::This post is a bit delayed, written immediately after arriving in Costa Rica and before edited for the Daily Beast.::
My plans changed and it was due to a feeling I had in my gut. The news isn’t painting a picture of the situation of Nicaragua but through facebook and WhatsApp groups I knew it was getting worse. My window to cross was closing and I could feel it.
I left San Pedro, Guatemala at 5 am on Wednesday the 13th. I needed to cross the rest of Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras to reach Nicaragua, then across Nicaragua to safety in Costa Rica. Or put differently, four countries, a volcano eruption, the global headquarters of MS-13, and a potential civil war stood in my way. I planned out my route and hoped to cross the majority of Central America in 3 days, alone.
As I left Guatemala a group of riders were exiting Nicaragua and I eagerly awaited news of their crossing and what I might encounter on my journey. They reported stories that were pretty tame from what I expected. It took them two days and used a variety of guides around the blockades. They sent me their GPS logs, advice, and well wishes.
In Guatemala I planned to drive towards the capital then head south west past Volcano Fuego to see it for myself. The drive was as expected and once I got closer, more and more crews were cleaning ash from the roadways. The thick black soot was slippery which added to the fun of the curvy mountain roads of central Guatemala.
As I reached calle 14 there was a group of military blocking my entry, but the exit was open and drove around them. 10km down the road with Volcano Fuego smoking to my right I was stopped by a group of national police and evacuation workers frantically waving me to stop.
After two weeks of Spanish I still couldn’t hold a conversation with them but told me it was impossible to pass. “Gringo es loco!” One of them commented to his fellow officer. Quickly accepting I was not getting through I compromised and asked them to take a picture of me with the volcano in the background. After fielding some questions about my trip and reading the messages written on my tank I asked them if they wanted to sign it and they happily obliged. Little did I know what situation that would create for me later.
Finding a different way around through Antigua I was able to reach my original border crossing with El Salvador putting me a about an hour behind schedule.
Anyone who has crossed a border by land has stories of nightmare experiences. Long lines, expensive fake fees, and the ever present ‘fixers’ always make it an experience. At these remote borders you have to make a choice, pay the fixers to do the leg work while you stay with your bike (read, expensive), or stand in line and play bureaucratic gymnastics while everything you own is unguarded in the open (read, time consuming and potentially trip ending). I elected to use the fixers. At the end of the day I paid too much but was out of there in an hour and ready to battle into El Salvador.
Crossing at 1:40pm still needing to compete El Salvador customs and with a goal of San Marcos by night fall, approximately 4 hours away with sunset at 6:15pm. At the border like an angel from heaven sat a Guatemalan customs agent who spoke perfect English. One of “those people” helped me fill out paperwork and grabbed the right guys to get me into the country. With stamps and paperwork in hand I had my kickstand up at 2:30pm.
There is one general rule of motorcycling or traveling in Central America in general. DO NOT under any circumstances travel the roads by night. It is just asking for trouble and advice I have heard more times than I care to admit.
The safe play was to stop for the night in San Salvador but was confident I could make it as long as I rode fast enough. Arriving in El Salvador I pivoted my route and decided to take the most direct road which was CA-1 AKA the Pan American Highway. My first time riding it so far!
I passed city and town after town without stopping with my eye on the ETA. I was shaving time off as I passed San Salvador and was feeling confident. If there is a Guinness world record for land speed time across El Salvador on a motorcycle I was on pace to beat it. What I didn’t account for was heavy rains flooding the roadway and the drastic change in elevation.
With the roads flooded and bike acting funny I decided to stop and took refuge under an awning of a gas station. Quickly approached by two El Salvadorian guys who were interested in my tank. Nice guys and were kind with my limited Spanish. They provided some advice and said the CA-1 was seguro (safe) at night. I thought the advice might apply to them but didn’t believe it for a tourist on a motorcycle.
Not 5km after leaving the gas station the bike dies, I was running too lean and the engine wasn’t getting enough gas. Using my knowledge learned from Alberto in Mexico I took cover under a tree and tore into the carb adjusting the fuel/air mixture. Within 10 mins I was back on the road feeling like a master mechanic.
