Popoyo, Nicaragua

2,884 miles from San Francisco

At the start of any adventure, one can’t help but to anticipate potential trouble spots. Thus, as we looked ahead at the thousands of miles of road unfurling before us on this rambling drive towards the end of the southbound road, several concerns confronted us.

We’d heard about the dangers of Mexico countless times. Living in Southern California, it’s difficult to encounter much else when one muses of the land across the line. And, of course, we’d been questioned regarding bypassing the notorious Darién Gap, that treacherous 60-mile interruption in the otherwise uninhibited 19,000 mile thoroughfare of the Pan-American Highway. But, in April of this year, a series of events cast a very dark cloud over a geographically unavoidable part of our route; Nicaragua.

To understand Nicaragua’s current crisis, one must know a bit about its history. After extended bouts of colonialism and various occupancies, including a long stay by the US, Nicaragua spent the majority of the 1900s (specifically, 1927-1979) ruled by a hereditary military dictatorship known as the Somoza dynasty. Beginning in the 1960s, and culminating with the successful revolutionary overthrow of the Samozas, Nicaragua was gripped by a swelling of socialism under the banner of the Sandinista National Liberation Front (known by their acronym, the FSLN, or simply as Sandinistas). This group was and is led by Daniel Ortega, who took office as President in 1979 at 34 years of age. He remained in office until 1990 and then regained the Presidency in 2007 - a post that he still holds today.

On the 18th of April, 2018 citizens angered over several recent actions by the Ortega government, primarily social security reforms, took to the streets in protest. The government response was swift and violent and the following months brought hundreds of thousands to the streets in active protest (which typically involved massive roadblocks) and ended with the deaths of several hundred Nicaraguans, 528 thus far per some sources, and far fewer per the government. 

As that appalling reality engulfed Nicaragua, we could do little but watch in horror. A land that we had both been terribly eager to visit had now become the most dangerous destination on our path. Given Nicaragua’s location, it cannot be bypassed by land on a southbound route like ours. We knew from the start that we would eventually be entering the country, but we knew very little about what state of affairs would be awaiting us when we did.

When that fateful day arrived, we were ready. Connections who were in the country or had passed through recently ensured us that all would be well, and we entered filled with optimism despite an entry day that involved passing through two border crossings (as our passage through Honduras was swift). From the start, the intensity of Nicaragua’s current state was palpable. The border crossing into the country was our sixth of the trip, but the first that had us on edge. Only 30 minutes after clearing customs we were pulled over, with police officers asking probing questions as to our intentions and thoroughly reviewing our documents.

However, our arrival at the coastal communities showed a different, more tranquil side of the country was still very much intact. The mood was light, and the streets were quiet and calm. Too calm, in fact. We were three of six total visitors to a surf village typically bustling with toe-headed out-of-towners. And the eeriness of being so few where there are typically so many was thick in the air - nearly tactile.

In a country where 79% of people live on less than $2 per day, the economic impact of a complete shutdown of the country’s primary contributor to growth (tourism) has had fierce results, with one outlet reporting in late October that, “the Central Bank could face illiquidity in the next two months.” While the country at large suffered, the tellingly empty restaurants, shuttered hotels and typically busy beaches devoid of humans left no question as to the severity of this crisis. While we saw this throughout our time in the country, it was at our third stop in Nicaragua, in Popoyo, that our perspective would be expanded.

Blessed by 300 annual days of offshore winds (ideal for surf) generated by Lake Nicaragua, Popoyo is regarded as one of the best places on the planet to be a surfer. When we arrived, however, the wind-groomed lineups were largely empty. As were the shops, restaurants and hotels. The current crisis had been largely described by Western media, social media and every source we’d read leading up to our arrival as being the fault of the government and what we saw in Popoyo furthered our confidence in that perspective. We expected locals to share that confidence, but quickly realized our naiveté when a local restaurant owner, Benjamin, began to describe his stance on the issue.

Benjamin is a Sandinista. He fought in the Contra War in the early 80s – a conflict that claimed the lives of 30,000 and found him battling troops armed and outfitted by the Reagan Administration – and he supports his government. While he has heard the claims that the government responded too forcefully to the initial protests, he also cited government reports that protestors responded with equal force - killing many police officers. He stated further that Sandinista supporters have been frequent victims of protestor-led violence and kidnappings since the beginning of the protests. All he hopes is that the violence stops. In his approximate words, “Hay muchos muertos, el turismo y los negocios y los empleos han desaparecido y nada se ha resuelto.” / There are many dead, tourism, business and jobs have disappeared and nothing is resolved. /  His business, which relies on famished surfers, has been ravaged and he expressed serious doubts as to whether his family would be able to sustain their way of life if the current situation extends much further.

Benjamin’s deepest concern lies with his children. He is consumed by the fear that his sons will be forced to go to war like he was. And this crisis has already cost his daughter her life.

In April, near the start of the civil unrest, Benjamin’s daughter fell suddenly ill. The family took her to the nearby city of Rivas, a municipality of urban-esque stature with 40,000 inhabitants. The medical staff at the hospital in Rivas held his daughter (whose name he did not tell us) for several days, but could not pinpoint the cause of her illness. Meanwhile, her condition rapidly worsened. Quite swiftly, and despite the protests and chaos that was unfolding outside, the only path forward would require her to be transferred to a different hospital in the capital city of Managua, where more sophisticated equipment and staff might be able to provide a diagnosis and subsequent course of action.

They loaded her in the car and prayed for a clear path North.

No such path came.

Roadblocks meant no way forward.

Protestors and their police counterparts filled the streets.

And she died en route.

Perhaps our primary goal on this trip was to wipe our slate clean of pre-existing notions. To enter each country fresh, to let opinions be built, rather than enter with them pre-constructed. Yet, when we entered Nicaragua, we knew what we knew. Our understanding of the situation at hand reflected what we have read, what we believed, and what we continue to believe is true of the situation.

But, how can you not try to understand the perspective that Benjamin lives and breathes? How can you ignore that his child died as a direct result of roadblocks built by protestors? How can you ignore his experience and his fear of repeating it?

In our humble opinion, you can’t. The lens through which his perspective is formed cannot be denied. And whether you agree with his stance or not, you can’t listen to his story and not feel something.