at 7 Sur

I thought I had grown accustomed to the whole public transportation experience in Managua.

First, the city buses. Bright, colorful school buses jammed packed at rush hour. Stickers adorning the inside and various religious phrases like “Dios es Amor” everywhere. Ayudantes (busdriver helpers) taking your money as you board. Anticipating your stop by about 500 feet wherever you go.

Then, the interlocal buses. Mostly bright yellow buses, but also secondhand buses from all over the world (Japan seems to have a particular interest in this country) that wind up here in Nicaragua. Ayudantes jumping out to entice you to board by yelling every future destination. “Carazo, Carazo, Carazo...Diriamba, Jinotepe”. The standing room only principle is widely applied—sometimes to the point of absurdity.

And who can forget the microbuses...every color and condition imaginable, these vehicles are built for 12, but as they leave town it's virtually guaranteed that your nose will be near someone's armpit or your knees bunched against the people sitting facing you, as the ayudante continues to solicit passengers, until he himself is hanging out the window just to get a breath of fresh air.

So my daily routine includes all of this, with one key transition point: 7 Sur. That's Kilometer 7 of the South highway out of Managua, for the uninitiated. All of the major public transportation options intersect here and it makes for quite a mess. Lots of people, lots of buses, lots of noise.

Oh, and did I mention the food? Every vendor imaginable—water, gum, bread, roasted corn, fruit, and whatever else you can carry or sell on the street is available here. And unfortunately, by the end of the day that means there are plastic water bags, candy wrappers, half eaten cobs, soda bottles, and more littering the sidewalk and bus lanes in the area.

Today I observed something I had never seen before. A covered truck appeared and a man jumped out, ran at light speed through the crowd and eventually came back with 7 other men who boarded the truck. Who knows if they were going home or to work, but that is a new transportation option for me here.

But surely after 3 months of this similar experience on the streets of Managua, my eyes should just glaze over and nothing should phase me, right?

Wrong.

Standing on the sidewalk waiting for the bus that would take me home, I found myself looking around and thinking... “Why does there have to be so much trash in the street? How can anyone live in these houses behind these storefronts? If that man over there sells all that water, he's only going to make C$30 ($2)...even if he sold 5 bags like that today, how can he possibly survive, never mind feed his family? What kind of world do we live in when these elegantly dressed women with jewelry simply ignore the hard-working women on the street in their aprons and chinelas?”

Finally the 118 bus came. I boarded, took my seat, and found myself sad. Just sad.