Time check: 5:30pm with two hours left until San Miguel. I was not going to make it, but there was no other real options along on the way. Rationalizing, how dark could it really be, 7:30pm is pretty early. I committed and was off.
I learned it gets darker than the deepest ocean and the lack of any moon or street lights in El Salvador after the sunsets. It was me and my headlight to help guide the way. No way to see potholes, animals, or pedestrians. I twisted the throttle and tried to keep up with a pickup truck who was guiding the way.
He made some aggressive passes around a few trucks before I could, and soon I was alone in the darkness. Replaying every piece of advice I have ever heard and prayed if something did happen “those people” would be in my path.
I didn’t have a hotel booked and found one online in town that offered secure parking. I reached San Miguel just before 7:30pm and the city was much busier and bigger than expected. After reaching the hotel it was booked along with my next three back-ups. There was no room for Joseph at the inn.
On a final suggestion I found a room at the most expensive place in town. Exhausted I gorged on Pizza Hut next to the hotel and went to bed. I love Pizza Hut and was pleasantly surprised to have a familiar gluttonous American meal after a 15 hour day of riding. Day one, complete.
Goal for day 2: get to the Honduras, Nicaragua border and gather supplies for day 3 in Nicaragua.
Exiting El Salvador and entering Honduras I elected to use a fixer who spoke English well and made me all the necessary copies. Ten bucks here and there and I was across Honduras in less than two hours with the assurance I had all the correct paper work to exit the following morning.
I ate lunch with some locals and watched the opening ceremonies of the world cup on the roadside. I was hungry and didn’t have much ground to cover (~3 hours) so felt comfortable taking my time.
Riding the mountain passes of Honduras I wish things were different and I had more time to explore. It is a beautiful country and one I most definitely will come back and visit. In the early afternoon I reached my hotel where my friends stayed before me and the owner was happy to have the referral business.
The rest of the afternoon was spent mentally preparing and gathering supplies. I filled my ten gallon tank to the brim. I prepared bribes and purchased six packs of cigarettes, delicately sliced the plastic wrap and stuffed in a $5 bill. I learned from my dad cigarettes are generally an excellent item to use as bribes overseas. They are direct and generally well received thinking they would come in handy. I grabbed some fruit for breakfast, Oreos for a snack, and filled all of my water bottles.
That night I studied the elevation changes on the map and tuned my bike in preparation. I visualized the following day thinking that maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad. The international news wasn’t really covering it, the newspapers in Nicaragua weren’t saying much, I only had first hand accounts from facebook but, it’s facebook.
With many photoshopped images being passed around along with a fake Department of State memo from Spain I didn’t know whom to believe. My friends just crossed and only encountered three blockades. I had a user generated google map marking the blockades which contradicted their experience.
I called my family and told them I loved them and posted a nervous but excited message to my friends on Instagram. Thinking maybe I might be able to get a bad ass profile picture out of it. A picture of me holding a mortar launcher in front of a roadblock. Concluding that it might be my most liked picture to date.
Whatever was ahead of me I wasn’t sure but I knew I had to trust my instincts, commit, and be aware of my surroundings. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.
4am came quickly and by 5am I was on the road to the border. The previous day Nicaragua had a national strike and I was entering the day after. I didn’t know what that could mean. Maybe people would have cooled off or maybe it would have given them a chance to regroup and become more angry.
Getting to the border early was a good idea but I didn’t account for the fact there has been no traffic at the borders due to the blockades, everyone was sleeping. After waking up every border agent on the Honduras side they were grumpy and knew I was in a time crunch.
Adrenaline was already pumping and I wanted to get through ASAP. Only to find out that the fixer at the Honduras entry lied and I didn’t have the right paper work. The exit inspector said this was “very very bad”.
Without wasting time or playing games I flat out asked “cuanto cuesta” - how much do you want? After a short back and forth, $20 got me the forged documents using the copier in the immigration office.
