta del Sol marina is in a remote corner of Nicaragua, hemmed in by the rural village of Aserradores.
The marina is also a resort with luxury accommodations, a swimming pool, tennis courts, laundry, showers, and an onsite restaurant/bar. has several security guards on duty at all times. The pool was clean, and because the depth maxed out at 4 ft, the water was warm. We spent at least an hour or two every afternoon in the pool when it was too hot to do much else.
A short walk off the property led to a paving-stone road/highway that cut through the village of Aserradores. Aside from a rare car or truck, the traffic was mostly pedestrians, bicycles, and small motorcycles, with an occasional herd of cows.
Mango and cashew trees line the road, and we saw locals casually throwing sticks up into the trees to knock down ripe fruit as they walked the road.
Aserraderos had a handful of places to buy sundries, all of them with iron security gates or fencing. Locals could walk up to the front of the store, ask for what they wanted, then pay, but the did not enter the stores. We didn’t notice this at first, and just waltzed into a store to look around. The shop-keeper paused, looked us up and down, then let us continue. It was on our way out that we noticed the locals were lined up outside, keeping out of the store, following an unwritten rule. A couple stores had only a tiny opening where you could hand over money and receive your purchases, but you had to shop by looking through a wire mesh.
I’d spent what little cash we had on hand paying off the officials and needed to go into a nearby town to find an ATM. Chinandega, seemed like the closest option, and learned that for 34 córdobas (a little less than $1 US), I could catch a bus at 7am that would take me there.
I’ll admit, I was nervous about this. The US State Department strongly recommends Americans not visit Nicaragua, and there is long-standing bad blood between the countries. Nicaragua is currently ruled by a US-hating dictator and is under many embargos.
I told Shawn to stay on the boat. I left her a folder with the password to an encrypted master file of all my logins and accounts, in case I never returned.
The next morning, I dressed in pants, a long-sleeved shirt and a baseball cap. In Latin America, someone wearing shorts is almost always a dead giveaway for a tourist, and you can spot them a mile away. I knew I’d stick out anyway, but didn’t need to advertise with a target on my back, especially since my trip’s purpose was to fatten my wallet with money.
Arriving in Chinandega, I walked briskly a few blocks to the ATM, got US dollars and Nicaraguan córdobas, then zig-zagged erratically a few blocks to ensure nobody had followed me. It was about 8:30am, and the streets were mostly empty, which lessened my anxiety.
I saw a bus going to El Viejo, a small town I’d passed through, and decided I’d go wait there for the afternoon bus back to Aserradores, to put some miles between me and the ATM, just to be safe. I know that sounds paranoid, but I didn’t get a welcoming smile from a single person in the hour I wandered Chinandega, just hard stares lingering on me. If I walked into a store, I was asked in a rude tone, “¿qué quieres?”. What do you want?
The vibe in El Viejo was markedly different, relaxed and friendly. Here, shop owners smiled at me, asking “¿Qué buscas, mi amor?” What are you looking for, love?
Traffic in El Viego was mostly busses going to and from Chinandega and neighboring villages.
There were many tricycles carrying people to the market. I took a ride for 20 córdobas because I’d gotten off the bus too early and wanted to explore the market. I greeted the young man in Spanish, and he said, “ah, you’re so light! You should have seen the women I’ve had to pedal today!”.
There were over 3 hours before the bus for Aserradores came by, so I walked and walked, slowly explored the market, twice, maybe three times, buying some fruit and various snacks. When I was done buying, as vendors kept asking what I was searching for, I’d say almonds, since I’d already seen there were none to be found.
I walked a couple blocks away from the market, but saw only small, locked-down residences, and a horse-drawn cart.
I then found a shady place to squat across from the market, keeping an eye on the busses passing through.
The busses ran down one side of the market, where I found another shady perch to wait. There was a little boy of 9 or 10 selling tortillas, and every half-minute, he’d cry out plaintively, “tortillas!”. A bus would stop, and as soon as people disembarked, the boy would jump into the bus, often followed by other vendors, to sell what they could to the remaining passengers before hopping out of the rear exit. Passengers on the bus could also call out to vendors on the street, to buy water or snacks, passing money and goods from their window.
The boy would periodically look at me, puzzled. His looks turned to stares, and finally he walked up to me and asked if I was a gringo.
I laughed. Technically, I’m not, but my heritage is a mouthful, so I just said that I was, since I look the part. I said I was from the United States. He said he’d never met a gringo, and asked what I was doing. He said the bus I was waiting for wouldn’t come until 1am (I’d thought it was noon), then said I should buy some tortillas. I’d already bought some, but for pocket change bought another dozen, and we chatted for a little while, our conversation interrupted by his business on the busses.
His name was Joel, and he introduced me to his older 12 year-old sister, Lisette, who was also selling tortillas. They were about to trade positions. She went to school in the morning, and he went in the afternoon. They made the tortillas themselves, and lived with a grandparent. Their mother had left them and their father was away. I didn’t understand exactly what he meant, but it literally translated to “he’s walking up and down the country.” Maybe a euphemism?
He’d seen me taking shots of the busses on my GoPro and was really interested in it. I turned on the front-facing camera so he could see himself. He said he wanted a camera like that some day. I explained that we’d sailed to Nicaragua and showed him a picture of my boat.
That’s your boat? Yes.
You mean, you own it? I do.
Wow, you must be rich! Not where I come from.
Finally, a bus pulled up, and Joel came back over to tell me that this was the bus I’d been waiting for. I thanked him and got on the bus.
Riding the rural busses in Nicaragua is an unusual experience. At first, something bizarre would happen, and I’d wonder, is this normal? Seeing that everybody else was unphased, I eventually got tired of asking myself this question and just watched with passive acceptance of whatever came next. My thoughts of being escorted off the bus at gunpoint, robbed, beaten, and left in a ditch, gradually subsided. Everybody was peacefully going about their day.
They are mostly former school busses from the US, 1950s and 1960s vintage, and some of them still have the names of the school district where they’d originated.
Metal ladders and fixtures are welded to the outside of each bus to allow cargo to be carried on top. On one stop, the bus driver and another man lifted a half-dozen panels of metal sheeting to the top of the bus. At another stop, bags of corn and feed were hoisted up. People would put cargo on the bus, but not get on the bus. I was puzzled.
As the bus went along its route, it would sometimes stop, and someone from a small farm or business would run up, pay the driver, then remove cargo from the bus. The bus apparently works as a cash-on-delivery cargo service, in addition to carrying passengers.
Periodically, a vendor of some sort would get on the bus. On each bus I rode, there would be a man selling some kind of miracle pills. I never saw anyone buy the pills, which were purported to cure everything from stomach aches to cancer.
I made it safely back to the marina, having completely abandoned any anxieties I’d had about being in Nicaragua.
A few days later, a Kiwi arrived in his boat, and decided he wanted to do a walking tour of the city of León and a rum distillery tour. We split the costs and had an enjoyable day, and finally cementing my fondness for this country.