All over Latin America we had taken buses that have just made me want to bin the whole transportation as a whole, just look at my bus story fromColombia.
To be honest, at first, this was just a funny thought. I’d read online that the best way to get around Nicaragua was by “Chicken Bus.” The name alone cracked me up. The image that came with it was some ancient school bus—like the yellow ones I used to ride as a kid, with the uncomfortable seats and steel coffin like interior that’s either boiling hot or freezing cold. Only Nicaragua’s version were stuffed to the brim with people. Thathad to be a rare thing, right? Or at least I hoped so.
My first sight of a chicken bus in Rivas.
Fast forward a few weeks—or maybe months, I honestly can’t remember—and I found myself standing wide-eyed and mildly panicked in front of a real Chicken Bus. Unlike my childhood school bus, which was a quick 10- to 15-minute ride, these buses typically range anywhere from 40 minutes to 3 or 4 hours. You’d better hope you get a seat, or you’ll be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a crowd of people, all ready to pounce the moment one opens up.
Like an actual chicken, I just kind of wanted to cross to the other side of the road. (Kidding.) Truthfully, myfirst Chicken Bus ride was chill. No clown car chaos. No wall-to-wall bodies. Just a retro school bus doing its thing.
But then came the next two rides. The first was from Granada to Ometepe Island. The second—and my last bus ride in all of Latin America—was from Rivas to Managua. While both of them were quite the experience, that’s the one that really deserves its own story
Now this is yet another tale that starts with me being slightly hungover. I don’t know how many of these stories I’ve told like that, but hopefully this is only number two. Anywayyyyy, we made it to Rivas where our chariot to Managuawasn’t waiting, but we had about 20 minutes until it arrived. Naturally, we thought:Let’s grab some food—it’s a three-hour ride. Big mistake.
By the time we got back, the bus was already full. Like,not a single seat in sight full. Curse that convenient store, it was cool and had great music, leading us to sit and have a relaxing feed, rather then rush back to the bus.
What followed was astanding saga unlike any other. The bus crew somehow managed to shove every last waiting passenger onto that school bus. Any childhood memory I had of ridingthese yellow beasts was erased. I was being poked, prodded, and pressed from all angles. It felt like being trapped in a people smoothie. And just to spice things up, they still let the food vendors come on board.
Shootout to this Super express, even though it caused us to miss or seats.
bus capacity without the food vendors on border
Yep—food vendors.
Here’s the thing: throughout Latin America, if there’s even the faintest chance of making a dollar, someone will take it. So, a bus packed with people who literally can’t go anywhere? That’s prime real estate. I know I’m sounding annoyed (and maybe I was), but I respect the hustle. These vendors haul around massive baskets of snacks and yell their offerings as they push through the aisles.
The only problem? Therewas no aisle. Just a sea of sweaty limbs and regret. And yet—somehow—these vendors squeezed through. Over and over again. Climbing past my dead-eyed, barely-standing body while the bus swerved, braked, and jolted like it was testing our survival instincts.
Between the swaying, the zero personal space, my water being trapped seven people deep on the rack, and the constant risk of being knocked over every time we hit a bump… I was so beyond done. Standing for three hours while slightly hungover was the final straw.
And you know what? It was kind of poetic. It felt appropriate for the transportation in Nicaragua, like the scooters on Ometepe Island. What was happening on the bus may have been headache inducing, but sometimes just looking out the window (scenic or not), gave me a bit of relaxation.
That was my last bus ride in Latin America. Safe to say I couldn’t wait to get back to driving my own car.