The Nicaraguan border was a ghost town. I was the only person there, local or tourist. Entry wasn’t difficult but no one was willing to give me suggestion on my route. The final inspector was a nice older guy and after checking my VIN on the paperwork I asked if he wanted to sign the tank. He was happy to and with a smile on his face I asked him for route suggestions.
Now I don’t know if he had any more information than any one else but suggested I dramatically change my route around the capital - Managua.
My friends had taken the route closest to the Pacific, using some local roads around Leon and past Managua. He suggested to avoid that route and go around Lago Xolotlán towards Tipitapa. Following 11a to Masaya, connecting to the 18, then the 4, eventually reaching CA-1 again near Nandaime. Then taking the CA-1 through Rivas and eventually to Costa Rica.
I took this as sound and relevant advice. A lot can change in three days but it was never a route I considered. It was an easy modification and decided to follow his instructions. At 7am I was across the border with well wishes and an excited mindset.
I rode as fast as possible from the border in an attempt to make up time preemptively for what might be ahead. There was no one on the roads, at all. I was the only one and almost positive the only tourist in transit. It was smooth sailing on the paved road of the CA-1. But then I started to feel something. Something was coming and something was off.
Knowing that Esteli was the first major city I would encounter I expected to see something. It was early morning but not that early and no shops were open. I only saw a few handfuls of farmers tending their horses and people sitting on the side of the road slack jawed at my presence.
Then I started to see busses full of people going the opposite direction towards Honduras. Eventually reaching hundreds of people seemingly in the middle of no where standing around boarding other busses. Fathers holding luggage, mothers holding babies and the hands of their little ones, all with worrisome looks on their faces. They were getting out of dodge and I was heading right into it.
Besides that congregation of people I saw no one until I reached the limits of Esteli. The first gas station I saw was taped off, out of gas. Trucks with their hoods up lined the road around it useless without gas.
Pedestrians flooded the roads walking like the apocalypse to somewhere ahead of me. Carrying empty bags and bottles seeking supplies on the other side of the roadblock. Pedicabs out in full force full of families and goods going in both directions. The stores looked empty and people standing around helpless.
The next gas station with a line so long it blocked the road. Maneuvering around the cars and motorbikes inline I was thankful I had my ten gallons. Motorbikes leaving the station with passengers holding windshield washer fluid bottles full of gas.
Trucks turned off and at a standstill lined the right lane which stretched for 3-4km. Every so often a truck would be turned to block both lanes of traffic and I would need to nimbly maneuver around using the dirt paths normally reserved for pedestrian traffic.
Everyone was on edge and I quickly realized there was no blending in, my presence alien. Truckers strung hammocks under their trailers sleeping, drivers using makeshift stoves to cook, and vendors selling water and what little food they had. A new system of commerce was necessary and emerged.
There was something ahead but I still couldn’t see what. By this time I am the only vehicle among a mob of pedestrians. Slowly making our way to the first roadblock.
Without warning the line of trucks stopped and opened into an empty space, on the other side a four foot wall erected out of road pavers. But first was a barbed wire laid across the road at neck level across the dirt path to the right - a barbed wire necktie.
Stopping at the barbed wire I catch the attention of a man on a bike facing the other direction. Motioning - which way? Answering by shrugging his shoulders and turning away. I had caught the attention of everyone in the area, what would this gringo do next?
In the middle of the road was a pile of dirt, hoping it was high enough to avoid puncturing my tires I threaded the dirt needle. The road way burned and fragments of debris litter the two hundred feet to the stone wall.
I see only one way around, to the right. Standing guard is a masked man holding a homemade blue mortar cannon with “RESENTE” painted in white letters. It looked like a caulk gun but for a very different application.
I can see a fuse poking out of the end and smell sulfur. Lighters seem to be rare and everyone is using matches. As I approach he quickly wags his finger. Immediately I stop, park my bike and dismount. Once the ignition is turned off, BANG!. A mortar explodes behind me and I quickly turn around in a panic. Thinking in my head - BE COOL DO NOT FREAK OUT.
Waiting for a few minutes felt like an eternity. With each explosion the accompanying shockwave stronger in my chest and the distance sounding and feeling closer. The guard is fixated on the horizon, something is happening and it’s getting closer. After searching the backpacks of pedestrians the masked guard turns his attention to me.
“Pistola? Bomba?”
Throwing my hands in the air and shaking my head. He starts feeling my bags. “Que es?”
Trying to remember any of the Spanish I learned and answer the best I could I had camping equipment in the green bag, clothes in the black bag, and tools in the locked metal boxes. He then turns his attention to my tank bag and demands I open it. Exposing money, my camera, documents, and other valuables. He feels the items puts them back and then waves me through.
Another two to three hundred feet of pavement with similar markings lay another stone blockade. A dirt path to the right lay my only way around. As I get closer I hear yelling from my left from his friends on the other side. I couldn’t see it but a barbed wire necktie waited for me blocking my path. Quickly a protestor runs over lifting the wire and letting me pass.
The other side of the road lay the same scenario. Tractor trailers immobile lining the left hand side of the road and others blocking traffic in both directions. Locals on motorbikes wave to tell me to follow them to paths around the trucks.
Remnants of burned tires with their steal braiding like giant slinkys are littered on the road and surrounding paths.
Small cars being used as taxis run passengers and goods as far down the road as possible in succession are the only vehicles moving other than motorbikes. The cars are limited by their distance and as soon as they stop people are waiting for a ride in the opposite direction.
Shortly after the line of tractor trailers another blockade across a bridge. This time not even the locals are getting though. I stop behind a line of motorbike and a protestor standing guard waves me to the front.
I say, “Yo voy Costa Rica, no mas Nicaragua”
He tells his friend to remove the steal beam and allow me to pass. I am now the only vehicle moving through, including locals on bikes. Five hundred feet later stands the bridge and everyone is surprised at my presence.
They aren’t letting anyone through in either direction and I draw the attention of protestors and bystanders alike. I am asked where I am going and where I am from.
"Voy a Costa Rica” and “Soy de Americano” will be my primary phrases used from this point on.
The guard who I spoke with yells to his friend to let me through and after some infighting he removes the stones and allows me to pass.
With adrenaline pumping I lay on the throttle and get out of there. After an hour of the fastest I have ever ridden I stop at the cross roads of my friends route and my new proposed route with a decision to make.
Exhausted, I take refuge under a bus stop overhang and am overcome by emotion. I am not too man to admit while it went as smooth as possible it was the most terrified I have ever been. On the verge of tears contemplating what lie ahead as well as comprehending the empathy of the situation.
Fueled by anger and outrage that no one in the world gives a flying fuck about these people and their struggle. Ashamed abet thankful that my life has been so easy that I have never been willing to go to the measures that these kids, young people, and citizens in general are willing to go through. Willing to give their lives for a cause bigger than themselves is something I have never experienced but was witnessing first hand.
I have seen a lot of poverty along my travels around the world but I have never seen poor people or anyone for that matter, willing to give their lives and everything they have for the chance at a better life. It was devastatingly heart breaking.
My phone had service and I texted my family telling them I loved them and was terrified. It was too late to turn back and I felt as if I was literally running for my life.
At each roadblock the feeling of something bad was looming. You could read it on everyones faces and mannerisms. They knew their time to fight was coming but no one knew when. Every outsider is a potential spy gathering information for the turbas, military, police, or government. You could taste the paranoia.
At my moment of total desperation something beyond comprehension happened. A butterfly landed on my leg to keep me company. In Nepal a butterfly landed on my bag and a woman who had no prior knowledge of my past commented its meaning. She told me it was a good omen. It meant that someone who had passed was with me and thinking of me. I knew that butterfly on my leg at that bus stop in country side of Nicaragua was my dad looking after me and keeping me safe. I could feel it. Giving me the strength to continue.
With new found strength I mounted my bike and chose the new proposed route. Entering the areas surrounding Managua knowing it would be the most dangerous and difficult part of the journey.
In the country side there was a stark contrast to the cities. There were no roadblocks, seemingly no unrest, life seemed to go on as normal. Farmers herding their cattle, children in uniform going to school, shops empty but operating. It was two different sides of the same coin. In the country I was able to keep up my speed because there were very few cars on the road in either direction.
As I reached Tipitapa I could tell something was looming ahead. The air was too clean as if there hadn’t been a car which passed in days. The road littered in white markings from the mortars exploding. Dodging remnants of burned tires, something happened here. Then I saw the pedestrians whose population grew exponentially until I reached the center of town.
All the shops with their steel doors lowered lined the street. Eventually reaching what looked like the entire population of the town congregated in one spot. Feverishly gathering their families and leaving the area by any and every means of transportation possible. Cars zig zagging around each other and pedicabs picking up passengers. Everyone yelling and honking their horns going in the opposite direction.
After, silence. No civilians left, only protestors seemingly gearing up for what could be coming at any moment. First a chopped down tree, then a line of boulders with ashes of a fire, between each barrier the road covered in broken glass. More lines of boulders and bags of sand creating the barrier lines. Each thoroughfare with the same type of barrier.
Leading to a turned over and burned bus flanked by a four foot wall of pavers. I make my way around with the use of a pedestrian walk way littered with parts of a bus. Once around I surprise and catch the attention of a group of protestors. Masked and holding home made guns and mortar launchers run towards me. Immediately I stop my bike, flip my visor and put my hands up. Again reciting my motto of where I’m going and where I’m from. They quickly wave me through and instruct me to take the road over the dirt path.
Again, I am the only one on a vehicle getting through. More burn marks on the road and five hundred feet separate me from another series of road blocks. The only way around is by driving off a short loading bay. The road on the other side has been removed to make the barrier. The only way to the other side of the next is to ride over and off the high sidewalk.
Followed by another series of blockades using the resources available. Boulders, cut down trees, road pavers, and roadside billboards spray painted with messages of revolution.
Tipitapa was the last large town until Masaya. The smaller towns felt much more on edge than the cities. And the situation felt increasingly more desperate. Protestors needed more because supplies are unable to get through the blocks from the larger cities.
Guards with the same homemade firearms and plastic bottles asked or demanded payment in order to pass. Every single blockade was manned by a few to dozens of protestors. I was not prepared for so many in such succession.
Using the packs of cigarettes in the most dire situations or heavily manned blocks and quickly using single dollar bills at smaller ones to pay my way through.
The routine became automatic; bike in neutral, visor up, hands up and say my speech. But as soon as I started to feel a bit comfortable the people I encountered became more aggressive, desperate, and paranoid. Which only escalated as I was in closer proximity to Managua. As I entered the smaller towns I attracted much more attention with the large cache of gasoline between my legs and GoPro stuck to my helmet. Understandably forced to point it down and checked to ensure it wasn’t recording.
I want to state on the record, that overall the protestors were cool with me. I was a sitting duck in as close to a war zone as I could imagine and they never took advantage of me. Emotions were running high for everyone. Some situations escalated quicker than others but like a guardian angel “those people” were there to be my advocate. I was not the enemy just very very out of place and far from home.
Blockades became more elaborate in the smaller towns and more defenses were used. In addition to what I had encountered spike strips, long spiked boards, smaller chunks of wood with nails were littered along with glass between barriers.
Entire towns were barricaded with stone road blocks, burned cars, burned tractor trailers, and more barbed wire neckties. Many of these towns had barriers built with the intention of being impassable. Only locals knew the way around and were not eager to help an outsider.
At one such blockade a man on a dirt bike, one of “those people” appeared out of nowhere and while I was stopped whistled at me and motioned to follow him. He led me through the town of torched cars, burned buildings, and streets littered of a bloody battle. At every turn checking to make sure I was following him. As soon as I was around, poof he was gone just as quickly as he appeared.
While stopped at another impassable blockade a man again, one of “those people” came to my rescue providing directions around and advising which streets weren’t barricaded. He told me I was smart for carrying so much gas as there is none in that part of the country. But countered that also he wouldn’t be surprised if I was killed for it because the situation was so dire. He wished me well held my shoulder as I thanked him for his compassion.
The area around Masaya was the worst I encountered due to the proximity of so many intersecting roads. It was very well manned and they could hear me coming. I could see and smell the smoke of their fires looming in the distance.
With being so heavily barricaded the lack of supplies became painfully obvious. My gasoline was a target. Many times asked and at times demanding some for their motorbikes. I would plead and beg that I needed to finish my passage to Costa Rica. Offering to allow them to sign the tank in addition to cash and cigarettes.
My goal was to leave every situation as quickly as possible and not allow a crowd to form. I would attempt to identify the eldest or the one in charge and speak with him. As soon as I had his approval and nod I would drive off and avoid any additional dialogue.
One of the last I encountered and the closest to Managua was by far the worst. I legitimately believed I was about to be robbed and killed. The situation escalated so quickly it will stay with me for life.
It was a very heavily manned blockade along a remote part of a road with only one way around. They saw me coming and I quickly had everyones attention. The gas visibly sloshing inside my tank and GoPro pointed down. (There was not a safe place to stop and remove it from the point it was first identified and caused a problem)
Surrounded by a group of protestors and no way to exit I went through my routine. They were seemingly golly and smiling at me. Laughing and pointing at me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but laughed with them in an attempt to keep the mood light.
After the formalities they didn’t move and said I couldn’t pass. Then the questions and comments about the tank came. How many gallons? We need gas for our cause and bikes. Again pleading that I needed it to make it to Costa Rica. I mean no harm and apologizing for trespassing. I am just trying to make it through.
In the passing moments a man who’s face and tattoos I will never forget saw the signature of the police from Guatemala I met from a few days earlier at the volcano. It was signed National Police - San Juan. A quick self taught geography lesson I concluded there must be a San Juan, Nicaragua.
All hell broke loose as they started to yell that I was a spy from the police and to be dealt with. I pleaded “NO POLICIA” over and over again as they gabbed my pockets with my hands up searching for a pistol and weapons. There was no bribing my way out and they were done listening.
Again a man, one of “those people”, came to my rescue who spoke English. Interrogating me, checking my papers, and ID while the others pointed their machetes and homemade firearms at me. I begged for my life as he mellowed the crowd. I waited for what felt like an eternity during his pregnant pause and agreed I was not police nor meant them harm to the dismay of his fellow protestors.
We spoke for a minute about the ride and if I was aware of the situation in Nicaragua. I told him the international news isn’t telling their story or about the situation. He wasn’t surprised and I departed with him joking “well you got an adventure out of it”.
Shortly after I was able to rejoin the CA-1 with no issues until Rivas. After the 20-25 blockades I encountered, Rivas was no problem and my final barrier to Costa Rica. With little convincing I was able to pass and a young protestor lifted yet another barbed wire necktie which would be my last.
The only police I saw were on that final stretch to Costa Rica. The country is completely lawless and even so I was treated fairly and ferried to safety by “those people”.
From the Honduras border to the Costa Rica border it took me 5:43 minutes. Faster than the time google maps predicts which doesn’t account for the blockades. I spent the cigarettes and ~$25 in total in bribes. I wasn’t robbed and left with everything I intended on keeping.
Once at the border my tire popped and couldn’t help but laugh. A piece of steel braiding from a burned tire punctured my rear tire. I am not sure how it is possible, but it held air and got me out of the country and only flattened once I was safe.
A group of truckers heading into Nicaragua helped me fix the flat and stood guard as everything I owned was scattered along the road. Citing the golden rule of “Today you, tomorrow me”. “Those people” really saved my ass during that journey and I will spend a lifetime trying to pay it forward.
It was a day that I will never forget and hope to not live again. I am so sad for the people of Nicaragua and while I don’t claim to be an expert in the situation whatever their reasons for revolting against their government I believe must be warranted.
-Joe